"Of course, we're going to take all potential threats of a leak seriously, but your accusations aren't grounded at all." Erich Soders sifted through another agent file, skimming through each paragraph and description. "Just because your agent got lucky and outed Thorakis doesn't grant you power over us. We located the mole and eradicated him before the problem grew. The ICA is safe."
"Lucky?" Diana scoffed. Soders' slight against her agent had nothing to do with the point. "Have you considered that Myung has the sole power of monitoring our interactions and personnel data?"
"Obviously, we checked her contacts and the basis of her claim. Everything added up."
"Not to me."
"Unfortunately for you, you're only one person. One handler in an Agency of hundreds others."
She huffed. "Fine. Forget the accusations, then. Don't think of this as me versus Myung or Clera. All I'm asking of you is to spare some manpower to look into my findings." She scooted closer to his desk, planting her arms forward and encroaching on the edge of Soders' papers. She gave him no choice but to pay her heed. "If everything is in order, then great. But if not, then there's a tremendous problem in our hands. And the world's governments won't be the only things running for cover."
With a sigh, Erich set his work aside. "So this has to do with the Surtr Leaks. And you think Myung is somehow involved." Diana gave a light smile, making him roll his eyes. "I know you well enough that I can't tell you not to poke your head into worldly affairs. But the ICA is neutral."
Diana shook her head. "The ICA is neutral for a reason. The Board is made up of billionaires around the world. What do you think will happen if just one of them wants to tip the scale to favor themselves?" Erich recognized the look in her eyes. But from where? He wondered. "I think something like that is happening in North America. And if one of our own is behind it, that makes it our problem." For a second, Diana's calm countenance gave way to disdain. "Even more egregious is the method. The truth should not be a weapon..."
Ah. That's where knew that look. Erich dipped his head in a light, accepting nod. "You have your parents' determination." He spun his seat to his monitor, opening up a number of contacts. "I'll assign a few people to look into this."
Diana smiled. "Make sure to keep the circle tight."
"Alright, alright."
"Thank you, Soders."
Leoncio couldn't sleep. He looked over at his twin brother, Leandro, unable to get their conversation out of his head. He wondered how he accepted things so easily—if he was the weird one for having this twisting feeling.
His brother couldn't wait until they were 18. Then they could help out around the house. They wouldn't need to confine themselves to the bedroom whenever Papa had his guests over. Leoncio dreaded the thought, even if that was eight whole years away.
The door creaked an inch open, and a sliver of light entered the bedroom. Standing there was a man in a sweat-stained tank top and underwear. "What's wrong, mija?" Papa asked, keeping his cadence soft so as to not wake the others. "Can't sleep?" He walked over to Leoncio's bed, sitting beside him.
Leoncio smiled for only a moment. "I still don't get it..." He drew circles on the wooden floor with his foot. "Is there really no other choice for them? If I had to go somewhere and never go home again, I would be sad, too. I feel... weird."
Ah. Papa nodded. "You're not feeling weird." He ruffled Leoncio's hair, earning an annoyed grunt from the boy. "What you're feeling is guilt. It's a stage that even Papa went through when he was young."
Leoncio looked up. "You felt like this, too?"
"It's natural. But I learned something that helped me understand it all." Papa held him closer. "The rule we're born with—the rule of goodness—is useless."
The boy deflated, disappointed. "You always say that."
"Because I learned it too late, mija. Like you said, anybody would be sad if they're taken away from their home, but it's their fault for playing into our hands. They followed the rule and became gullible."
Leoncio nodded meekly. It should have made sense. And he'd heard the story of his family a million times. But he still felt guilty.
Papa wrinkled his nose. After a second, he said, "I want you to remember something next time you feel this way." He hugged his son with one arm. "It's not pretty, but we have it good. We fought to be fortunate, Leoncio, never forget that. Never forget what it means to be a Mejías. Good night."
Leoncio was alone with his thoughts, the weight of conflicting emotions settling in his childish heart. He still couldn't sleep.
Although Raul wished to spend more time with his son, there was a new batch of products to greet.
The rustic interior never failed to soothe him. Beauty in simplicity, he liked to think. Accompanying his walk was the everlasting smell of rot. It stung everybody's nose and made their eyes water, even with the heavy usage of scented candles masking it. But Raul and his men were used to it. All part of home.
Descending from the third floor, passing several patrols, he spotted a bald German talking with a guard. It was a miracle that Rein Werner was even alive. He could never forget finding his body frozen stiff in the box from China. Rein noticed Raul, excused himself, and joined him.
Raul spoke first. "Any update on our missing person?"
"Not yet. But we're conducting a thorough search, and there's no way for anyone to get past the outer security. He's in the mansion somewhere. We'll find him."
He nodded. "Keep me up to date." Raul combed his thinning hair with his hand; his idea of making himself presentable. "Is the ring ready?"
"All done. The participants are the same old ones as per usual."
Raul smirked. The ring was easily his best investment, if only for personal satisfaction. He considered bringing his kids along; the earlier they're exposed, the quicker they toughen up, he felt. But other matters demanded his attention. "And our guests for the week?"
Rein flipped a page on the clipboard. "Warren Paxton and his three girlfriends. He's on his way to, and I quote, 'rescue a smoking hot female from the trade.' In other words, making a purchase."
Already don't like him.
"Sonya Valentine, the Alpha Zerox lady. She's coming to finalize Devereaux's order of 10 whites and 10 non-whites for their experiment."
Her... As long as I focus on the payment, I can get through her condescending attitude.
"But today, it's him again. He's here for the Dollmaker."
I expected as much.
As if on cue, they passed a door with muffled Russian opera inside. The pungent scent was stronger here. They passed stationed guards clad in dark, nondescript clothing that seemed to absorb any hint of light.
The first floor was where the majority of his people patrolled. It was especially important today with the new batch coming in. It all starts at the back, where the garage welcomes the products. Raul was just in time for them to open the few semi-trucks.
The dim light trickled into each trailer. His guards shouted inside, waving with their guns for them to move. Men, women. Children of varying age, red in the face and with no more tears to shed. They filed out, crunching their bare feet on the concrete floor. Each bore the same clothes they had had since their disappearance.
Raul smiled at the familiar sight. To think, he used to be in that crowd.
Guards had the group file through a door. Rein stopped each individual for simple questions, getting their name and age and writing them down on the clipboard. When they answered, he assigned the victim a number and continued. Eventually, he reached a bald, expressionless man. He gave his name as Tobias. Rein assigned him as T46, wrote it on his palm with a marker. His hand was moist with hand sanitizer. Rein sent him off without a second glance.
"Hello, 47," his earpiece spoke, "Welcome to Raul Mejías' mansion, a human trafficking hub located in the heart of the Táchira Depression. The people sent here are unwanted and unknown. People that, when they go missing, nobody cares about—whose families are never heard, and the media sees no interest in picking up. They range from homeless and prostitutes to bastard children left behind by politicians and celebrities. Every country has people they don't want.
"Lucia Agosti mentioned two individuals responsible for the warning: Raul Mejías and the Dollmaker. Both are present in the mansion, and with help from Soders' analysts, we know for a fact that they were involved.
"Raul Mejías is the head of a thriving human trafficking business, all ran from the confines of his home. He has connections all around the globe, shipping him human lives for plentiful amounts of cash. Customers travel to his mansion via a limited guest list, where they're spoiled for choice. Among them were the Agostis, high-paying customers who sought business with the Delgado cartel. Protecting them was in his best interest.
