“You’re here to break into this house.”
He looks at the screen again. “You want me to get you in, but you won’t say why.”
“If you don’t want to help me, say so now.”
He throws his hands in the air. “I’ll fucking help you.”
“Good. Was that so hard?”
He shakes his head again, but doesn’t answer.
If it had been anyone but Mina, I would’ve told him. But this isn’t his business, and I have no right to share her private matters. Before this whole thing can blow up, these men will be dead. By then, we’ll be far away from here, spending the money the hit on Dimitrov will bring in. Someplace warm will be nice.
Maybe a private island off the coast of Mozambique.
Anton and I go through a few checkpoints during the drive. Cutting the alarm and breaking in is easy. The idiot doesn’t have a guard or a dog. We enter the spacious house on an isolated property outside of town and make our way to the main bedroom upstairs, where our target’s heavy bulk is tenting the covers on the bed. The fucker only wakes up when I press the barrel of my gun against his temple.
The whites of his eyes are wide in the moonlight that shines through the window. Cleverly, he keeps his mouth shut. His wife is asleep next to him.
“Tsk, tsk.” I shake my head. “Not very vigilant for an ex-soldier. You’re losing your touch.”
At the sound of my voice, the woman stirs. She opens her eyes, blinks, and shoots upright.
“Shh.” I press my finger to my lips. “You don’t want to wake the kids.”
“Whatever you want,” Tóth says, his sleep-hoarse voice unsteady.
I address his wife. “I’m going to ask your husband a few questions. Stay here, and you won’t get hurt.”
She swallows as she looks at her husband. At my nod, Anton moves to her side of the bed, making sure she sees his weapon.
“Get up,” I tell Tóth. Keeping the gun against his head, I push him into the corridor. “To the garage.”
He doesn’t argue. He leads me downstairs into the double garage through a door in the kitchen. I lock the door and flick on the lights. He turns to look at me, holding up his hands. He’s calm now. Too calm.
“You know why I’m here,” I say.
“I heard about the others.”
I give him a grim smile. “News travels fast.”
“That woman sent you.”
“No one sent me.”
He appears confused. “Then why are you here?”
“Because of that woman.” Motherfucker. He doesn’t even remember her name. I cast a quick glance around the space. He seems to do a lot of DIY. The shelves are neatly stacked with jars of nails and screws. Hammers and saws hang from hooks on the wall. “Get some cable ties.”
The fat slob goes to a drawer and pulls out a bunch of ties.
I kick a workbench closer. “Sit.”
“I’ll do what you want if you promise not to hurt my kids.”
“Sit,” I say again, harsher.
He flops down onto the bench, his fringe falling over his face.
“Hands behind your back.”
When he complies, I tie his wrists and bind his ankles to the feet of the bench. He’s ex-military. If he gets the chance, he’ll come at me. Not that I can’t take him down, but I have no intention of getting into a fight that will wake his kids. He doesn’t need to know that, though.
He stares up at me from under his hair as I round the bench and stop in front of him. His stomach strains in the wife-beater he’s wearing and his thighs stretch his boxer shorts. He hasn’t been taking care of himself. It seems the cushy job in government made him lax.
“That woman,” I say. “What’s her name?”
His face scrunches. “What?”
“What is her fucking name?”
“It’s been a long time. I hardly remember her face.”
“Don’t fucking bullshit me.” A man doesn’t forget something like that. A name maybe, but not what she looked like lying naked and twisted in a puddle of blood and vomit. Not even a hardened soldier forgets that. “Answer me.”
“158–14–something.”
“I asked for her name.”
“I never looked at their names. It’s better to think of them as numbers.”
I grit my teeth. “Mina. Mina Belan.”
“Fine. So what?”
“You took her statement.”
“I was the superior in charge.”
“What happened?”
“You know what happened.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“What is this?”
“What do you think it is?”
“Revenge?” When I don’t answer, he asks, “Why wait all these years? Why now?”
“I asked you a question.”
“She said the men attacked her in the shower. They beat her and were going to rape her, but a teammate walked in on the scene.”
“A teammate?”
“Gergo Nagy.”
“Ah, so you remember his name.”
He gives me a cutting look. “I’d been on missions with Gergo. Ms. Belan hadn’t been deployed with any of the teams I supervised in the field.”
“Keep talking.”
“The men backed off when Gergo pulled a gun. He called the medics.”
I walk around him, digesting his factual manner. Apathetic. Like a soldier trained to inflict torture. “What happened to this Gergo guy?”
“He resigned not long after she did. He claimed the attack was too much. They were good friends, Gergo and Belan.”
So, Gergo is the only person who helped her, who stood up for her. “Where is he now? What does he do?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t keep in touch with the men who served with me.”
“What injuries did she sustain?”
The tensing of his shoulders is the first sign of emotion he shows. Even more significant is his silence. The incident left a mark on him, after all.
“What were her injuries?” I repeat, taking a wide stance in front of him.
He sighs. “Four broken ribs, broken arm, concussion, and internal hemorrhage.”
“They punched her in the face.” I go deathly cold as I recall the image of her eyes swelled shut, purple and bloody. “Repeatedly.”
“Yes.”
