by Poppet
“I have no friends and I don't fear death,” I state, wishing I could look away from him but I am spellbound by the way his profile is lit by moonlight.
“You don't want to escape?” he asks, his face impartial but I sense his disbelief. I can feel it because my bones ache with all the things he doesn't say.
In Victor I sense an ocean of anger, the waves crashing are red with spilled blood and wrath, he hides the depth of his pain so deep down he forgets where to find it. He exists to execute, he breathes to break the bratva, he truly is Vengeance.
I have an addiction to vengeance and count the months to the day I meet Oleg again. But now is not my time to flee, first I must learn to read and write, to fight, to grow strong while Mikah is kind and teaching me. Maybe then I will go away from here, to the resistance, to be the assassin who will end Oleg's shitty existence.
To answer him I meet his dark gaze with my own, whispering, “I am not ready, Victor. When I am, will you teach me to use weapons? To kill properly?”
Short dark hair matches his raised brows. “Why do you assume I know weapons and how to kill?”
Ducking my head I fiddle with the edge of my skirt, finally placing my Bloody Mary on the grass. “Victor, my aura, my spirit, whatever it is, it can read yours. I know you are a murderer but for some reason I do not fear you. Instead I feel a love for what hides inside you, like we are soulmates.”
“I'm married.”
“Of course you are,” I sneer, angry that he is so quick to ruin my hope. Assuming my dead girl stare I look at him, waiting for him to go.
“If you need me, leave a message,” he states, standing and reassuming a posture of power.
I need you now, Victor. I think I've always needed you, but I didn't know it until we met.
My heart has longed for a home, and yet when I find it the front door is shut and the welcome mat is buried inside a wedding ring. Fuck you.
“Just go.”
And he does, without a word. I stare after the man dressed in black melting into the shadows cast by trees, deep into the underworld. He's gone with a piece of my soul, so I will always find my way home.
It's astral, it's supernatural, it's fate.
~ Chapter 13 ~
Yet, no matter how deeply I go down into myself, my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
Mikah:
Checking the feed from the house, I stop walking and scowl at what I'm seeing in fast forward replay. “Tee karova!” (You cow.)
She's drinking my vodka and going outside, and I wait to catch her on camera but don't see her again, not for a fucking age. Polina is going to pay for this. This is what happens the second I turn my back. Yob tebye, suka. (Fuck you, bitch.)
Gavril stops next to me, tilting his hefty frame to look me in the eye. “What's up?”
“The little bitch, she's breaking every rule I gave her.”
Laughing, Gavril slaps my shoulder. “Good, more fun for you when you get home.”
Glaring at him I stuff my phone back in my pocket. “Should we still do this? Or should we not fucking bother because my skank hasn't earned a fucking thing from me.”
“She's a woman, Mikah. What did you think was going to happen? They never do what they're told, that's half the reason we give them rules. Make her suffer, brother.”
“Yeah but–”
“Da, we're doing this. I have plans for that prick.”
It's all I needed to hear, because the disciple in me is craving the man's screams. She'd better be grateful when I get home, flying there is taking us twenty-five god damn hours. All this to kill a man, b'lyad (fuck), it must be love. God punishes those he loves, her time is coming swifter than she imagines.
It is exactly twenty-eight hours later when we drive up the dirt road to a decrepit barn on the outskirts of Yekaterinburg. All is silent and our adrenaline is spiking. Misha nods to me, he's my partner and always has my six. Even Jesus sent his extra seventy-two disciples out in pairs.
Stashing the SUV behind the copse of trees beyond the outhouse, we get out, quickly suiting up in the armor of the brotherhood. Every disciple has the black leathers which cover us from head to toe, red horns on the top of our head masks, a decoy so that those who die by our hand know exactly where they are going. Anyone who's ever tried to plunge a knife through leather knows how efficient it is as an extra layer of protection.