"The Dollmaker, Igor Volkov, is a Russian serial killer known for his grotesque practice of turning his victims into 'dolls.' He would flay them and carefully replace their skin with plastic molds, while leaving their mouths and genitalia available for use. All the while, his victims are still alive. He avoided prison for so long after accumulating vast amounts of information and blackmail on powerful Russian citizens. He supposedly died of a heart condition earlier this year, but his presence here says otherwise. Lucia claimed the message was passed from him to Raul, thus making him a primary interest.
"While we're here to tie up loose ends, it's in our interest to see how deep this scheme is. Eliminate the two targets and investigate the compound for anything useful. Good luck, 47."
Location: Táchira, Venezuela
Targets: The Hermit, The Dollmaker
They were led into the grand foyer, though calling it grand was beyond an overstatement. The windows, with remnants of lavish drapes from the top, were now sealed shut, denying any glimpse of the outside world. Grime smeared the glass, making it difficult to tell if it was night or day. Wallpaper peeled and stunk of mold. Iron bars formed a wall from the entrance, manned by a dozen guards.
In the center, a tattered mattress lay on the cold, hard floor, offering minimal respite. The only furnishings were a crude table and a single flickering bulb dangling from the ceiling. Muffled sobs and the occasional whimper broke the silence.
But among them were others in plain white clothes. Their numbers were written on their shirts, but most unusual of all were their smiles. Warm; complacent. Though not all of them shared the same look, it was enough to keep most of the newer batch of people away.
One of the few who spoke with the white-shirts was a woman who only now calmed down enough to talk. Agent 47 recalled her screaming in the trailer, fumbling through the darkness for escape. She was on her way home when she was attacked. And now she was here.
"Please, it's important for you to calm down," the white-shirt said. "Breathe."
She tried to do so. "What's going to happen to us...?"
"You'll be fed and cared for," he said nonchalantly. "As long as you do what he says, everything will be fine."
"I... why are you so calm?"
"It's our job to help you settle in."
"Settle in—?" She backed away, disgust written on her face. "We're being sold!" Her breath picked up again. "My family will report me missing. It'll only be a matter of time before we go home..."
The white-shirt shook his head. "I've been here for five years." At her paling countenance, he reached for her shoulder. "I'm just saying it's not as bad as it could be. It won't seem like it at first, but the man who owns this place, Raul, genuinely cares about us."
"You're insane!" she shoved him back, stumbling blindly away. But to her surprise, with each step she took, she heard the same sentiment echoed around her. Save for a few white-shirts keeping to themselves in the corners, they spoke highly of the human trafficker.
At one corner some feet away from those few, Agent 47 sat against the irons bars, feigning sleep.
"You know those two guards you saw?" one, bald, said in a hushed tone. "They came to me earlier. Asked the same things you heard from them: how I felt about Raul, if I wanna go home..."
"Raul's spies?"
"No, actually... they sounded Russian." The other looked aghast. "I took a gamble and answered truthfully. Then they said to meet in one of the restrooms."
His friend shifted nervously. "Are you going?"
"That's what I want your opinion on. If this turns out to be something big, I could..." His voice trembled. He swallowed down his apprehension. "I could find out what happened to my wife."
His friend took his shoulder around the back, pulling him in. The rest of their conversation quieted, but 47 heard all he needed to.
He went to the other end of the room, where two guards across the bars spoke with each other. "I don't get why he chose you," one said. "No offense, but I don't see you do anything around here."
The man in question was Enrique, who became Raul's right hand after Marko's sudden passing. The pay was better, and he got to travel the world from time to time. What more could a man ask for? "It's as simple as trust," he said. "Marko and I were by his side when he took over."
"Yeah? But from what I've heard you whine about, it doesn't grant you much money, does it?"
Enrique quickly glanced around before leaning in, his voice dropping to a hushed, sincere tone. "Honestly, it's because of my friend Roberto. He was one of those who left that day. And well, later in that year, I went to Raul, asked him for Roberto's bank details, and I've been sending him most of what I make to help him out."
"Excuse me." The two turned to see Agent 47 against the bars. He pointed at the people in the corner. Enrique recognized the man as one of the quieter prisoners, known for being one of the more annoying thorns on Raul's side. "I overheard him planning an escape. I think he's hiding a weapon under his shirt."
He didn't need to be told twice.
Enrique led the way, unlocking the guard-only door with his master key, eyes locked on their target. The man in question spotted them coming and scrunched his face. He tried to play it off like normal, but realized too late that it was him they wanted.
Enrique shoved the prisoner against the bars, and his friend was forced away. He yelled questions at the screaming man, hitting him when they weren't answered. The white-shirts all turned away, while the recent victims stared in frozen shock.
Seconds later, the prisoner's white shirt flew off as they searched for the reported weapon.
"Enrique! What the hell is going on?" A drier voice entered the foyer, accompanied by several more guards and Rein trailing behind.
Diana recognized him. "That is Raul Mejías, ironically a former trafficking victim himself in this very mansion. He inherited the business after overthrowing the previous leader, and has since dispatched of any foes and naysayers. His reach around the globe has made him a pillar of the global human market, and many powerful figures have allied with him. This also makes his knowledge of our existence rather troublesome."
Enrique met with him while the other held the prisoner down. "It's B36. We got a tip that he was planning an escape. I've had my eye on him for a while, too."
"Escape?" Raul shook his head in disbelief. Approaching the other guard, he said, "Get off of him." When he did so, Raul wasted no time in helping the victim to his feet. The first thing he saw of the human trafficker was concern. "I understand. And I'm sorry. If you felt unhappy in any way, I will take responsibility. Whatever you wish for most, I will do my best to make come true."
It took a while to comprehend Raul's words. It was the same tone that pulled the others out of their years-long despair. Made them cling to a false hope that things would be okay. B36 glared back. "I want to be with my wife," he spat.
Raul nodded, his gaze falling away to a soft smile. "I can do that."
Many of the white-shirts turned away, shaking their heads. There were utterings of disbelief, more so at how foolish he was to go against Raul. Some pointed for the newcomers as if to say 'I told you so.' The guards dragged him away, much like they did his wife months prior.
Rein followed Raul back to their routine path. He checked his pocket and scoffed, realizing that his hand sanitizer bottle had disappeared. If it fell out during the debacle, he figured he'd rather buy a new one than go inside with them.
Raul eyed the prisoner's bare torso for a moment. "Someone get this man his shirt back. Please." But to his surprise, this simple request earned a perplexed glance from Enrique.
"I... We can't find it." He held his breath in front of Raul's bewilderment. "I don't know where it landed. I would've taken it with me if I saw it, but—"
His boss sighed. "It's fine. He won't need it anymore."
Donning the missing shirt, Agent 47 wiped the sharpie off his palm with the sanitizer. His next destination was one of the many restrooms installed. Most of the mansion's first floor was renovated into a makeshift prison, with cells in one wing and other necessities around the floor. The newest batch came in during scheduled free time, planned to ingrain the idea of their new home as early as possible.
When he stepped inside the restroom and saw two guards waiting, their hushed conversation ended. Their outfits were hastily put on, save for the bandanas covering much of their faces. They glanced at the shirt's number, then at 47.
"You're here." The younger one pointed at his peer. "This old man was starting to think you got too scared!" The Russian accent confirmed who they were.
"It took him a while." The other stepped in front. "You weren't making trouble for us, were you?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Agent 47 answered. "So what are two Russians doing here, posed as guards?"
"Straight to the point. You do have a good eye for people, old man." Fyodor only responded with a huff. Dimitri went behind the hitman, blocking the door. "We're gonna get you out of this place. But first, you gotta help us."
