One of the reasons Konstantin excelled was because he carried out his ‘work’ without emotion. He felt no sorrow, anger, disgust, squeamishness, or even apprehensiveness in what he did to others. As long as he made sure to properly atone for his acts, he slept at night perfectly well. No visions, no horrors or gore. But that didn’t mean he was a man without emotion. He was no psycho, his brain wired no differently from anyone else’s. Some things gave him pleasure, some things didn’t. Some things annoyed him, some things didn’t.
Valeri Sychev annoyed him. Really annoyed him. The man had a smugness, a perceived superiority that made Konstantin’s skin crawl. The same feeling he had inside him now, as he drove from Blodstein to Trondheim, was the very feeling that had set him on this path in life. The first person he’d ever killed had been because he allowed his own anger, his hatred – his jealousy? – to take over.
After that day he swore, to himself, to Jesper, too, that he’d never do the same again. He’d never again kill with emotion. Nobody needed a man like that. He’d stuck with that promise for more than fifteen years. Each subsequent life he’d taken… Yes, it had taken a little bit of him with it, too, and every glance of his reflection in a mirror reminded him of all the bad things he’d done in his life.
But when it came to how to deal with a man like Sychev? Perhaps some rules were meant to be broken.
Konstantin pulled his hand from the steering wheel and dug his nails into the fresh wounds on his side. He grimaced and then shouted out in pain. He pushed deeper, trying to find the most agonizing spot, but after a while, the pain only faded. Disappointed, he sighed and sank down in his seat a little – defeated. He pulled his finger away and wiped the blood onto his trouser leg.
He didn’t want to make this trip. Not at Sychev’s behest. He’d wanted to stay in Blodstein, in that house, and finish what he’d started. That man, Stefan Tronstad, was dead. He’d told little. But only because he’d known little. The woman, Isabell… He’d only started to work on her. She would have talked too. She would have told her whole life story without once stopping for breath. Konstantin had already carried out all the hard work on the man, to ensure that was the case.
And Sychev had pulled him away from there.
Konstantin was outraged to have his work interrupted in that way. He already had the mark for her too. A mark for each of them, crisscrossed one over the other on his side. He had the mark but she was still alive. That wasn’t how this was supposed to work.
He’d been robbed.
But there would be plenty more marks by the end of the day. Sychev’s orders assured that outcome. His orders! That man… How dare he.
The lights of the city drew him in, making him realize he’d spent too long already in that second-rate little town. As much as he felt aggrieved to have his work in Blodstein interrupted, he sorely missed real civilization, with real, civilized people. It was only a shame he wouldn’t get to stay here tonight. Before long, he’d be on the road again, back to that shithole of a place. For the last time, he was certain of that.
And at least on the return journey, he’d have some company. Kind of, he thought with a wry smile.
He parked by the side of the road, the house off to his left. Although it was dark out, the hour was early, and Konstantin remained in the driver’s seat as first a dog walker idled by, and then a group of four teenagers. One of them glanced at him through the windscreen but it was nothing more than a fleeting look, and the foursome carried on their way without any further interaction.
Konstantin sucked in a deep breath then stepped out into the cold. He looked around him. Not exactly deserted here, but quiet enough. He’d try to be quiet too. This wasn’t a big, old, disused warehouse in the middle of nowhere, where screams and begging would go unheard except to his ears, and those of the tormented. Here he needed to act smartly, and quickly.
That was fine. No information needed here. Only the boy.
Konstantin moved toward the house. Up the stairs. To the front door. Sounds of a TV program filtered from beyond. Or perhaps a games console. A light-hearted conversation too. Laughter.
He knocked on the door. The sounds continued, but moments later the door edged open.
A girl. Teenager, to be more precise. Eighteen, nineteen perhaps. Blonde hair, blue eyes. She was pretty. Probably got a lot of attention from the boys her age. Men too. Men were beasts. Her dress sense though… Scruffy, unkempt. He had no idea what style the youngsters called that.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, looking at him as though he was an idiot.
‘I’m here for Henrik,’ Konstantin responded.
Her face changed now. From confident and cocky, to worried. Which meant she knew who Henrik was.
Okay, so at least he knew he had the right place.
He whipped the knife from inside his jacket and thrust it up into her neck. The five-inch blade glided in with ease, up into her mouth and beyond. She gargled, her body quivered. He lifted her off her feet by the knife handle and pushed his way inside.