Plotted starter for @rahge
Alighting from his car, Bortsov lights a cigarette as he waits for his men to slowly assemble behind him; Brigadiers and soldiers, all from various factions of the Russian mafia, all selected for their skills and most importantly their loyalty. From this distance, the warehouse looks like any other in Moscow’s industrial district, with one distinct difference: it belongs to Bratva and it is being used for a purpose that is utterly unsanctioned. The Pakhan doesn’t usually involve himself personally in this kind of business, but on this occasion, it is necessary, not only so he can witness the cruel reality of the situation for himself, but moreover, so he can personally send a message. Defying his orders will not be tolerated; human trafficking is forbidden and as long as he remains at the head of the organisation, that means any member of Bratva caught embroiled in such dirty, prohibited business faces immediate excommunication and ultimately death.
“Igor?” Nicholai, his right-hand man, moves to stand by his side, blinking in the thick drizzle, as he narrows his eyes, peering through the darkness, to count the number of men patrolling the site, as he readies his automatic rifle.
“Kill anyone who attempts to fight or run. Round up those that willingly surrender, promise them a hearing, then line them up and execute them…release anyone they were holding and if you find Konstantin, keep him alive, I will deal with him personally once all this is over.”
For a moment Nicholai squirms uneasily, he isn’t entirely comfortable killing their own people, but he knows sometimes it is the only way to assert and maintain control; there is a price to be paid for dissidence and today he will collect, as ordered.
“Move with me.” The Pakhan commands, pulling his gun out from inside his pocket before leading the charge into the warehouse.
The battle is a bloody one, gun shots and desperate shouts and cries ringing out constantly as Igor and his men meticulously comb the building, clearing it floor by floor, leaving bodies piled up in their wake. Predictably the Pakhan loses some soldiers along the way, but not many and each will be rewarded for their loyalty with a proper burial and a pay deal for their families, who will not face significant hardship for their loss. Bortsov rewards loyalty just as generously as he deals vengeance.
Once the last of the men working here have faced a firing squad at the back of the building and Konstantin, the man responsible for all this, has been captured and taken from the scene, it is only then that the Pakhan begins to inspect the containers. It is a shocking sight to behold and exactly the situation he had hoped to avoid happening when he ordered that Bratva withdraw entirely from this disgusting, degrading business, no matter how lucrative it may be. The people here have been treated worse than animals, packed into overcrowded crates, left to survive in relative darkness, without sunlight, proper sanitation, ventilation or food, most likely to be used as slave labour at some later point, should they survive long enough.
“Igor!” Hearing Nicholai shout from one of the upper levels, the Pakhan moves to join him, along with a company of his men, for additional security. Ascending the stairs two at a time, he joins Nicholai at the top of them, his icy gaze following the man’s finger towards two large steel doors that have just been unbolted. Slowly stepping forward, Igor surveys the tragic scene with a heavy heart; the room is filled with young women of differing nationalities, filthy, dressed in relative rags, huddled together in fear. The fact most are in their twenties means it was likely they were meant for the prostitution trade and are awaiting transportation to different destinations.
Hearing desperate cries erupt from the corner, the Pakhan turns urgently to regard a terrified looking Bratva soldier who is holding one of the captive woman hostage, with a gun pressed firmly to her head, as if the act might somehow save him.
“Stay back!” He barks in Russian, the warning enough to prompt the Pakhan to immediately raise his arms and shoot the man directly in the head, causing a spray of warm blood to instantly splatter all over the poor girl, causing the others around her to descend into a desperately frightened frenzy.
“Get them out of here.” The Pakhan orders, spitting onto the floor to clear the obscene taste in his mouth, as disgust begins to curdle his stomach, watching as the terrified woman are hastily escorted out in groups, some sobbing, some screaming, some barely comprehending either Russian or English and so unable to grasp that they are being granted their freedom, however precarious. Lighting a cigarette, he stands and watches, attempting to separate himself mentally from the whole sordid situation for the moment, trying to ignore the impending sense of blame he feels, for not realising sooner that this particularly cruel form of human misery was unknowingly occurring within his own organisation.
The women are terrified and soon begin to run, desperately heading for the door, to escape this hell while they still can, all it seems, except one; the one who stands alone, red raw eyes glittering in the dark as she mutely regards Igor without a single tear or sob, looking as delicate and beautiful as a China doll, one that has likely been surrounded by men all too eager to be responsible for her shattering.
In silence, the Pakhan takes a moment longer to study her, trying to make sense of her expression that strangely seems to entirely elude interpretation; is she hurt, or somehow dissociated from herself, or is it that she simply does not wish to grant him the sight of her sorrow?
“Are you okay?” He finally asks in English, his accent thickly Russian and unexpectedly gentle, words spoken in the hope that she might understand him and respond.
