Charmy sat in a chair that had been placed in the center of an empty room, sipping takeaway coffee with the kind of attention most people reserve for fine wine. The space around her was industrial and cold, concrete floors and exposed beams, the kind of place that existed solely for purposes that required privacy and the absence of witnesses. Everything was black and dull, similar to the warehouse where she had met Nikolai, as if her business required a consistent aesthetic of erasure.
Godfrey stood at her right side, his posture unchanged from earlier, still the picture of British composure. Her men positioned themselves at intervals along the walls, their presence more functional now, alert to the possibility of violence.
Across from her sat a figure with something covering his head, a hood or bag, his breathing audible and labored in the silence.
"You know," Charmy said, her voice conversational, almost warm, "I've been thinking a lot about respect lately. How it's mutual, you know? If you expect it from someone, you have to be willing to give it in return." She took another sip of her coffee, letting the pause extend naturally. "And you see, I don't like how our last conversation ended. I think we still had business to finish and handle amongst the two of us don't you think?"
She nodded to Godfrey, who stepped forward and removed the covering from the man's head.
Nikolai Shevshenko looked like something that had been broken and then broken again. His face was swollen, one eye nearly closed, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. His breathing came in shallow gasps, each one seeming to cost him something.
"You fucking bitch," he said, the words thick and wet. He spat blood across the small distance between them.
The blood landed on Charmy's coat, a dark spot against the expensive fabric. She looked down at it for a moment, then reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and wiped it away with careful, precise movements.
"See, that's what I'm talking about, Mr. Shevshenko. That's very disrespectful."
She raised her hand without looking away from him. Godfrey glanced at one of the men, who disappeared into an adjoining room. While they waited, Charmy continued to sip her coffee.
"I really love coffee," she said, as if they were having a pleasant conversation. "The way it's sweet and warm but also bitter at the same time. It's like drinking something that contains its own contradiction." She smiled at him, a genuine smile, full of warmth, as if they were old friends catching up. "Do you drink coffee, Mr. Shevshenko?"
He said nothing, his one good eye fixed on her with an expression that contained more hate than fear, though both were present.
The sound of footsteps came from the other room, multiple sets, unsteady and stumbling. The man returned with Godfrey and two others, walking three figures between them. Each wore a hood, their hands bound, their bodies shaking with sobs that had been going on for some time. They were forced to kneel in a row in front of Nikolai, close enough that he could have reached out and touched them if his hands had been free.
Even through the hoods, their distress was evident. Two adult women and one child, all crying, all hurt.
Nikolai's entire body went rigid. Whatever pain he had been experiencing seemed to vanish, replaced by something worse.
"No," he said, his voice breaking. "No, no, no."
Charmy stood for the first time, setting her coffee down on the floor beside her chair with care. She walked toward the kneeling figures, her movements unhurried.
"Please," Nikolai said, his voice rising. "Please let them go. They are innocent. They did nothing. They don't know anything. Please."
Charmy tilted her head as if she had not heard him clearly. "Ah come on Mr. Shevshenko do you remember how our last conversation went? I'm not sure if you do but I'll remind you anyways. I asked you give me something that would pique my interest. Have you thought about it? If you have something for me, please do tell."
"Please, I'm begging you. I'll give you anything. Anything you want. Just let them go."
The three figures became more agitated at the sound of his voice. The smallest one, the child, began crying louder.
"Papa," she said through the hood, her voice high and terrified. "Papa, help me. Please help me."
"I'm here, sweetheart," Nikolai said, his voice cracking completely. "I'm here. It's going to be okay. Don't worry. Papa loves you. Everything is going to be okay."
Another voice, older, female. "Nikolai? What's happening? What's going on?"
"Quiet, my love. Please. Just stay calm. I love you. I love you all. Everything is going to be fine."
They were all crying now, a chorus of fear and confusion that filled the empty space.
"Please," Nikolai said to Charmy, tears running down his ruined face. "Please, I'm begging you. Forgive me. I was wrong. I was disrespectful. I'm sorry."
