Steven Savile - Silver

He checked his watch again.

Two a.m.

Soon, he promised himself. The ambient light from the television went out.

Two hours passed slowly. Konstantin didn’t mind. Some moments were worth savoring. This was one of them. The moon was full and bright.

He stood up and walked the length of the balcony, looking for a makeshift tool that would help him break the lock open if he needed it. Three out of ten burglaries in the city required no force at all because the occupants were too dumb to lock their own doors and windows, but Konstantin was working under the impression that Devere was security conscious. Rich men usually were-to the point of paranoia. Whatever he was, Devere wasn’t a keen gardener. There was no ready supply of tools for turning the soil and planting bulbs in the window boxes.

He walked back slowly to the balcony doors. The basic locks that come with balcony doors are usually brittle and quite soft, meaning they will break under pressure. It didn’t matter how tough the glass was if the lock was going to shatter under a decent amount of leverage. A broom handle was enough to break most of them, but thankfully, most of the people sleeping soundly out there under the soft lights in fairy tale city didn’t know that. If they did, they wouldn’t have been sleeping at all, never mind soundly.

The door was locked, but he couldn’t see any additional locks or security-meaning Devere thought living four flights up made him safe. He wouldn’t live to regret that mistake.

Konstantin found what he was looking for: a metal rod from the clothes hanger Devere used to dry his designer shirts.

He slipped it through the lock handle and applied a little pressure, testing it out. He felt the resistance, then pressed again, a little harder this time, working the lock. It split on the third try, with a crack like a gunshot.

He tossed the metal rod aside and slid the door open on its runner.

He went inside.

The apartment had that eerie four o’clock silence. He moved quickly through the place, walking from room to room. The decor was spartan, Scandinavian minimalist. It had absolutely no stamp of personality on it, and that wasn’t just because of the dark. It wasn’t actually that dark inside; the full moon painted everything silver.

Each white wall had a single piece of art on it. Konstantin couldn’t tell if they were cheap prints or expensive originals. He wasn’t much of an art lover. He recognized some pieces, especially by the old masters, but the new stuff, not so much. He liked his artists like he liked his enemies, dead.

Devere didn’t look like a paranoid man. There were motion detectors in each room at strategic points, and the little red light blinked every time Konstantin moved, but no alarm sounded. Like most people, he obviously didn’t set the alarm when he was in the apartment.

He found Devere’s room.

He listened to the sleeping man’s gentle snores through the door for a moment, checking his watch again. It was four o’clock sharp. It was time to raise some hell. Konstantin kicked the door open, yelling bloody murder as he charged into the room.

Miles Devere thrashed about in the starched white sheets of the bed. Brutally woken, he came up into the sitting position with his right hand across his heart.

Konstantin didn’t give him a second to work out what was happening.

He flew at Devere, straight across the room and into his face like some sort of hellion out of his worst nightmare-and that was exactly what Devere would be thinking for those few seconds as the mad shrieking silhouette charged at him. He hit Devere once, a back-handed left across the side of his face, then grabbed his hair and dragged out of the bed.

By then Devere had worked out what was happening.

It didn’t help him.

Konstantin bundled Devere to the floor and laid into him with his booted feet, kicking him again and again until the naked man was crumpled up in a fetal ball trying to protect himself. He didn’t say a word, he just stepped back, giving himself room to drive another kick into Devere’s back.

He bent down and grabbed a handful of Devere’s hair and dragged him through to the living room. Devere kicked, trying to get his feet under him, and grabbed and slapped at Konstantin’s hand in between screams and howls of pain.

Konstantin threw him across the room and just stood there over him, watching Devere scramble around naked.

“I never break a promise,” he said. “It is a Russian thing, all about honor.”

“Please,” Devere said, looking up and at the same time trying to draw his entire body in on itself to present the smallest target he could to the Russian.

“Please? Please what?” Konstantin mocked. “Please don’t kill me?” Konstantin shook his head. “Not interested in that. Not interested in pleasing you at all. I was in Berlin. I saw what your money did. I saw them dragging the bodies out of the subway, all of those innocent people. Do you think they begged as they suffocated from the gas?”

“I didn’t…” Devere pleaded.

“Yes you did. Have the balls to admit it. Maybe if you repent desperately enough in the next few minutes, God might forgive you, but I doubt it. I think there’s a special place in hell reserved for scum like you.”

“What do you want me to say?” Miles Devere looked pitiful, shivering, naked, clutching his legs under his chin, trying to hide his penis and his vulnerability, and utterly lacking any kind of spine or dignity. This was the real Devere stripped of all the power money could buy. This was the man stripped down to skin and bone and found wanting.

“I want you to do more than just ‘say,’ Miles. I want you to do what you do best… I want you to buy me. I wat you to buy your life from me.”

Devere’s eyes lit up, his face suddenly feral in the moonlight. “Name your price. Anything.”

“Five thousand,” Konstantin said. “No, make that ten. Ten thousand.”

Devere almost laughed. “Ten thousand? Is that it? Not a million. Not a house in the Bahamas and a yacht? Ten thousand? Have you got no imagination?” Devere was in his element suddenly, bargaining, haggling, trying to fix a price, looking to capitalize on tragedy. “I can give you more. I can give you more than you can imagine. I can give you so much money it’ll make your Russian dick hard just thinking about the numbers. Try again, name your price.”

“Ten thousand,” Konstantin said and sniffed. He started to undo the buttons of his shirt and peel it off.

Devere shook his head. “You don’t get it. I can give you everything, all you want and more. Your wildest dreams. It’s only money. I can always get more money.”

Konstantin draped his shirt over the back of the leather armchair. “You haven’t asked ten thousand what.”

Devere shook his head, suddenly unsure as the ground shifted away beneath him. “Ten thousand what?” he asked, his voice quieter now, like he didn’t want to hear the answer.

Konstantin kicked off his shoes one at a time.

“People. Ten thousand dead people. I want you to give them their lives back. You’re to blame for their deaths-give them back their lives. You owe them. If you can’t do that, then you’ve got nothing I am interested in.”

Devere shook his head. “It’s impossible… You can’t bring people back from the dead. You can’t.”

“Then I think our business here is done, don’t you?” Konstantin asked.

“No. Please… please.”

Konstantin didn’t listen.

He undid his belt and stripped out of his trousers and boxers.

And naked he went to war.

He took his time, watching the clock slowly move around to five in the morning while he made Devere hurt. He beat him until he was bloody. He beat him until the flesh of his face caved in. He beat him until he couldn’t breathe because his body was ruined. He beat him until he gave up begging and just wanted it over. He beat him until he was covered in his blood. Devere was right. No amount of beating would bring them back. No amount of pain could put right all of the hurt he had caused with his relentless pursuit of money. Konstantin didn’t care. This was about making good on a promise.