"Raul is hosting a man known as the Dollmaker on the second floor," Fyodor interjected. "He has to leave with us, but Raul is keeping him under lock and key. He spends most of his time in his room, and its entrance is guarded. You are going to be our key in."
Dimitri spoke next. "Raul has done a great job of keeping you all in the dark. You see, anyone who goes against the grain is sent to the Dollmaker as punishment. He turns them into—surprise!—Dolls. And those guards will let us in if they think we're delivering you."
Agent 47 nodded. "Sounds effective. What happens once we're inside?"
"He knows us," Fyodor said. "We'll talk to him, and he will leave with. Easy as that."
"And I get my freedom."
"Of course. Even if you do get caught, don't worry," Dimitri added. "I promise we'll come back for you."
But Agent 47 could tell by their eyes. Neither of them intended on keeping that promise. Not for what they thought to be a disposable tool. "When do we get started?"
Dimitri pushed open the door. "Follow us."
The three returned to the grand foyer. Few of the victims took notice. The ones who did could have sworn they saw B36 get dragged away earlier, thought it was strange, but nothing more. Dimitri unlocked the door, leading Fyodor and 47 past the metal bars. The regular guards didn't bat an eye.
They traversed empty hallways and rooms, many of which had no use to Raul and the traffickers, and remained dark and abandoned. In some chambers, 47 made out the silhouette of a corpse hidden around a covered furnishing. The smell gave it away, too.
They walked upstairs, and the improvement in quality was already noticeable. The floors were reflectively clean to start. As they reached the room, the guards came into earshot. "So, you still joining me in the ring?"
"Did I say I wasn't?" his friend said. "That blonde's pussy is getting used to me, I think. And you know I love making that B36 guy take up her mouth."
"B36?"
"That's who I said, yeah."
The first shook his head. "I asked because he got taken away just now. Had Enrique, Rein, and Raul dragging him out, and you know what that means."
The second hung his jaw in disbelief. "I said this from the very beginning; the resistant ones never last long! This is why I keep telling Raul that we should rope the new arrivals in. Are you sure you didn't mistake him?"
Fyodor cleared his throat. The guards looked at them, then at Agent 47. The first one glanced at his friend, who clicked his tongue. "What's he for?"
Dimitri hit 47's back, prompting him to speak. "I'm a gift for the Dollmaker."
There was no reason to contest that. The guards stepped aside.
As 47 pushed open the door, the opera music became unhindered and filled his ears.
Beside a desk, an elderly man squinting through cracked glasses worked with surgeon's hands. He was applying the finishing touches to a nude doll, brushing a powdery substance across her face. He hummed along the passionate arias and melancholic melodies, then scooting back with a proud grin.
"You're gorgeous..." he uttered. He ran his gloved fingers through her hair, and his other hand across the stumps that were her elbows and knees, checking for blemishes across the plastic surfaces. The doll's eyes followed him, but he did not react. Instead, he kissed her soft lips.
"That is the Dollmaker, real name Igor Volkov," Diana said. "He's had to hide away for the past years during his supposed death, at some point finding refuge in Venezuela. But it seems he never gave up his hobby..."
"Igor," Fyodor was first to say.
The Dollmaker perked up, setting his tools aside. As he spun around, the agents unmasked. Dimitri was young and handsome, wearing a plastered smile that never seemed to die. Fyodor bore a grey shaved beard and wrinkles that sagged his face into a permanent frown. Igor recognized them immediately.
"If it isn't Fedyenka's lapdogs. I was wondering when you'd turn up."
"We're getting you back to Russia, where you'll be under Fedyenka's protection," Fyodor said. "Please come with us."
Igor stared blankly at them. Then he spun back to the doll. "Not yet."
The agents glanced at each other. Dimitri stepped up. "Maybe you didn't understand; we're getting you out of this place and back home. You aren't safe here."
He sighed. "Not once have I ever left my work unfinished." Igor carved a shard of plastic off of the doll's arm. He took the blade over the thin layers of skin. "Do you take me for an amateur? A slimy, lazy and shrewd man?"
"I didn't say that." Dimitri looked at Fyodor. "Did I say that? I don't think so. The boss didn't mention the Dollmaker to be a deaf pushover!"
The blade poked too deep. Blood ran from the doll. "Quiet!" The Dollmaker slammed his desk, silencing the room. "I will go when I am ready. But I have work to do."
A knock at the door. "Mr. Dollmaker?" Rein let himself in, much to the annoyance of its occupant.
Igor clicked his tongue, staring ahead at the newest guest.
"Sorry." The apology meant as much to Rein as it did to Igor. He glossed over 47 and the others, focusing solely on the Dollmaker. "The recording set is done, so I wanted to check on a few things with you. Would you mind coming?"
The Dollmaker huffed. He reached over to the radio, and silence fell over the room. He stroked the doll's hair, kissing her one more time before standing. Then, to the others, he repeated, "I have work to do." He joined Rein, and the door shut behind them, leaving a pair of annoyed agents.
They began discussing in Russian, and Agent 47 took this chance to explore the room. He walked to Igor's workstation and into the doll's view. Only her privates remained untouched, save for the bite marks around her nipples and the saliva running between her legs.
Her eyes flickered to the number tag on his shirt and widened. Irises shaking, they switched to his face. Then they froze still. Seconds ticked. Her eyelids fell.
Around her on the desk were dulled knives dried with blood and plastic shavings. A hammer and chisel. They all laid on blank papers, also carrying layers of splatter stains. It was in a drawer underneath the desk that he found something useful: a file of papers going over the process and purchased tools. A to-do list written by Igor helped piece everything together.
Diana marveled at this. "So, Raul has been having the Dollmaker inflict his skill set onto unruly prisoners as the end-all punishment. Now, he's in the process of creating a market for these 'dolls,' and wants the Dollmaker to record a tutorial video for future workers. If he's going to operate on a live subject, perhaps you should find this recording set."
"You, baldie," Fyodor said. "Come over here. This is important."
He promptly did so, albeit slowly.
Dimitri nodded to his partner and began approaching.
Fyodor turned away, tapping his earpiece and speaking Russian. Not that he knew 'B36' could understand him. "Odysseus, change of plans. The Dollmaker refused to come along. He's going to the recording set, probably with some guards. We're going to nab him there, and we'll have a prisoner as bait."
He heard swift blows land on a body, and the impact as they crumpled to the ground. "Dimitri, I told you to be gentle with him—"
Hands wrapped around Fyodor's neck, turning his head away from the scuffle. They covered his mouth and kicked his knees. He dropped to the floor, scratching and hitting his attacker, to no avail. A heavy blow to the head left Fyodor dazed, then blacked out.
Agent 47 dragged the Russian agents to the corner of the room.
Only one guard left the room, and to the ones stationed at the door, he said, "My friend will take a while. The Dollmaker wants him to prepare B36 to be worked on."
One shook his head out of pity for the guard. "Poor guy... Understood."
With them assured, 47 roamed the second floor. He wanted a general layout of the building while gleaming what he could from passing guards' conversations. So far, he knew what the Dollmaker's schedule was. As for Raul?
He'd find his answer around the left wing of the mansion, where two guards emerged from downstairs. "Well, our missing guy is definitely not in the ring," the first said.
"Great. This means we're going through all the rooms again. We should have found him hours ago..."
The two wallowed in dead air, groggy in their steps. They rested against the wall for a moment. "So, I talked to the Dollmaker guy," the first said, making his friend look up in disbelief. "He's surprisingly soft-spoken. I was wondering why he's been here for so long, and he started rambling about something about history and preservation. Then he brought up Raul's wife? I didn't even know he had one. Do his boys—"
"Ah! Ah, ah. Two rules, Fidel. Two rules. Don't talk about Raul's family. And don't pry into his guests' business. The third unofficial rule is to stay the fuck away from the Dollmaker. There's still a lot in the world that can make you sick to your stomach."
