A pair of Sergei’s goons shoved me out the door and down the walk to that overgrown carriage house. The builders had tried to make it look quaint, with all this fake, Victorian gingerbreading, but the place was big enough to hangar a blimp.
Sergei strolled lazily behind us, chatting on his phone with some subcontractor about a concrete delivery. His behavior confused me. For all his absorption in the building, one would have thought that the drug trade some minor hobby. He switched gears so effortlessly.
The carriage house turned out to be a private gym with a caged weight room and a basketball court with a parquet floor. The goons led me to a bench and cuffed me to the backrest facing center court.
The floor was covered with large sheets of clear plastic to protect the finish. There was a makeshift table at center court—two boards spanning some saw horses. Tools were arrayed like surgical instruments across the top—a reciprocating saw, a soldering iron, a pneumatic hammer, a power sander. Orange extension cords coiled like snakes. A couple guys wearing all black were setting up equipment.
Sergei swooped by the bench and leaned over me, smirking. He still had a phone pressed to his ear, on hold, probably.
“Look at him, so cool. Not even rattled. What is his deal? Does he not know what is going to happen now?”
“Tough guy,” said a man in black jeans and T-shirt, who was setting up a heavy-duty tripod. “That’s good. I love tough guys. Nice contrast. They’re all cocky up front, and then you get the transition to when they finally crack. Makes for great video. It’s the whiny ones bore me to tears. There’s a market for it, but that’s not my bag.”
There was video equipment everywhere. At least three cameras. Lights and reflectors. All of it arranged around an old wooden chair with an arched back. Above it dangled a microphone and a set of cables and chains suspended from the rafters like some kind of circus trapeze.
“What’s all this?” I said.
“Meet your director, Jimmie,” said Sergei. “You’re gonna be famous. We hired a real pro. Mr. Raoul, here. An artiste. Master of snuff. He’s making me an instructional video. What not to do if you work for the Serge. You’re gonna be all over the internets.”
This Raoul guy glanced at me, but he refused to make eye contact. Apart from the name, which was probably fake, he looked pretty straight-laced. Conservative haircut, rosy cheeks. He could have worked for H&R Block.
His assistant, on the other hand, working on the chains, was a real basement dweller. Sunken chest. Acne-pocked face riddled with piercings. A mullet that looked like road kill. He had no trouble at all fixing his gaze on me.
I wasn’t thrilled about the situation, but I knew I could handle it. I was no fan of pain, but I had been through this before. I had ways of tuning out, of vacating my body and senses. If death was on the agenda, so be it. It was not a deal killer. I knew my soul would persist. I had friends in other places.
“Ooh yeah!” said Sergei picking up a drill fitted with a massive bit. “Look at this baby! Nobody’s gonna mess with me after this. No one’s gonna be laughing at the Serge anymore.”
“Whatever,” I said. I frowned and shook my head.
Sergei chuckled. “Listen to him, acting all brave! Bring in his girlfriend. Let’s see what she thinks about all this.”
As Jozef, his right hand man, pulled out his phone, a jolt ripped through me.
“She’s … she’s not my girlfriend,” I said.
I was half-hoping, expecting they would leave her out of all this, let her go. Sergei was watching my reaction closely and grinning.
“Woohoo! Did you see his reaction? Did you get that on tape?”
