A debt to pay, p.1
A Debt to Pay, page 1
Copyright © 2025 Scott Medbury
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
All characters and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
CONTENTS
PART ONE: SEND A MESSAGE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
PART TWO: A TRAGIC ACCIDENT
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 11
PART THREE: THE SAVAGE ART
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
PART FOUR: ONE LAST QUESTION
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Books by Scott Medbury
PART ONE: SEND A MESSAGE
Chapter 1
The reek of institutional despair was the first thing that always assaulted Daniil Volkov in the visiting room of Blackwood State Penitentiary. It was a complex olfactory assault: stale sweat, industrial-grade disinfectant failing to mask the underlying human musk, the faint, metallic tang of fear. It was the smell of caged ambition and forgotten men.
Volkov, however, had never considered himself forgotten, merely… temporarily inconvenienced.
He sat with an unnatural stillness, his prison grays, though clean, doing little to diminish the predatory aura that clung to him like a second skin. His hands, scarred and powerful, rested on the scratched laminate counter, fingers interlaced loosely. Behind the smear-streaked Plexiglas separating them, Mikhail Abramov, his lawyer, fidgeted.
Abramov’s expensive suit of charcoal wool looked out of place, almost an affront to the room's grim functionality. The man himself seemed to shrink within it, nervous as he always was when meeting in this forum.
“The situation with our… associate, Mr. Wells,” Abramov began, his voice a low, cautious murmur that barely carried through the perforated speaker holes in the Plexiglas. He cleared his throat, a dry, rasping sound. “It has developed certain, shall we say, complications.”
Volkov’s eyes, the pale, flat gray of a winter sky just before a blizzard, remained fixed on Abramov. He didn’t blink. He rarely did when assessing a threat or a weakness, and Abramov, for all his legal acumen, was radiating weakness like body heat.
“He has expressed a desire,” Abramov continued, picking at a loose thread on his silk tie, “a rather firm one, to… terminate our existing arrangement.” He paused, as if hoping Volkov might interject, might offer some sign of his concern. None came. “He intends to do so at the close of the current month.”
A fly buzzed erratically near the flickering fluorescent light overhead, its tiny drone an irritant in the heavy silence. Volkov’s expression didn't shift. No tell-tale muscle twitch in the jaw, no clenching of his hands. Only a fractional narrowing of his eyes, so subtle Abramov might have missed it if he weren’t so attuned to the mob boss’s micro-expressions, a skill honed from years of navigating these treacherous waters.
“His reasons?” Volkov’s voice, when it finally came, was soft, almost gentle, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between them. It was this quietude that was most unnerving. A shouting man was a man expending energy. A quiet man like Volkov was a man conserving it, calculating, his mind a steel trap clicking through possibilities.
“He cited… moral objections, Daniil. Growing anxieties regarding the, ah, precise nature of the transactions. He claims he can no longer reconcile it with his conscience.” The lawyer almost winced as he said the word ‘conscience,’ as if it were a foreign, distasteful object. “He was quite… resolute. Uncharacteristically so. Difficult to sway.”
“Anxieties,” Volkov repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He’d encountered this before. Men who benefited from the shade of his operations suddenly discovering the sun felt too good on their skin. Fools. Conscience was a luxury few in their world could afford, and Wells had been enjoying too many luxuries for too long. “And he fully comprehends the… implications of such a unilateral decision? The inherent instability it introduces into our mutually beneficial partnership?”
“I believe I impressed upon him the gravity, yes,” Abramov said, his gaze flicking nervously towards the guard, then back. “I reiterated the established protocols, the expectations. He seemed… undeterred. Almost fatalistic, if I’m honest.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping further. “He mentioned something about wanting a 'clean slate,' about being able to 'sleep at night.' Naivety, of course, but deeply felt, it seems.”
Volkov allowed a moment of silence to stretch, letting the weight of Abramov’s words settle. He thought of David Wells, the meticulously neat banker with his nervous smile and his perpetually damp palms. A man easily intimidated, easily controlled. Or so Volkov had believed. Perhaps the man’s fear of legal repercussions, of exposure, had finally outweighed his fear of Volkov’s organization. A miscalculation on Wells’ part. A fatal one.
“Thank you, Mikhail,” Volkov said, his tone still disarmingly mild. The faint, almost imperceptible smile that touched his lips didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile a wolf might give a particularly witless sheep. “Your diligence in this matter is, as always, noted and appreciated. You may convey to Mr. Wells that his concerns have been received and are being given… careful consideration.” He paused. “You may go now.”
Abramov looked doubtful.