They continued on about trivial things, and so 47 ditched his eavesdropping. He passed by them downstairs, to the 'ring.' The stairs led to a hallway behind a chain-link fence and a locked gate. Past the gate, 47 spotted the white-shirt prisoners loitering. At the other end of the hall was a nondescript door.
Agent 47 entered and immediately felt exposed. The ceiling was open to the second floor, where railings allowed people to watch from above. One wall was completely replaced by a window. On the other side of a window was a room housing only one chair—dried semen stained the floor and glass between the seat.
The room itself reeked of sweat and held mattresses, soiled grey and yellow. It wasn't difficult to see what the ring was for: forced orgies for the prisoners and for the guards to enjoy. All the while Raul sits behind the glass as if attending a cinema.
And one would be held later tonight.
With this in mind, Agent 47 returned to the second floor. The guards were gone, likely continuing their search for the missing prisoner.
He was about to try his luck on the other wing and its set of rooms when something down the hallway caught his eye. It was a panel of wood on the wall, and he could have sworn it shook. Following this, he investigated further.
Checking for patrols, he grasped at the edges of the panel, trying to dig his nails in. There was a ridge on the top right. The panel budged, and 47 kept working at it. Then it swung open, revealing a room of darkness. From it, he heard Russian.
Agent 47 stepped inside, closing the panel behind him.
"Fyodor and Dimitri got the prisoner to the recording set, but I can't reach either of them." He recognized the voice as Sacha.
A radio clicked. "Doroteya. Anya. Any luck on your end?" Odysseus.
"We haven't seen them, either."
Sacha sighed. "Then it's up to us to get the Dollmaker back. He'll be in that room with however many guards. We need to isolate him, but how?"
"I think I have an idea. Follow me." They began towards the panel.
Just as quickly as 47 entered, he scrambled out. The panel flew open with a loud crack, and the hitman cursed himself. The footsteps from inside hastened.
Agent 47 ran inside the first door he saw. Sacha and Odysseus jumped out moments later. Their steps disappeared down the hall.
The room he entered was a kitchen. And through another entrance was an adjacent dining room, where he barely made out a lone figure seated. Focused on the food was one prisoner, accompanied by a guard falling asleep against the wall.
In the dining room, double doors connecting it to the main hall had opened...
When Raul entered, the first thing he noticed was the stack of dirty plates beside his guest. He liked to joke with his guards that Fedyenka Levitsky's stomach kept growing each visit, but it seemed more like fact as of late.
Still, it was preferable over a flat out refusal because of a dumb rumor. "I'm glad at least one of my guests doesn't think our food is human." Raul sat across from Fedyenka, relaxing across the wooden frame.
Gulping down the last of his umpteenth steak, he grinned at the trafficker. "About damn time, Raul."
He shrugged, denying any food or drink. "Today's been busy. We have a new batch of livestock, and one from the prior slew is missing. There's a lot on my mind. Anyway, what brings you here?"
Sliding his plate away, the Russian leaned in. "I'm here for the Dollmaker. I know you know that."
Raul nodded once. "Then you know I can't let you have him yet."
A prisoner-made-server appeared, collecting the dirty plates. Fedyenka started on his glass of water.
"When she informed you about the ICA and Agent 47, she put a bullseye on your backs. I sure as hell know you're not leaving this place, but Igor? He has knowledge that will help me get back at Russia's corrupt government. No offense, but I'd rather know he's safe in my custody than in your slaughterhouse. It's no Lubyanka."
"You have too little faith in me, Fedyenka. You're talking about a bald man with a literal barcode on the back of his head. 'Super assassin killer', my ass. If I see a bald guy with that tattoo strutting around like he owns the place, that's an instant red flag. I'd spot him immediately! Probably tackle him on the spot, too."
"You might want to consider your stance." Fedyenka finished his drink, planting the cup down with a thud. "Because 47 is the one who killed Marko."
Raul's arrogant grin vanished. "You." He waved for the server. "Get our guest a refill."
The cup was promptly taken away.
"It wasn't just Marko, either. Don Salvador, Brielle Adler, old Vinny and the rest of the Agosti higher-ups." It was the Russian's turn to smile. The server returned with a full cup. "You knowing about Agent 47 is one step, but my own agents have crossed his path and survived. You might be able to spot him, but I know his tricks and whereabouts. Right now, my sources tell me he's on a mission in France!"
His confidence was palpable. As much as Raul didn't want to admit it, the smug bastard had him hooked. If Agent 47 was as professional as he claimed, he needed as many advantages as he could get. But he could only imagine the price. "And in return for your help...?"
"The Dollmaker."
Of course. Raul reclined in his seat, releasing his strained breath. "I want to consider it. I do. But the Dollmaker has important work to do here. I can't let you have him."
Fedyenka's excitement shrunk into disappointment. But, ultimately (and much to Raul's surprise), his temper remained as it was. "Fine, then." The room became quiet, save for his silverware clattering against a new plate of tequeños and a guasacaca dip. "It's impressive how you pacify your livestock. If only my country's oligarchs would be as submissive!"
Raul smirked. "Rather than hoping they're weak-willed, you need to break them down. It's easy to control people when they're at the very bottom. When it settles in for them that they're in hell, you come in. You raise them to their feet. You smile at them, and become their only light in the dark. That is what makes them listen to you, and that is why they will choose to stay."
He slowed his chewing, dwelling on the advice. "Well said..."
"Now, before you drain my pantry, how about a walk?"
He agreed, and it wasn't long before the dinner table was empty. This left the servant to put away the dishes and for his earpiece to start chattering. "So, the former FSB Chief, Fedyenka Levitsky, knows about you. It doesn't sound like he was the primary source of information, but this is a good lead."
Agent 47 returned through the kitchen and passed the unconscious guard and prisoner. He retraced his steps back to the main hallway and toward the mansion's right wing. There, he checked the multiple unmarked rooms. Many were similarly empty, with tarps draped over furnishings and dust lingering in the darkness. Some housed groups of relaxing guards passing the time.
Upon entering a storage room, 47 lingered.
Greeting him was a crowd of nude people. Static and plastic-skinned, sewn with strips of fabric. Men and women. Elders and children. The dolls dotted the room. Their limbs were amputated up to their knees and elbows with plastic prosthetics grafted on. Their private parts remained on full display. Two were posed by the door, permanently welcoming whoever ventured inside.
In the center of the room was a shirtless man strapped to a metal table, rusty and stained with dried blood. An oxygen was fastened over his face, supplying a drug. It was the prisoner he condemned, the original B36—motionless, except for his eyes.
Cameras were placed on tripods around the table, and a table with a tray of surgical equipment laid beside him. This was the recording set.
The dolls blinked. Their gazes followed him. But many stared straight ahead, unmoving; their mouths agape and dry.
Some stared at something else.
The corner. Behind Agent 47.
The hitman spun around just in time to block an incoming strike. 47 grabbed the wrist, spinning it around to the man's cries. He pulled downward, forcing him to the ground. But the moment they stepped into the light, he realized who his attacker was.
And it annoyed 47 that he didn't think of him sooner. "Mr. Smith." He released the man.
Stripped down to his boxers laden with the American flag, he froze for a second, then trembled with relief. "47! Thank god, it's you! I didn't know how long I could stand hiding in here. I knew some of these people, and seeing them like this is..."
"Keep your voice down."