Charmy nodded, as if this was exactly what she had been hoping to hear. "That's good, Mr. Shevshenko. See? We can finish our business properly if we just communicate. I prefer to finish what I start." She paused, studying him. "So, what are you offering me?"
"Everything," he said immediately. "I'll give you everything I have, just please let my family go and I'll give you everything I call mine."
"But that's not what I want," Charmy said, her tone suggesting mild disappointment.
"What?" Confusion joined the terror on his face. "I don't understand. What do you want? Tell me. Please, just tell me what you want and I'll do it."
"I want you to give me something that will pique my interest," she said again, speaking slowly as if to a child who was having trouble understanding a simple concept.
"I don't know what that means," he said desperately. "I don't know what you want me to say. Please, just tell me. I'll do everything in my power to give it to you."
"WRONG!" Charmy's voice cut through the room, sudden and sharp.
She pulled a gun from inside her coat and shot the smallest figure.
The sound was enormous in the enclosed space, echoing off the concrete walls. Nikolai's scream seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs, a sound that contained everything that could be broken in a person. The other two hooded figures shrieked, confused and terrified by the gunshot they had heard but could not see.
Charmy reached down and removed the hoods from the other two.
The woman who had spoken was in her late forties, elegant features now destroyed by terror. The younger woman was in her twenties, beautiful in the way her father might once have been handsome. And between them, the small girl, no more than nine or ten, lay motionless, blood spreading across the concrete floor.
They all looked at what had been done, and the sound they made was beyond crying, beyond grief, somewhere in the territory of pure anguish.
Charmy stood over them, calm as ever, waiting.
Nikolai could not speak. His mouth opened and closed but no words emerged, only sounds, fragments of language that refused to cohere into meaning.
"Mr. Shevshenko," Charmy said gently, "I'm still waiting for a better offer."
"I'll kill you," he finally managed, the words barely intelligible. "I swear to God, I'll do everything in my power to kill you. I'll hunt you down. I'll destroy you. I'll—"
"Now that," Charmy interrupted, tilting her head with what might have been approval, "I'll take that deal. No one has ever told me that in a long time, so that might actually be something I'm interested in." She laughs.
She knelt beside him, bringing herself to his eye level.
"How old was she?" she asked, gesturing toward the small body.
No one answered. The wife and daughter were beyond speech, lost in their grief.
"I asked a question," Charmy said, her voice still pleasant.
"Nine," the wife whispered. "She was nine."
"Nine," Charmy repeated, nodding thoughtfully. "Okay. So, I'll give you nine months to kill me, Mr. Shevshenko. Nine months. That seems fair, doesn't it? And if you don't then I'll be the one who kills you."
She stood and walked over to the older daughter, who flinched away as Charmy knelt beside her.
"And how old are you, sweetheart?"
The young woman stared at her, unable to process what was being asked.
"How old are you?" Charmy repeated, her voice patient.
"Twenty-seven," the daughter whispered.
Charmy laughed, a genuine sound of delight. "Two plus seven is nine. That's weird, isn't it? What a crazy coincidence." She looked at the number as if it contained some hidden meaning and chuckles towards Nikolai. ''If I knew that I could've killed you instead, that's so unfortunate." She lightly taps the phone on her head.
"No," Nikolai said, the word coming out strangled. "No, please. Please don't do this."
"But you disrespected me twice, Mr. Shevshenko," Charmy said, standing. "So, you know what that means. right?"
"NO!" Nikolai screamed. "NO! PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS!"
Charmy raised the gun. The girl starts shaking in terror and begs for Charmy not to shoot.
"PLEASE!"
She fired.
The second body fell beside the first, and the sound the mother made was no longer human, something primal and ancient, the sound of the world ending.
Charmy holstered her weapon and picked up her coffee from where she had left it. She took a sip, found it still warm enough, and nodded to Godfrey.
"Nine months," she said to Nikolai, who was beyond hearing, beyond anything except the bodies of his daughters on the concrete floor. "Don't disappoint me, Mr. Shevshenko."
She walked toward the exit, her heels clicking against the floor, the sound growing fainter until it disappeared entirely, leaving only the sobbing of the survivors and the silence of the dead