“There’s nothing specific you wish me to communicate, Sir?”
“No, Mikhail,” Volkov said, dismissing him with a small, almost imperceptible wave of his hand. “I think Mr. Wells will see sense and change his mind very soon. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“I see, that’s wonderful,” Abramov said after a pause. A flicker of relief passed across his eyes as he quickly gathered his expensive leather briefcase, clicking shut the clasps with an air of finality. He gave a stiff, formal nod. “I will be in touch next week as usual.”
“I look forward to it,” Volkov said, his gaze already distant, as if Abramov had ceased to exist the moment he was dismissed.
The guard ambled over, unlocked the door with a jangle of keys, and escorted the lawyer out. The clang of the heavy steel door shutting put a full stop to the conversation, but not to the thoughts coalescing in Volkov’s mind.
The banker had been a valuable asset over the last ten years, facilitating the discreet movement and cleansing of funds that kept Volkov’s empire running and growing. A quiet but crucial pillar of their success.
Wells had become all but indispensable, his knowledge of the organization’s inner workings far too deep to simply walk away. No, he didn’t need a fresh start – he needed a sharp reminder of where his loyalties lay. And a lesson in what happened to those who forgot. A demonstration of consequence.
With unhurried, deliberate movements, Volkov rose. He walked with a quiet economy of motion, a man entirely comfortable in his own skin, even skin confined by prison regulations. Back in the stale air of his ten-by-eight cell, the world shrank to concrete and steel. But Volkov’s influence had never been constrained by physical barriers.
He waited until the evening count, until the guards’ footsteps receded down the corridor, their bored chatter fading. Then, he knelt, pretending to adjust his thin mattress. His fingers found the almost invisible seam of a loose floor tile beneath his bunk. He’d spent weeks patiently working it with a sharpened spoon handle. Beneath it, nestled in a small, carved-out hollow, wrapped in a plastic bag, was a cheap, disposable burner phone and a small, potent shiv – tools of his trade, even here. Insurance.
He retrieved the phone; its plastic casing felt flimsy in his powerful grip. He punched in a memorized number, one not traceable to any known associate, a sterile cutout in a network of such cutouts. The signal was weak, but it connected on the third ring.
“Da?” The voice on the other end was guttural, devoid of warmth, purely functional. It was Yuri Vasiliev, his most trusted enforcer on the outside, a man who understood nuance wrapped in brutality.
Volkov didn’t waste words. “Regarding the banker,” he began, in low and precise Russian. He's developed a crisis of conscience, it seems.” A beat of silence, heavy with unspoken meaning. “Send a message.”
There was no need for elaboration. ‘Send a message’, was their euphemism for a warning that was both brutal and terrifyingly personal.
“Ponyal,” Yuri grunted. Understood. No questions. No hesitation. That was why Yuri was trusted.
Volkov ended the call. He didn't snap this phone in half. This one still had uses. He carefully re-wrapped it and the shiv, replacing them in their hiding spot, tamping the tile back into place. He smoothed his blanket.
He lay back on his bunk, hands laced behind his head, staring up at the stained concrete ceiling. A faint smile touched his lips, genuine this time, but cold and predatory. David Wells wanted to sleep at night. Soon, sleep would be the last thing on his mind. Anxiety a nd guilt, Volkov mused, were curable conditions with the right motivators in place.
He heard the distant clang of a cell door, the shout of a guard, the murmur of prisoners – the mundane soundtrack of his current existence. But in his mind, Daniil Volkov was already outside, orchestrating the precise, chilling application of force that would bring his straying banker back into the fold.
Chapter 2
The first rays of Wednesday morning sunlight, pale and tentative, sliced through the gap in the custom linen curtains of Max Havok’s master bedroom. They illuminated dust motes dancing in the still air – a silent, daily ballet that usually went unnoticed. Today, however, each particle seemed to mock Max, a tiny spotlight on the deceit he carried within the otherwise pristine calm of his meticulously ordered life.
He lay still, feigning sleep, listening to the rhythmic breathing of his wife, Elizabeth, beside him. Her blonde hair, usually a vibrant gold, looked softer, almost ethereal in the dim light, spread across the pillow. One arm was flung out, her hand resting lightly on his side of the bed, a familiar, comforting presence that now felt like a brand. He resisted the urge to pull away.
The aroma of brewing coffee – a rich, dark Colombian blend Elizabeth favored – began to drift up from the kitchen, a herald of the day’s routine. Soon, the house would fill with the sounds of his twin daughters, Maddie and Adeline, their eight-year-old energy a chaotic but cherished symphony. Pancakes on Wednesdays, bacon on Fridays, the orchestrated rhythm of a happy, suburban family. A life he had built, brick by legitimate brick, over the ashes of a past he’d sworn to keep buried.