"Sorry." Smith rubbed his arm, making a mental note to start checking for the barcode before attacking people. "Are you here to get me out, or—"
"The usual."
He laughed, more so at himself for expecting otherwise. "Should've guessed... I was tasked with infiltrating Raul's human trafficking ring. We've been trying to bust his entire operation for years, so I saw my chance to get the dossier and..."
"You were caught."
He shrugged, unable to deny it. "I had to do something. Any longer in this place, and I'd have been sold."
"You mentioned a dossier."
"Yeah. There's a locked room on the third floor that I've been trying to get into. Raul's computer is in there, and it holds data on all of his assets around the globe and a visitor history. But it's locked behind a number code. Raul keeps a journal, and I'm willing to bet the code is in it."
"47," Diana began, "that room could have what we're looking for. If we look at Raul's visitors in recent time, maybe there's something related to our situation."
The hitman nodded to both of them. "It seems our interests are aligned. I can get you Raul's journal."
...
"Get these men detained, and inform Raul immediately!" Enrique sent a messenger away as his lackeys pulled a dazed Fyodor and a stripped Dimitri out of the Dollmaker's room. Their hands were zip tied behind them, and their weapons tossed aside. The Russian agents appearing in tandem with Fedyenka was no coincidence, he was sure.
He dispatched people to apprehend the former FSB Chief just to be safe. Raul would have the final verdict, and Enrique needed to have all the information he needed when the boss got to it.
And maybe Raul would grant him an extra paycheck. Enrique figured he must've sent hundreds of thousands to Roberto at this point. He imagined his friend—no, his brother—dining on delicious foods in skyscrapers, donning a clean suit and tie. Raul's right hand had no idea when he'd join Roberto, but daydreaming about it has become more common over the years.
As his guards dispersed to perform their duties, leaving Enrique alone in the Dollmaker's room, he pulled out a Lambros cigarette and began to smoke. He still remembered Raul's rise as clear as day; the promise he made to Roberto. Raul, in the boss' chair, provided his loyal followers a choice: join him in rebuilding the business and earning the big bucks, or get in the semi-truck trailer and leave for freedom.
Roberto left. And Enrique would fund the life they always yearned for. He even went to the truck driver and made him promise to get them safely to their destination.
During his reminiscing, the door opened, and he failed to notice. Rather, Enrique's attention was taken by the limbless woman poised on the workstation. "Christ... Sometimes I wonder if we've really become better."
Agent 47 struck from behind. He fell wordlessly. The hitman rummaged through his pockets, finding the master key.
He hurried out of the room, going down the hallway and back to the storage room. 47 spotted the Dollmaker on his way, trailed by several guards. They were low on time.
The moment he burst inside, he found Agent Smith trying his hardest not to let the dolls' company get to him. "Help me with him," 47 said, grabbing the paralyzed B36 by his shoulders.
Sensing the urgency in his voice, Smith took his legs and followed 47's route. They laid him behind a dense group of dolls, tossing dusty tarps over him.
"You should hide," 47 said, returning to the table.
"You're going to..." Smith watched him strip, replicating the victim they just moved. "But there'll be a bunch of guards in the room with him."
"Only temporarily. Now hide."
The Interpol agent sighed. "I'm sure you know what you're doing..."
The Dollmaker and his guards entered moments later. The latter took their stations in the dark corners of the room. Igor placed a radio nearby, starting up his favorite opera. One guard went around the cameras, turning them on as the star of the show readied himself.
He started with a toothy grin. "Welcome. My name is Igor Volkov. I have been creating dolls since I was a young boy, and when my only subjects were birds and dogs. Now, I will pass down my knowledge for you to take full advantage of. I admit, I feel like my talent is wasted when I must work on males. They... have no beauty to speak of. But I digress. You are watching this to learn, and I shall teach."
He showed an empty syringe to the camera. "The key is plying them with carbon disulfide. Inject enough in the right places, and you break down their nerves. You paralyze them without the need to break any bones. I've already done so to this patient, but normally that takes over a week for any effect to show."
Behind him, unbeknownst to anyone in the room, the dolls' lips twitched.
"I like to start with the flaying. Now, my dolls end up without their arms and legs to prevent any chance of them coming to life again. That's the last step. I advise starting with the skin because it's cleaner than amputations and quicker to heal."
The door opened again. This time, it was two guards, one holding the other's shoulder from behind. The one in the front tried to keep up a faltering smile. "R-Raul needs more guards in the cells. The new batch is being rowdy..."
The Dollmaker waved him and his entourage off. "You all may go. It's not like any of you wanted to be here."
Partly because they didn't want to bear witness to this, the guards quietly headed for the door. The person behind the speaker pulled him to the side. While Igor watched them leave, Agent 47 reached for the tray.
The dolls' lips kept twitching. The opera singer raised his pitch, blanketing the cracking plastic.
"Now it is time to remove their delicate skin. I prefer to start with their wrists, but anywhere is a good place to begin. You're going to replace their limbs, most of their torso, and parts of the facial skin with plastic." The Dollmaker searched his tray and scrunched his face. "Where did I put the scalpel?"
More and more plastic cracked and chipped. The song reached its crescendo.
Igor finally found the scalpel, nestled in the hand of 'B36.' Agent 47 swung. Flesh tore and separated. A gurgle escaped. Blood shot out, turning the Dollmaker's carotid artery into a squirt gun.
He stumbled to the floor, grabbing and clutching at his throat. His fingers coated in crimson, slipping against the loose flaps of skin. Blood flooded his mouth like a water pump. As Agent 47 rose from the table, his eyes shuddered with fear. The Dollmaker kicked against the floor, pushing himself away from the operating table and smearing red against the floor.
Igor stopped crawling a few meters away, surrounded by his creations. Before his vision blurred, it fell upon them. He paled.
For the dolls stared back with wide, beady eyes. They smiled.
His heart swelled and tightened. His body broke into a cold sweat, then went numb.
"The Dollmaker—Igor Volkov—is eliminated. Now onto Raul Mejías." Agent Smith came out of hiding, helping 47 erase the film from each camera.
On the other side of the door, Sacha watched the last of the guards disappear down the hall. Then Odysseus knocked out the guard he was holding at gunpoint, dragging him around a corner. They gathered at the entrance, and on the count of three, they snuck inside.
But rather than the lone old man they expected, he lied dead on the floor. A million things raced through the two minds. And in that time, neither of them noticed Agent 47 and Smith leaving behind them.
"Just how lucky are you?" Smith breathed. "And what the hell are the Russians doing here?"
"They wanted the Dollmaker and needed to isolate him."
It all clicked for the Interpol agent. 47 knew about the Russians and their intents, and capitalized on them. "What comes next?"
Agent 47 passed him one of the cameras. In it were pictures of what must've been every doll in that room. "You know these people. So do the prisoners going in the ring." He gave another item: the master key. "Use this to lock the guards out."
Smith shook his head. "You're terrifying. Anyone ever tell you that?"
...
I learned a long time ago how to play this game. I wanted to live with virtue in my heart, and I believed kindness would pay off. But if that was true, I wouldn't be here. Nobody came for me. Not my family. Not my government.
That's when I took a look at myself. Playing by the rule of goodness got me here, and what did it really do for me? So I sought people who I knew would listen. I made promises of freedom or fortune that I knew I couldn't keep. Convinced the guards of a better deal. And with them, we overthrew the old boss. His billions became mine. Money that I never could have fathomed.
I have done nothing wrong. And life seems to agree with me.
Raul entered the windowed room adjacent to the ring. He took his seat on the lone chair, watching the prisoners file and strip as was routine. Ultimately, he decided against taking his kids with him; sleep was important in youth.
