Kill Order

Part 1, Chapter 12: The Sharp Edge of the Blade

Tristan drew a shuddering breath, anger shaking. "They haven't told me anything, Borodin. Don't you dare touch that girl."

Borodin's fist shot up in a savage uppercut. Jaw snapped. Light exploded to white. Tristan felt the world tilt, chair wobbling on its bolts. Sound drained away.

As darkness rushed in he tasted blood and metal and the last echo of his own promise, pounding like a war drum in his mind: I will catch you, and I will end you, if it is the last thing I do.

...

Sound seeped back into Tristan's world one muffled layer at a time. The soft whine of ventilation, the sluggish drip of water onto concrete, the ragged rasp of his own breathing. Pain followed quickly, rolling over him like a tide of fire.

He forced an eye open. Fluorescent light bled into focus. The ache in his chest flared as Borodin's fist slammed straight into the half stitched bullet wound. White heat splintered through ribs and spine. Air vanished from his lungs.

"Eyes open," Borodin ordered, voice low and sharp.

He yanked Tristan upright by the hair, wrenching his head towards the window again, forcing him to stare upon Levchenko. 

Borodin's breath brushed Tristan's ear. "Look here. Family man, they say. Two daughters, one son, four grandchildren. Birthdays and school concerts attended by video calls. The great provider."

Tristan's wrists strained against the plastic cuffs lashed behind the chair. "Save your sermon. You do not know anything about family."

Borodin's eyes gleamed. "I know when a man reaches the edge and steps back. Levchenko reached his and decided I was a devil. He thought a confession would cleanse him." He gave a dismissive snort. "He will learn saints die too."

Borodin drew a matte black pistol, spinning it once in his hand like a magician with a coin. "I saved this round for him. And you." He tapped the barrel gently against the window. A dull thud reverberated in the quiet room.

Tristan's voice came out hoarse and shaking with anger. "You kill him and you lose what leverage you think you have."

"Leverage?" Borodin lifted an eyebrow as if the word amused him. "The toxin is still hidden, because you haven't told me where your superiors hid it. Your partner is under my roof. You are bleeding in cuffs. That is real leverage. Levchenko is only a loose thread. Threads must be clipped."

He raised the pistol. The muzzle centred on Levchenko's forehead. "All you had to do was tell me where the toxin is."

His finger tightened. A single shot cracked like a thunderclap. The mirror pane jumped, a blooming spider web of cracks laced with tiny droplets of blood. Levchenko's head snapped back. A red mist hung in the air for a heartbeat, then settled on the concrete. The body slumped sideways, chair legs screeching until bolts halted the fall.

Time seemed to stop. Blood trickled along the fractured lines in the glass, slow as raindrops down a window on a still night. Tristan's breath left in a shudder. He did not hear his own growl of rage until it rattled in his ears.

Borodin turned. "A demonstration," he said quietly. "Compassion is weakness. Now perhaps you understand."

Tristan's whole body trembled. "You... how the hell do you even... I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!" He surged forward ignoring the protest of torn muscles. Borodin moved with calm precision and slammed the butt of his pistol across Tristan's temple.

White exploded into black. Tristan felt the world tilt then fall away. His head slumped against the chair back, consciousness slipping like sand through split fingers. Again, he is knocked out.