Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome (22 page)

She was still working on figuring
things out.

The depression was always lingering at
the periphery, but she had successfully held it at bay by adopting
a new, less demanding lifestyle, and focusing on self-actualization
rather than impressing people.

One of the hot topics at the Corral had
been that Loca hadn’t shown up for work the last two days. Not a
rare occurrence in the messenger world, but not expected from
her—she’d never missed a day in her year with the company. Policy
was that after one unexplained absence you were history, no
exceptions. Red Cap accepted orders based on available staff, and
if you were down for a shift and flaked, the company was materially
harmed. You only got one chance.

Loca, real name Angelina, was
well-liked by the crew and she’d been in good spirits the night
before last. She was one of the dependable ones, didn’t have a drug
or alcohol problem and was relatively stable. An aspiring comic,
she was just into the bike gig to pay the bills until she hit
it—which nobody doubted she eventually would. Tess was concerned.
She’d called Loca’s house last night but had gotten the
machine.

Weird. They were friends, and she
always called back.

Tess hoped she was okay—the city could
be a rough place to live.

Seung had scored earlier and was
feeling good about the night’s prospects. He’d been at his favorite
club, partying with a few buddies, until he got tired and decided
to call it a night. He didn’t have a job; a small-time trust-fund
kid from his father’s side, he saw just enough payout every month
to keep his condo and his bad habits.

He dealt a little here and there to
supplement his income, and that hobby had turned into enslavement
over time. Smoking heroin had turned into skin plinking on
weekends, which had turned into shooting up twice a day…He now
considered himself fortunate his dealing covered his nut. Although
pretty soon, his cut of the watch sales would put a hundred grand
in his pocket.

He was buzzed from the alcohol and
anxious to slam, so he was clumsy as he fumbled for his door key,
failing to register the men on either side of him until everything
went black. When he came to, he was tied to his dining room chair,
naked and shivering, already starting to hurt.

He tried to focus, shook his head.
That’s when he saw the two figures sitting on the other side of the
room and realized he was in serious trouble.

One of them spoke, conversationally,
slowly.

“Our friend Seung likes the needle.
Look at the track marks. Tsk, tsk. He should know better. Drugs
kill.” The man spoke in Korean but had an accent Seung couldn't
place.

“Yes. And I bet he’ll start to go into
withdrawals soon. That’s no fun at all. He’s already shaking.” The
taller man had the same distinctive accent, which Seung now
recognized—Burmese. Like his cousin.

The smaller man looked at Seung,
sitting naked, vulnerable. “I was going to cut off your toes, one
by one, and then fingers, then your ears, then your nose, until you
tell us what you did with our property. I still may, but only after
you’ve gone cold turkey for a while. I hear that’s hell on
earth.”

The other man smiled and held up a
syringe. “Or you can tell us what we need to know, and you can go
painlessly. Your choice. You’ll still be dead, either way. Like
your cousin. And his two little girls. The second little girl was
pretty far gone by the time he told us about you. God rest their
souls.”

This was bad. Very bad. They’d gotten
his name from his cousin, so they knew. Everything.
Fuck.

Maybe he could lie, get the
overdose.

“Give me the needle and I’ll tell you.”
He struggled to concoct a story, head fuzzy from the blow and lack
of heroin. “I gave the briefcase to my supplier—he’s going to
convert it into diamonds. His name is Jung, runs the Poodle club.
I’m supposed to meet him in the next few days and get the
stones.”

The man appeared to consider it. “I
think you’re a lying dope fiend. Gave the goods to your dealer,
huh? Let’s try this in eight hours. In the meantime, here’s
something to think about.” He walked over and placed a strip of
tape across Seung’s mouth, and then pulled a test tube of clear
liquid from his pocket and sprinkled the contents onto the young
man’s lower torso. The skin started to smoke and
crackle.

“A little acid does a world of good for
the memory. See you in a few hours. Next time you lie to me you get
more acid, and believe me, the second time’s worse than the first.
And the needle option will be gone if there’s a lie number two.”
The man smiled at him, just a little fun between friends, as Seung
lost consciousness from the pain.

Six hours later he told them
everything.

They lied about the needle.

The taller man squirted the syringe’s contents
onto the floor while the smaller man cut off Seung’s fingers. The
blood loss and the withdrawals would kill him slowly, but the last
batch of acid poured onto his face would keep him conscious till
the very end.