All the prior worries seemed to resolve themselves, too. He heard moments ago that his guards already caught four of Fedyenka's agents. The Chief himself was detained, and they were scouring the mansion for Sacha and Odysseus. Rein was busy finalizing business partners for the doll business. And soon enough, Igor would find the key to immortalizing his wife.
Raul slid his underwear a quarter down, stroking himself early in anticipation.
But as the last prisoner appeared, someone sprinted in after them. He locked the door before any of the guards entered, and they started banging on it. A bad feeling settled in Raul's gut. He recognized the odd man; the missing prisoner from this morning. The others in the room realized this as well.
Smith shouted for everybody's attention. He raised a camera high in the air. Raul watched his products blanche and become stricken with horror. He watched people break down, recognizing their loved ones. In seconds, the fragile trust he carefully crafted fell apart. And he was in the front row.
One by one, the prisoners turned to the window.
"Fuck this shit..." Raul ran to the door, not even bothering to pull his underwear up. Banging echoed across the glass, reviving the old sensation of fear in the trafficker.
But as he fumbled with the doorknob, he fell into total panic. Something was blocking the door. Raul hit against it until his knuckles were bruised. "Open this door!" he cried. "Someone! Anyone!"
A crack in the glass. The crowd's yells grew more ferocious. The banging increased.
"Help!" His voice scratched the insides of his throat. "Help! Please!"
The window fell from its hinges. It shattered into a million pieces.
Raul screamed; he cried; he begged. They grabbed; they gouged; they tore; they stomped his penis flat. The fact was, his prisoners never forgot who put them here.
By the time the guards broke through, dispersing the mob with gunfire, Raul Mejías was barely recognizable. The door Raul so desperately tried to get through was also open, with no indication of the hitman who blocked it or Smith who swiped his journal.
"All targets neutralized," Diana said. "Now, to get in that room and see what we can find."
Agent Smith flipped through the journal, wincing. It was tattered and smeared with blood, having had to pull it from Raul's underwear beneath the mass of flesh and bone. An oversight on his part. From what he could read, most of the content was about his life and his philosophies.
"Jesus... he even had a contingency plan in case his kids turned against him." There was a passage specifically for one named Leoncio. Apparently, Raul was concerned by his empathy and arranged a plan with Rein that would sell him away at a moment's notice 'if need be.'
"Are there any numbers you can glean from it?" 47 pushed.
As he said that, Smith jumped to the very end. He lit up, pointing at the last phrase. "Love forever, nine..." The rest was ripped away. He took a breath, masking his frustration. "Okay. We know the code starts at nine. I can brute force the rest of the numbers."
Agent 47 showed no reaction. "Then lead the way to this room." He might as well break it open.
The two traversed the steps of the mansion. They passed guards running frantically around each other, shouting Spanish. News of the deaths traveled fast. Agent 47 overheard one declaring that they caught the last of the Russians.
Smith took him to the third floor, where there were only two rooms of note. One with a number lock and the hint of an atrocious stench within. The other, a door with cartoon stickers stuck on the front and on the knob.
The hitman went to the first door, retrieving his lock pick. Before he could begin, however, a nervous Smith called out, "47?"
He turned, quickly seeing what had caught his unofficial partner off guard.
A ten-year-old boy, peeking out from his bedroom. "Who are you?"
Smith stepped forward, kneeling to his height. "We're, uh, friends of your dad. He let us take a look up here because we... needed something from this room."
"That's Mama's room. Papa never lets anyone inside. Not even us."
The Interpol agent laughed awkwardly. "Well, we're special cases. You know, there's always an exception to a rule."
The boy didn't look convinced.
But to Smith's surprise, Agent 47 appeared beside him. "Are you Leoncio?"
The boy nodded.
"Your father's journal was damaged, and we're trying to fix it." He showed the last page. "Do you know what this phrase says?"
Leoncio took the damaged journal gently in his hands. "Papa never loses his journal... what happened to it? What happened to Papa?"
"The people downstairs were a little upset with how he treated them. But he's fine."
The boy blinked, but after a second, he uttered the code. "Love forever... September 12." A slight smile curved on his lips. "That's the day Papa met Mama. It's also the day he locked her in there."
"Oh..." Smith scratched the back of his head. "That's... pleasant to hear."
Agent 47 punched in the code. 0912.
When it opened, a wave of warm air and a horrendous stench of decomposition hit the two. Smith turned green, running back to the staircase for fresh air. Leoncio coughed for a moment, but otherwise was unaffected. Agent 47 stepped inside.
The only light came from the blue screen of a computer. The light revealed the bed and the occupant: a body with skin so blackened and moldy it resembled a wicked witch from tales of old. Bits of bone showed itself, and inside her was movement; insects and rodents disturbed by the sudden opening of the door.
"Mama?" Leoncio called from outside.
But before the boy stepped inside, Agent Smith returned and stopped him in his tracks. Teary-eyed and nostrils burnt, he glanced inside at 47 with a thumbs up. "You find whatever you're looking for... I'll keep these guys away."
The hitman searched the computer. Of the few documents on the screen, one stuck out. "Found something," he said to Diana. "A log of every transaction and business conducted at Raul's mansion. Names. I'm forwarding the document to you."
As Diana received the content, she released a breath, and didn't take another one until she finished reading the names.
Don Salvador Clemente, Idan Jorgensen, Simon Devereaux, Grandfather.
Clera Thornton.
Diana expanded her tab. Clera, Silas Lambros, and someone called Grandfather met in Raul's mansion. According to the description, they made a singular purchase together. The date was eerily close, just a day after her promotion to Head of Division.
"Damn you, Clera..." Even when she found her name in the file, Diana wanted to believe it was an extraordinary coincidence. That it was someone with an identical name. That the woman who was once her friend hadn't been roped into something big.
Further down, there was another individual. One Diana never expected to see; for all intents and purposes, she was dead.
"Madelyn Chase..." She and this 'Grandfather' figure met at an earlier date. They also made purchases together.
"You know the name," 47 remarked.
"I do... And I believe this web is bigger than I ever could have imagined." An old friend turning her back, and another rising from the grave. All walking the same lane. Lars Roth came to mind again. Thoughts she once labeled as throwaway now didn't seem so farfetched.
"We've gotten what we came for. Our time here is up; make your exfiltration."
All the prisoners were forced back into their cells after Raul's killing. Enrique had woken up and believed wholly that the Russians were behind the deaths. The mansion was under lockdown, with the guards on edge and whispering to each other questions for what the future held.
They were too concerned to notice Agent 47 and Smith (plus two others) leave through the front door.
In the parking lot, the hitman found a black, nondescript van that could only have belonged to the FSB agents. He picked the lock, then wasted no time in hot-wiring the vehicle.
Agent Smith hopped in the back, Leoncio and his groggy-eyed brother in tow.
Peering at them through the rearview mirror, 47 said, "You're taking the kids with you."
"Well, If I left them here, who knows what'll happen to them?"
"So what will happen to them?"
"Probably get placed in the system. After lots of questions and help from the usual resources."
"Mm." Agent 47 stepped on the gas.
MASSIVE HUMAN TRAFFICKING BUST IN VENEZUELA
100+ victims rescued!
Interpol raided a massive human trafficking hub located in the Táchira Depression of Venezuela. The location, a massive mansion constructed by a private contractor, acted as the trade center of global human trade. Survivors such as Isabelle Pearce, who was abducted twice by perpetrators suspected to be from the estate, were flown into nearby cities and driven in by semi-trucks.
