Heat Gauge

Chapter Thirteen

Bronya barely recognised herself in the mirror. But then, that was the whole point. Her hair was dyed white-blonde, cut drastically short into a bob that raked her sharp jawline and framed her angular face. Her expressive hazel eyes were ringed in thick eyeliner and mascara, and her thin, shapely lips were slathered with bright scarlet lipstick.

She wore knockoff designer clothing, sourced from fencers in Chinatown, that Ivan gifted her on an almost daily basis. The styles clashed blatantly. Bronya didn't care. She only wore them to keep Ivan happy. Her whole life revolved around keeping Ivan happy.

Pressing the top of her thighs against the vanity unit, Bronya leaned in close to the mirror in order to check her lipstick. She could hear Ivan thumping around the bedroom, crashing open the closet doors to find his trenchcoat.

Bronya felt her stomach twist into a knot as she adjusted her beret. Tonight was the night. Tonight it would all end, whether she or Petrov died it didn't matter. It had to end. Everything had fallen into place. Tonight Ivan was meeting the crime lord to discuss the biggest drug deal of his life. A deal that could make or break his authority in the bratva. A deal that could possibly get him killed.

Bronya braced her arms against the vanity and hung her head, staring at the sinkhole. She willed her stomach to settle and pulled the cold facade of a killer over herself, drawing it close like a cloak.

When she was ready she pulled on her bomber jacket, fingers brushing against the stiletto knife concealed in the sleeve, and headed for the door.

The heavy stench of unwashed human being and the thick smog of cigarette smoke filled the room. Bronya wrinkled her nose and pressed herself deeper into the crook of Ivan's muscular, hairy arm. As they wended their way deeper into the haze green felt tables appeared like islands in a foggy sea. Colourless, tasteless men crowded around these tables, their grubby, callused hands cradling tankards of beer and dog-eared cards. Cigars and hand-rolled fags hung loosely from their down-turned mouths, nestling in thick beards so greasy that it was a wonder why they didn't set alight.

Ahead and behind them marched solemn, suited men. Unlike their unwashed compatriots, these men were clean-shaven and smartly presented. They moved with an economy of movement that told Bronya they were seasoned fighters, well used to fisticuffs in tight spaces. Not that they'd need their fists. The ghostly outlines of shoulder holsters were visible through their jackets. Bronya resisted the temptation to check the knife in her sleeve.

They beelined towards the bar where a big, broad woman was filling tankards with watery ale. She had Aryan straw-blonde hair roped into thick pigtails that framed her round, mustachioed face. Her ample bosom strained against the front of her tightly cinched, grubby apron. She was a 'Hilda' or a 'Helga' if ever Bronya saw one.

The bald-headed man that led Bronya and Ivan spoke a few words to the barmaid in clipped, heavily accented Russian. The woman's reply wasn't audible over an angry roar that erupted from a nearby table, but she nodded once and the bald man turned slightly to beckon Bronya and Ivan towards a small, nondescript wooden door barely visible in the shadow behind the bar.

Ivan hesitated for a fraction of a second, enough for the man behind them to give him a shove. He stumbled forwards, dragging Bronya with him. The door opened as they approached and the blackness swallowed them whole.

The door slammed shut behind them, immediately cutting off the shouting from the poker tables. Deafening silence fell. Bronya opened her eyes wide, trying to see in the pitch darkness. She clung tightly to Ivan's arm. The pair of them pivoted around, ears and eyes straining, the only sound their ragged breathing.

Suddenly a blinding light hit Bronya's face, accompanied by a sharp command in Russian for her to let go of Ivan. Rough hands grabbed her and wrenched her away when she didn't obey. She screamed Ivan's name once but he didn't reply. Alarmed by the many hands gripping her jacket, wrenching her this way and that, instinct kicked in and Bronya immediately reached for her knife. After much struggling she managed to free it and viciously swiped at the hand that had her by the lapel.

The man cursed and released her. The blade of her stiletto flashed silver as the light turned her way. For an instant she saw Ivan's silhouette, grossly mutated by four burly men holding him down, then she was blinded again. Bronya slashed at another hand that had a firm grasp on her left wrist. It released her, only to be replaced by another hand. Someone reached across her chest from behind, pinning her securely to their rock-hard abdomen. She reversed the handle in her hand and stabbed around her hip, intending to catch her captor in the gut. The blade hit something concrete and she heard it shatter. Thick, strong fingers found her knifehand and forcefully pried the stiletto from her grip.

But Bronya wasn't done. Using the support of the arm that held her tight she bucked upwards, snapping her heels out ahead of her at chest height. They connected solidly with something. Sharp pain shot up her legs, accompanied by a surprised grunt and muffled thud. Using her momentum she landed and pitched forwards, pulling her captor with her into a bend. At the right moment she snapped her head backwards. There was a loud crack as the back of her skull broke the man's nose. Warm blood gushed down the back of Bronya's neck. His grip loosened. Bronya attempted to pull free –

Then it was all over. Thick, dense bodies pushed Bronya to the floor and wrenched her hands behind her back, securing them with what felt like twine. They tied it tightly, so that it bit viciously into her wrists. Bronya screamed at them, calling them names that would make a sailor blush. Rough fingers soon shoved a foul tasting cloth into her mouth, then slipped more twine between her teeth and tied it around her head to secure the gag.

Only when she was all trussed up did Bronya stop struggling. She lay against the floor thick with a layer of dust and grime and panted. Now she could see the outlines of heavy workboots, illuminated by the flashlight which had been discarded in the skirmish and now lay forgotten nearby. Metal skittered on concrete as someone kicked her broken knife away.

“Bitch. That hurt,” someone complained above her. Bronya grunted and doubled up in pain when a boot connected solidly with her ribs.

“Hey, idjit. The boss wants her in one piece.”

“She cut off my fucking finger!”

“Oh boohoo, so you no can flip off people in traffic. I think she has done the world a favour.”

Angry swearwords in Russian exploded above her, shoves were traded. Someone's foot accidentally-on-purpose drove into Bronya's curved spine. She gasped and tried to roll away, but found her way barred by the legs of someone else.

“Shut up. We have to take her to the boss,” said the owner of the legs. Bronya froze when she realised it was Ivan's voice. He bent and grabbed her, throwing her over his shoulder like she was nothing more than a sack of flour. She struggled anew but it didn't seem to bother him.

Someone kicked open a door on the other side of the small room. Washed out streetlight fell inwards in a golden square. Bronya saw the sleepy outlines of various machinery lining the walls around her. A short, thickset man appeared before her face and she saw bruising on his jaw from her foot. His chin was uneven. She hoped it was broken. He grinned a bloody, gaptoothed smile and held up a rag in his hand, waving it before her face like a damsel with a hankerchief.

“Time for you to sleep, bitch. If you are lucky, you will wake up dead.”

Bronya tried to twist her head away from his hand. But soon the sweet stench of chloroform coated the back of her tongue, drowning her lungs until she drifted away on black clouds.