Stolen Souls

58

HERKUS STRUGGLED TO comprehend what he saw. It was the whore, all right, exactly as Darius had described her, and almost the woman in the passport photo the cop had shown him. But she was bruised and cut, as if she’d been kicked from here to Ukraine and back again. Blood caked her clothes. A towel had been rammed into her mouth, and her feet sat in a bowl of bloody water. Cable ties bound her hands to the chair, and a toothbrush and a pair of wire cutters lay on the floor by the bowl.

And in spite of it all, he had never seen a girl look so joyous. God help her, did she think he had come to rescue her? He almost laughed, but closed his mouth tight lest anyone else hear. Who had done this to her? The man Rasa had drawn? If so, he was clearly sick in the head.

And probably still in this house.

Herkus considered his best course of action. The priorities were straightforward: Arturas wanted the whore dead, and he would want proof of such. The simplest option would be to use the Glock to put a bullet in her head and then take a picture with his phone to show to the boss.

Simple was always best. Herkus did not believe in complicating matters unnecessarily. He drew the Glock from his waistband, chambered a round, and pressed the muzzle to her forehead.

He had a second to watch the hope and joy in the whore’s eyes die away before the light went out and darkness fell upon him.