Stolen Souls

47

STRAZDAS WATCHED THE closed door as he listened to his own blood in his ears.

He knew Herkus was right. He’d die before he’d ever admit it out loud, but he knew the hulking mass of knuckle and belly spoke the truth.

“Fucking peasant,” he said, not caring that he was alone. “I gave him everything. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still be rolling around Vilnius, making a pittance from the loan sharks for beating the shit out of any poor bastard that was a day behind.”

He caught the metallic edge to his voice, like a blunt and rusted knife, and bit down on the back of his hand to silence himself. Once the pain had flushed the madness from his head, he returned to pacing.

Could he rely on Herkus to do what was necessary?

Up until a day ago, Strazdas would have thought yes, absolutely. But then everything went to hell and Tomas died. Herkus’s fists could only get him so far. But there was still one other who could help.

Strazdas retrieved his phone from the desk, blew away the white powder that dusted it, and dialed.

“Who is this?” the contact asked.

“Me,” he said in English. “Arturas.”

“Why are you calling me? You don’t call me. I call you. Understand?”

“Have you found the whore I’m looking for?” he asked.

“No,” the contact said. “I’ve got better things to do. But Jack Lennon knows about her, and he’s working on it. If he comes up with anything, and I get wind of it, I’ll let you know.”

“Do I pay you well?”

“What?”

“Do I pay you well?”

“Yes, but I give you good service.”

“Give better service,” Strazdas said. “Find this girl, or you will not be my friend.”

“I’ve never been your friend,” the contact said. “If I hear anything, I’ll pass it on. That’s the best I can do for you. Now fuck off and don’t call me again.”

The phone died. Strazdas dropped it back on the desk, letting it clatter and bounce on the glass, scattering the powder. He pointed at it.

“I will not be your friend,” he said.