One of Interpol's agents had located the building and infiltrated. After exchanging information with his associates, a raid was conducted, rescuing over a hundred victims and arresting dozens. Extensive details have not been disclosed to the public.
One shocking discovery has been made, however, as a Russian serial killer named Igor Volkov—more infamously known as the Russian Dollmaker—was found dead in the building. His death was recent, lying in a pool of his own blood and with a slit throat. His presence in the mansion is still being investigated.
Interpol is expecting more good news, as they claim to have found a list of the mansion's visitors from the past year...
LEGACY OF RUSSIA'S DOLLMAKER SERIAL KILLER
Over the course of human history, many serial killers have made their mark on the minds of the world. Unsolved cases like the Zodiac Killer have gripped residents of San Francisco for decades. The Artisan's gruesome murder scenes have scarred communities in America, and have only recently found closure in the identity of Declan O'Brien.
But true crime enthusiasts regard one killer as the most disturbing: the Russian Dollmaker, believed to have inspired the Artisan. Born in 1966, Igor Volkov turned his victims into living dolls—23 of which were found in his home. His victims were typically left totally paralyzed, with their limbs amputated and much of their skin replaced with plastic.
Even more horrifying is the fact that he died in 2012 a free man. Interviews with authorities in the area reveal their frustration. Despite arresting Igor multiple times, he was always freed thanks to politicians and other sources declaring his innocence. The Dollmaker once confessed while in custody that he knew things about the oligarchs that wrapped them around his finger.
Igor's reign of terror only came to an end upon his death of a heart attack earlier this year. However, as was recently discovered in the Táchira raid, he was alive all this time. Only, authorities reported him dead of a slit throat, surrounded by his victims. Reports from the raid state an abundance of humans turned into dolls, exactly like how he made them years ago...
ZEPHYR PARK FILES FOR BANKRUPTCY
Einar Jorgensen, son of the late Idan Jorgensen, declared bankruptcy after finally closing the last Zephyr Park in Copenhagen. Many expected the announcement, and though its loyal fans are deeply saddened, they too saw it coming.
Zephyr Park faced its decline as early as 2000, which saw the resurgence of rival theme parks modernizing and surprising guests with exciting new rides. Idan, believing firmly in tradition, refused to update his rides. In interviews, he spoke highly of his own nostalgia and of how he always enjoyed the rides with his father while growing up. Many believe this perception led to the park's decline.
When Zephyr Park management convinced Idan to modernize, many saw this as the turning point. The location in Denmark surprised everybody by constructing one of the world's tallest rollercoasters, the Thunderwing. However, this would prove to be the final nail in the coffin. On its opening day, Idan Jorgensen was to promote the ride by being the first to experience it.
However, a loose prop at the end of the ride's largest drop came loose at the worst time. When Idan's cart returned, he was decapitated. Among the crowd at the bottom was his son, Einar. Einar Jorgensen was thrust unprepared into the position of chairman. Horrified by his father's passing, he demanded the Thunderwing be dismantled despite its costs.
Einar spent even more to dedicate a memorial to his father on the spot of the Thunderwing. And although a loving gesture, it undoubtedly led to the park's fate...
Lars couldn't fathom people's obsession with mansions. Surely, a more discrete underground bunker could serve the same purpose more effectively? Or a mobile camp perhaps, enabling flexible movement around the world. Not a static building in the ass end of nowhere.
There was one easy answer to why; it was always the same. People are stupid.
"Where's Interpol?" Lars asked.
Xenia checked a tablet. "They just got here; haven't even set up a base of operations, yet."
"We have time." The detective nodded, stepping towards the door. "Let's get this over with." He knocked three times.
After a moment, a jittery Rein Werner nudged it ajar. Relief washed over him once he recognized the visitors, and he swung the doors wide open. "Fedyenka's friend, right? Thank god you're here. Please, come in."
The moment they were inside, a couple of stern-faced guards appeared to escort them. They made no effort to hide their weaponry. They each shot a glare at the guests. Lars sighed in amusement; he expected as much from paranoid troglodytes stuck in their own world.
They led them to the cells, passed the livestock crammed sloppily into each room. And at one, surrounded by guards flaunting their guns, were the Russians. Fedyenka was red in the face, both from fury and embarrassment. All six of his agents kept their hands behind their head.
The highest in command, Enrique approached them. "So you're..."
"The Detective," Lars said, cracking a grin. "I'm here to find out the truth. And see if I should let you shoot them or not."
That got a laugh out of Enrique. "It's pretty clear to me, but go ahead. We already know for a fact that Fedyenka's agents conspired with one of our prisoners to reach the Dollmaker. The old fart named Fyodor admitted to it. It's clear they worked to kill Raul and the Dollmaker."
Lars pulled out a small booklet to write in. "Why would Fedyenka want them dead?"
"To tie up loose ends. I recall he said one of his associates acted out of line and involved Raul and the Dollmaker in his scheme. Since Raul wouldn't let him have his way, Fedyenka took this opportunity to take them both out. The Dollmaker after luring his guards away, and Raul after riling up the prisoners and locking him in with them."
"Sounds reasonable."
"You can't seriously think I did this!" Fedyenka cried. A guard raised the butt of his rifle, threatening to hit him.
"I don't," he answered while writing. "I believe you're innocent until proven guilty. I'm not like the unintelligent public that constantly switch those two around." Lars flipped to a new page, creating sections for the upcoming investigation. Best to get started now. "Xenia, get the stories from everyone in this room. I'm going to the crime scenes." A nod from her, and he went to the head guard. "Lead the way, Enrique."
The first stop was the storage room, where the Dollmaker met his end. His face was frozen into a look of horror, and much of his blood had spilled out.
Blood trail starting from the table. He was taken by surprise. Someone pretended to be the paralyzed prisoner to get close; blood shot from Igor's throat, staining the floor on the other side, but the table itself is clean. The tool tray—one less scalpel than the one in his room. Likely the murder weapon. He was recording a video, but of course each camera's films were erased. One camera is missing.
Lars walked around the edge of the room, around the dense crowd of dolls, and through the darkness. He pulled away tarps and blankets, grimacing at some of the decomposed sights he saw. But under one tarp, he found the missing clue.
B36 blinked at him, terrified. Lars pointed down at the man. "He's paralyzed. How did he get here?"
Enrique ran up, scrutinizing the prisoner. "Sacha or Odysseus must have moved him here. I wouldn't know why."
Lars wrote down his thoughts.
The next location was Raul's grisly death. A guard had unceremoniously thrown a towel over the mess, turning the white material completely red. At least it spared their eyes.
Not much to gather here. Mobbing typically doesn't point the finger at any one person.
Lars spotted Raul's underwear, and something in it caught his eye. He dragged it away with a foot, picking a small strip of torn paper from within. It was soft and hairy, feeling as though it would tear at the slightest force.
A corner piece of some page. There's a bit of pencil writing at the tear... Whatever this belonged to, Raul valued it enough to keep for a period of time. A journal, maybe? I'll see if the agents have it on their person. If not...
The detective inspected the two doors. "How come the entrance here is damaged? And why Raul didn't escape through the door?"
"My men say they saw someone run in after the prisoners. They locked it behind them, using a key they stole from me," Enrique answered. "As for Raul, one of Fedyenka's agents blocked it from the other side while he was beaten to death."
Lars filled up his pages and left it there.
They returned to the cells where Xenia revealed her own list of notes; an outline of the basic story, pieced from each perspective. There were many conflicts between each person, as to be expected. For any ordinary person, it would have taken days to even sort through the mess.
But Lars had a proclamation. "I know what happened here."
Some guards laughed.