In my belt I have my nagyka, hunting knife, stun gun, razor wire, duct tape, hammer and sundry tools. This place is so isolated I don't think we'll need the tape, so I unlatch it and chuck it back in the trunk. Turning to the derelict wooden structure, examining the filthy windows so grimed with dust and bird shit no one would see us approaching, I inhale deeply, filling my lungs again with the breath of Mother Russia.
“Davai sdelaem eto,” I nod, heading for the shadows so we can do recon before breaching. (Let's do this.)
I keep mulling this moral issue because a female cannot bear children until she bleeds, and when she bleeds she is made holy in the eyes of the lord; in bearing children she is redeemed of her sin. Oleg deliberately chose those who do not bleed and he gets rid of them when they do, this means he is forcing them to stay in sin, to use them like those who sacrificed their children to Molech. He forced Polina into Satan's den and kept her there. Piz'da! (Cunt.)
Polina was passed through the fires long before God could redeem her. That's why this is wrong, this is why I harbor rage for the man who has an empire of snuff porn and graphic videos for pedophiles.
Closing my eyes the biblical litany runs on loop in my mind, the knowledge that I am an angel, HER angel, it makes me seething mad. Whoever causes one of these little ones to sin, it would be better for him if a great millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea. Mark 9:42. See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father. Matthew 18:6. Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. 1 Corinthians 6:9. Behold, I and the children whom the Lord has given me are signs and portents. Isaiah 8:18
She is mine, she was a sign for me to enter her life and redeem her, her scorched soul called to me and the carnage in her eyes made me want to enter her and save her from her suffering. It's time to take another payment on her behalf.
Burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. Exodus 21:25
Oleg is a greedy swindler who abuses a gift, sexually immoral, a fornicator with boys and girls. I am her angel and must reinstate balance. Because of Oleg she is out of balance, by exacting justice my path into her mind will be easier, the barriers will fall.
Having circled the building we know the exits, there are only two. Bogdan covers the one to the old outhouse, Pasha the one to the carport.
Nodding silently to Misha, Gavril, and Ivan, I take the biggest muscle with me into the tomb of torture. Today he will scream like she did, until his throat burns with brimstone.
The wooden door is weathered and festered with rot, the hinges shrieking when I pull the door wide and enter the darkness. It smells of decay, the cold room inefficient, the plastic barrier a poor shield to save us from the ripe fetor of decomposing corpses. The symphony of tears accost my ears with the rain of childish misery, but I ignore the cages, glancing at Ivan and Misha, both with their weapons drawn, expecting us to encounter resistance.
The passage crammed with wire cages stacked high opens into a sordid den where the lights and cameras are set up, electrical cables littering the floor to trip up the inebriated and panicked.
I don't slow, striding forward into the passage, pointing for Gavril to go left, Ivan to go straight, Misha guards our entry while I take the right. The poker table overflows with money and booze, ashtrays full of half smoked cigars, the roo
m's reek acrid with urine.
Checking the kitchen and bathroom I go back, meeting up with my brethren, both of them shaking their heads. Sighing I look up, then down. “There has to be a basement.”
“Da,” nods Misha, stalking back into the grimy passage with its peeling wallpaper, back to the cages of infants sitting in their own shit.
The skin trade is lucrative, their lives make big money, their state bothers no one. No doubt Oleg hoses them down and drugs them before screwing the toddlers to an early grave. Slapping my head I remember that Polina was tied to a bed. He must have a brothel here somewhere. Annoyed that I'm forced to seek him out I move quickly, maintaining stealth because the element of surprise is something we employ. If only the cages had kids old enough to tell us where to look, but they're too young to do more than gurgle and cry, and shit. Why doesn't he make the older girls look after them? In his position it's what I'd do. But then they're big enough to fight back and run. Svoloch'. (Bastard.)
“This makes me feel sick,” hisses Gavril, deliberately using English in case the walls have ears.
