Page 115 of The Darkness is Calling

“Tell me everything you know.”

He screams and screams while the skin melts, and the heavy smell of burned flesh spreads around us. He passes out from the pain, but I signal Dima, who immediately throws a bucket of water and ice over his entire body, jolting him awake. He screams again, tears reddening his eyes, saliva running between his lips twisted with pain.

He needs a few moments to recover, otherwise I risk him passing out completely, and then he will be useless to me. So, I move to the other one, raising the torch flame in front of him.

“Tell me everything you know about the one who hired you,” I repeat the question to him too.

“I don’t know who he was,” he says quickly, his voice trembling with terror. “Anonymous. Lots of money. I only followed orders. There were several Brits, but also five Albanians, two Irishmen, and four Americans. I heard someone say we were this diverse to mislead you. I swear on my mother’s grave, I really don’t know anything else.”

“He actually gave you a speech about racism?”

“He said that what you people are doing to Ukraine, you’ll do to all of Europe. The Americans already considered you communists, and everyone else had a problem with you because of the power you hold in this city.”

Nothing new. We meet enemies like this every day.

So I continue my interrogation, delighted by his desire to share, but intrigued by the mystery.

“When were you contacted?”

“Three days ago.”

“And what exactly are you?”

“Mercenaries. Some of us had been working together for a long time. But whoever contacted us mobilized a lot of forces for the coming period.”

In short, I should expect more surprises like this.

“Besides this mission, did he give you any details about what else he needed from you?”

“No.”

“Contract period?”

“Ten more days, with the possibility of extension.”

And all the pieces settle into place like a puzzle, forming an almost clear picture, one unpleasantly surprising all the same.

A warm piano melody begins to echo in my head, but rage takes complete possession of me.

I lose control in a single second.

Everything moves fast, but to me, it seems to happen in slow motion.

I abandon the torch and take a clean new knife with a narrower blade. The next second, I am in front of the nearly unconscious brit and drive the blade into his ribs. Blood begins to gush from his mouth with a grunt of pain mixed with shock, but I love the sound flesh makes when it crackles, pierced open.

Pulling the blade out, I drive it in again, a few inches lower.

Then again.

The same pleasing sound, every time.

After doing that about three times, I cut his throat in one motion, admiring the way blood explodes from his severed trachea, staining my hand and even my suit, all the way down to the tips of my shoes.

Silence returns to my mind. And to the room.

I turn my back on him, walking calmly toward my brothers while shifting the knife into my other hand. This time, I shove my blood-smeared hand into Yar’s bag, then stuff popcorn into my mouth and chew slowly.

But my thoughts point in only one direction.