Slate leaned back in the chair and gently massaged his temples. It was five in the morning and he could already feel the first headache growing at the top of his spine. The man on the other side of the table was called The Russian. He wasn't actually Russian, Slate knew. He was from Sweden or Finland or some such. When the team had brought him in, he'd looked very handsome. He'd smiled and laughed and joked. After three hours of interrogation by the hands of Slate and Dominic, he'd stopped looking handsome. He was still smiling, though. And laughing. And joking.
Slate glared at The Russian through the haze of smoke that filled the dark room. His face was swollen and bruised. The lower half of his face was covered in blood.
'Where's the fucking glove, Russian?' Slate asked for the umpteenth time. He wasn't expecting an answer.
'Up mein ass,' The Russian said. 'How about you reach up und grab it?'
Dominic appeared beside him and wrapped his big hand around The Russian's neck.
'We're getting real tired of your bullshit, Russian.' He growled. 'And I get grumpy when I'm tired. Where's the glove?'
The Russian laughed. 'I already told you,' he said. 'It's up my a-'
Dominic pulled his fist back. For a moment the single naked 60 watt bulb in the ceiling sparkled crazily on his golden wedding ring. Then the fist pistoned forward and slammed into the side of The Russian's face. He was thrown sideways off the chair, landing in a pool of his own blood and shattered teeth.
Dominic flexed his hand. Gurgling laughter came from The Russian's broken mouth. Slate took a deep pull on his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long time before letting it snake out of his nostrils.
It was going to be a long day.