For Gavril to say he feels sick, that's saying something. This tolstak will cut you into pieces without breaking a sweat, but this bothers him. The brightest souls often hide in the meatiest bodies. I tease him by calling him tolstak (fat ass) because he's built like a tank. He's ruthless, merciless, and earned his wings. One day he will become the new Omega, as someone has to replace Victor. If only they'd find his body so the brotherhood can move on.
God's been looking for his firstborn for a long time now. I don't get it, everyone knows God sacrifices his firstborn son. He saved Israel (his firstborn), but told them they'd never inherit the promised land because they sinned. Simple equation. Then the son died for the world's sins, it was destiny. Why does he look for Victor on earth when surely after his murder he will never be found here? God was there when they killed him, it's on camera, recorded for posterity.
God works in mysterious ways.
Misha points down and we follow his focus to the seam in the floor. Nodding, I crouch to open it, Misha and Gavril covering me with their Glocks pointed at the opening, Ivan grabbing the latch-door from my hand to swing it wide. This one makes no sound and I creep down the steps, testing each stair for creak before settling my weight on it.
Quickly my eyes adjust to the gloom, the dry wall partitioning open to the floorboards above, and there is only one light source, coming from the cubicle down at the end.
Automatically I count them, surveying the rims of eighteen cordoned off areas. Less than I thought he'd have. Maybe they keep dying, or he sells them off. Looks like we just missed his latest shipment. I wonder what kind of money he gets for the virgins? Grabbing them when they're between the ages of six and ten, he must surely have a lot of them to sell on the darknet market.
For a long while the darknet has been the go to place for black market illegal trade, the cyber underworld hidden from usual web searches. The Silk Road recently went under and got the FBI a star on their chart, but where one dies another pops up like mushrooms in excrement, the spores are everywhere, the epidemic lacking a decent exterminator. I would know, God has his fingers in Tor Hidden Services too. It hides on an encrypted arc of the internet, a haven for hackers and corrupt hearts.
God bless America. Tor was built by the US Navy so their communications cloaked their location, just like the internet was originally a military tool. Tor works by bouncing communication through multiple nodes, maintaining anonymity for its users. The art of war and espionage leads to desecration, the more we try to stay in the shadows the darker our lives become, when one snake dies a worse one comes to takes its place, Isaiah 14:29, until I find myself in a place where babies sit in stench and I sneak past cubicles of young girls high on meth.
Glancing into the next one it's the same as the others, the IV line still stuck in her arm, naked and oblivious, her thighs crusted with blood, her breasts nothing more than the button of her nipples. Talk about a massive violation of the blood covenant.
Today he'll discover he disrespected the wrong fucking god.
The distinct sound and odor of male rutting makes me halt, silently alerting my brethren we've located him. His grunting is hard to misconstrue. He's in there using the free merchandise like an employee sneaking burgers from the McDonald's rack.
Slowly I unwrap the barbed wire from my belt, tensing it like a garrote between my hands, wound firm around my fists, and I bolt into the cubicle, snaring him fast by the neck, hauling him backwards off the victim and onto the floor with sharp metal hooks cutting into his throat, his wet cock enflamed with lust, purple with it, but I don't have time. Standing over the stunned man I punch him harder than I've punched anyone, the snapping of his nose barely registering when my knuckles impale his face.
Handing the barbed leash to Misha, I order Gavril, “Legs!”
Gavril holds Oleg down by forcing all his 264 pounds on his ankles, locking the bastard in place. Wide eyes stare up while he chokes, his eyes so blue they don't look real. He's blond, athletic for his age, and stinks of sin.
Smiling, I lower my voice the way we're trained to do when in ucheniki leathers, snarling, “You must suffer for the obscene, disgusting things you have done. Ezekiel 16:58. It never enters their heads that I will remember all this evil; but their sins surround them and I cannot avoid seeing them. Hosea 7:2. I will startle them with one unexpected blow after another. Isaiah 29:14. Those who try to hide their plans from the Lord are doomed. They carry out their schemes in secret and think no one will see them or know what they are doing – It will be the end of those who oppress others. Isaiah 29: 20.”