"Fedyenka, what were you here for?" Lars pulled a chair to the center, placing himself comfortably. "Answer truthfully."
The Chief raised a brow, but the looks from him and Xenia told him he was serious. "You... wanted me to bring the Dollmaker back to Russia, where our resources would help him disappear into safety."
Ignoring the guards' looks, he confirmed this with a nod. "I chose you because you and the Dollmaker are familiar with each other."
"That's right. I exchanged information with him; information on my political enemies and a means to stay free. In return, he made examples of people I asked him to. I'd contact him via each of my agents."
"Meaning Igor would have recognized them the moment he saw them. But from what I saw, he was taken by surprise during his last moments. His killer moved the prisoner he meant to work on—a bald male going by the tag B36—and took his place. Neither of these men and women fit that description."
"But one of my men, Paco, said Sacha and Odysseus held him at gunpoint," Enrique interjected. "They used him to get his guards out of the room!"
Lars nodded. "To bring him home. Not to kill him. I believe the Dollmaker's killer knew about the Russians' plan, and took advantage of that moment of isolation to strike."
"I would've seen someone in there..." Sacha grumbled under her breath. She met Lars' gaze, though, and he only smiled back.
"In Raul's case, two people worked together to kill him. One person entered the ring, locking the door and riling the people up with pictures of their doll-ified friends. The other blocked Raul's way out. At this point, you all captured the rest of the Russians, leaving only Sacha and Odysseus loose. Naturally, you'd think it was them." Lars looked at the two. "After you found Igor dead, you both agreed that the next best action was to try to escape the mansion."
"Correct," Odysseus said. "I believed it was the safest option. We were two against many, and Fedyenka explicitly ordered us not to fire on these people."
"But you thought Anya and Doroteya were still on the run."
He and another guard nodded. The latter spoke up. "I had their radios, and I heard him say a code word. We didn't know what it meant, so our search picked up in a panic."
"And according to my notes, when you found them on the third floor trying to escape through a window, Raul was announced dead only a minute and a half ago. This means, if they really killed Raul, they'd have traveled from the storage room on the right to the left end, instigate Raul's killing, then run up to the third floor through all the guards in one minute. Nobody is that good."
There was no argument.
"I also want to talk about how you apprehended Dimitri and Fyodor. It wasn't so much of an arrest, as they were both unconscious when you found them. Dimitri, who was disguised as one of you, was stripped naked." Lars pointed at a guard. "And you went around questioning the prisoners to discover that these agents conspired with one of them." He pointed at the Dollmaker's room guards. "You said the two agents arrived with B36, the prisoner." He pointed at Enrique. "But you claim you took a shirtless B36 to the storage room to be prepared for Igor."
The guards glanced quietly at each other. Enough of them had seen both scenes occur, that there was a collective realization of his point. The only person who didn't get it was a fuming Fedyenka. "None of this is making any sense!" he cried. "This doesn't explain how they died or who really killed them!"
Lars shook his head. "Come on, Fedyenka. Only two people could have done this, and Chitter has long since retired."
He grew redder. "That's impossible! He's in France right now! Besides, I would have seen him if—" He shuddered, and the red vanished within seconds. There was a server in the corner of his eye during his talk with Raul, but only now did he think about him. "Oh, my god..."
Sacha as well found herself at a loss. So many nights spend beating herself up over the debacle with Agent 47, only to fumble it again.
"So, here's what I believed happened. Agent 47 infiltrated with the new batch of prisoners. He somehow learned about B36's involvement with the Russians, and informed you, Enrique, about this, making sure to emphasize that he was hiding something under his shirt. You bit the bait, and 47 became B36 following the scuffle. He also learned about the missing prisoner, likely early on.
"He deceived Dimitri and Fyodor, who never suspected a thing, and knocked them both out when the opportunity presented itself. He donned a guard outfit and at some point learned about Odysseus' plan. Using this to his advantage, he took B36's place in the storage room, knowing that the Dollmaker's guards would be isolated. And in the shock of finding Igor's dead body, he snuck away without either of you batting an eye.
"To get Raul, Agent 47 stole a camera and photographed the prisoners' close friends and family-turned-dolls. He knocked you out, Enrique, while you had your men take Dimitri and Fyodor away, taking your master key. Eventually, he found the missing prisoner, and of course, they agreed to help him take on the traffickers. 47's helper then joined the prisoners in the ring, knowing Raul would be behind the glass wall. They locked the door and riled up the prisoners, turning them against Raul. Agent 47 blocked the door, letting him die."
"But, wait!" a guard cried. "How do we know if this 'Agent 47' was truly responsible? Fedyenka just said he was in France!"
"Yeah... Yeah! If there was an intruder roaming around us, I would have seen them! That's how I caught Doroteya. I've known my peers for years now!"
There it was. The only missing piece in the puzzle. Even if the greatest minds found out ghosts were real, it was an impossibility to convince others. Especially if a certain Russian spills unnecessary information. Especially if the witnesses refuse to believe their human instinct failed them.
"Then why are Raul's children—" Enrique raised his gun, followed by the rest of his men. Lars bore a look that could only be read as disappointment. "So we're doing this, then... I hate that I knew you plebes would pull this." He motioned for Xenia to get something ready. And in a flat cadence, he said, "Roberto is dead. Raul killed him, along with the rest of your friends."
The mention of his friend's name visibly shook Enrique. It took him longer to register the rest of the statement. "I... what are you on about?"
"Xenia."
On cue, she showed her phone to the gunmen. It was a video of her and a local guide adorned in scuba gear near the coast. Enrique recognized the road; their trucks took them to reach Colombia and bypass the border. The two dove into the ocean, and a bad feeling settled.
"I did some digging. I know the story of how Raul gained his power, and the promises he kept to the people who helped him get there. But people like him always keep skeletons in their closet. So I found his old truck driver, and he told me the full story, laughing like it was a joke."
The sea floor came into view, along with two distinct shapes. Enrique's heart gripped his stomach. They were semi-trucks, each with rusted trailers blanketed by plants and muck. He heard some of his guards drop their weapons, and they breathed heavier.
"Raul knew one of them would tell the authorities what he had done. So, he made the only choice he could to protect himself. He gave the truck drivers a hundred grand each if they performed a simple task: drive their vehicles into the ocean."
With help from the guide, Xenia forced open the back of one truck. Inside were dozens upon dozens of skeletons. They must've been there for years, undisturbed in their watery graves.
By now, Enrique was no longer watching. He dropped his weapon, searching through his phone. Surely Roberto had been receiving the money. Surely he wasn't...
Enrique froze. How could he have been so stupid? The address he kept sending the money to belonged to an offshore account. The only person receiving the money was Raul Mejías. "Roberto..." He collapsed, crying. The guards dispersed for similar reasons.
"Fedyenka. The rest of you. Let's go. This place will be raided within the next couple of hours."
They didn't need to be told twice.
With that problem behind them, the next pressing issue presented itself. As they funneled into the van, Lars started. "Our ICA people have been fed wrong information. This only means one thing: Diana is onto us."
"And if 47 was here, they must've found out via Madelyn's letter," Xenia added, stepping on the gas. "Raul kept files on his guests. We have to assume 47 got to them."
"What do we stand to lose?" Fedyenka asked.
"If we play this well, at most we will forfeit the Greeks. Xenia, I want you to scrub any trace of us from the Lambros' books. Also, tell Madelyn to expect to meet Diana sometime soon."
"Already making the calls."
"And Fedyenka, Diana must know you're involved. We don't yet know what resources she's using, but you will need to pull all the stops for your mission. We must not lose our foothold in America."