He bleeds profusely, but before his dick can go flaccid I grab hold of it, pulling the wire from Misha and threading it fast and sure into the opening that desecrates the blood covenant reserved for her future. Now she will be a sinner, sold into slavery, and once sold she can never be free.
“Kooshi govno ee omree huesos! Ma'mkoo tyovi' yeba! Sookin syn!” he howls at me, veins riddling his temples with grotesque threads of duress and struggle. (Eat shit and die cocksucker. I've fucked your mother! Son of a bitch!)
Laughing while Misha and Ivan hold his arms down, I shake my head and growl to them, “Do any of you understand what this child fucker is saying?”
“Fuck you! Get out you little cunt! You're fucking with the wrong man, I'll fucking kill you!” he bellows in English, sweat slicking his skin, fighting the urge to scream, but loses.
The wire finally has a barb sinking into his slit and I shove it in as hard as I can, ramming it through tender flesh while he bucks and hollers to Jesus and Mary.
“You see, Oleg,” I say calm as death, bottomless as the void, employing my deep baritone to the best of my ability, “I work for God and your day of reckoning has come. He's a jealous God, and doesn't like you taking a life and not paying him or thanking him. You ruin perfectly decent merchandise, women born to be a wife, to bear children, and you defile the blood covenant reserved for her husband. Now you will know how it feels to bleed from every orifice until you beg for death, but it will be a long time coming pizdayob (cunt fucker), because we have so many children to exact payment for. I'm afraid you might die of blood loss before you've paid the price for your sins. You'll burn, we'll ruin your eyes for lusting, and then like a whore I'll cut you into pieces and send you piece by piece to your clients, because they're next.”
“Ty che, suka, o'khuel blya?” he spits, his voice undulating between high pitches of pain and the gruff coarseness of breathing through torment. (Are you fucking crazy, you asshole?)
The barbs feed in easily enough, mutilating his pisshole while he wrestles and wriggles, shrieking agony. Laughing at the man finally understanding the meaning of reckoning with every throbbing heartbeat, I lean in, gripping his face with the might of my rage, seizing it still and crushing it to the concrete, snarling, “No one whose testicles are crushed or whose male organ is cut off shall enter the assembly
of the Lord. Deuteronomy 23:1. How unfortunate for you, because I have a hammer and you have two testicles, and when I'm done neither will be recognizable. Then I'm going to take my hunting knife and slice your dick down the middle so it flops as wide open as your whore's legs on that bed. My brat (brother) there has a canister of salt to pour on your filthy cock once I've cut it open, because salt burns. Salt represents the covenant between you and God (Leviticus 2:13), but I doubt it will be enough to make you holy. Then your agony will begin in earnest because that's the merciful part of this journey for you. I'll tear off every fingernail, make you drink acid, sink hooks into your skin and rip out chunks of your flesh, cut off your ears, splice needles into your tear ducts and put a hot coal in your mouth, fuck your ass with a dildo so large you'll be tasting your own shit, make you deep throat it clean, sucking dick like those dead babies had to for the price of one orgasm, then I'll pull each tooth out one by one until you suffocate on your own blood while my brothers hold a blowtorch to your eyeballs until they melt, burn all your hair off, and break every bone in your fucking body. If you don't die of shock you'll be cut up while you're alive, foot by foot, until all that's left in here when we go is a pool of blood and piss that was once Oleg the child fucker.”
Standing I unhook my whip, unfurling it in a quick snap. “But first, a hundred lashes for cursing at us. Those who curse angels profane the Holy Spirit.”
“Angels? You l-look more like devils,” he gasps, sweat condensing so fiercely from stress his eyebrows look like he was the recipient of a golden shower.