A past that felt dangerously close to the surface this morning.
Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Chicago. Three weeks since the conference, the late-night drinks at the hotel bar with Zoe Jordan, the persuasive charm of a client who was both intelligent and attractive. Three weeks since the blur of too much single malt whiskey led to a decision so monumentally stupid, so colossally selfish, that the shame of it still burned like acid in his gut.
He eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Elizabeth. The plush carpet muffled his footsteps as he moved towards the master bathroom. The man in the mirror was a stranger he was tired of looking at. Max Havok, CEO of Havok Advertising, a name synonymous with sharp campaigns and market savvy. Dark hair, meticulously cut. Eyes that, despite the sleeplessness etching faint lines at their corners, still held a spark of intensity. He was fit, a discipline ingrained from years of… different kinds of training. He looked successful. He looked put-together. He was a lie.
He showered quickly, the hot water doing little to wash away the grime he felt clinging to his soul. The bed was empty when he came out. Downstairs, the kitchen was already a hive of cheerful activity.
Elizabeth, her face bright, hair pulled back in a casual ponytail, was indeed flipping pancakes at the large, six-burner gas stove. Maddie, her nose already dusted with flour, was carefully arranging blueberries into a smiley face on a waiting plate. Adeline, ever the more boisterous of the two, was attempting to conduct the sizzling bacon with a spatula, narrowly avoiding a spatter of hot grease.
“Morning, Husband,” Elizabeth said, her smile radiant. It twisted something inside Max, a painful combination of love and profound guilt. “Pancakes are almost ready.”
“Morning, Daddy!” the twins chorused, rushing to hug his legs. He bent, enfolding them in his arms, burying his face in their fragrant hair. The scent of them – baby shampoo, pancake batter, and pure, uncomplicated innocence – was a lifeline and a condemnation. This was what he was jeopardizing. This perfect, fragile world.
“Daddy, can you help us build the volcano tonight?” Maddie asked, her bright blue eyes, identical to her mother’s, searching his face with an earnestness that made his chest ache. “Mrs. Davison said it needs to be super-duper authentic.”
Adeline bounced on the balls of her feet. “Yeah! And it has to erupt! With lava and smoke and everything! Can we make red lava, Daddy? Please?”
Max forced a wider smile than he felt, the muscles around his mouth stiff. “A super-duper, red-lava-erupting volcano it is, munchkins. We’ll make it the best volcano the third grade has ever seen.” He ruffled Adeline's already wild brown curls, then smoothed Maddie's. His touch felt heavy, undeserved.
Breakfast felt like going through the motions, each word and movement choreographed to hide the storm gathering inside him. He complimented Elizabeth on the pancakes, listened with feigned enthusiasm to the twins’ detailed plans for their volcanic masterpiece, and offered pronouncements on the optimal consistency of baking soda lava. All the while, a separate internal monologue ran on a relentless loop: Fraud. Liar. You don’t deserve this.
He noticed Elizabeth watching him, a slight furrow in her brow. “You okay, Max?” she asked, her voice soft, laced with that gentle concern that always made him feel worse. “You seem a little… distracted this morning. More than usual.”
He manufactured a reassuring expression, one he’d been perfecting for weeks. “Just a lot on my mind with the new Kestrel account,” he lied, naming one of their biggest clients. “It's a massive campaign, global reach. Crunch time. In fact,” he added, the next lie forming even as the first left his lips, “I’ll probably have to work late tonight. Just need to tie up some loose ends, make sure everything’s locked down before the presentation tomorrow.”
Her smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, but he saw it. Disappointment. “Again? Max, that’s the third time this week. The girls were really hoping you’d be here for volcano duty.”
“I know, I know, and I'm sorry, Liz,” he said, his voice infused with a sincerity he wished was entirely genuine. “Final push. It’ll ease up after this, I promise. I’ll make it up to them. We’ll have a whole volcano weekend if they want.”
She sighed softly, then nodded. “Okay. Just… don’t burn yourself out.” She reached across the table, her fingers briefly touching his. Her touch was warm, familiar, and it sent a jolt of self-loathing through him.
He looked at his family, truly looked at them. Elizabeth, the woman who had seen past the rough edges of his youth, who had believed in the man he was trying to become. Her unwavering support had been the bedrock upon which he’d built his new life. And his daughters – they were everything. Their laughter was the purest sound he knew, their unquestioning love a gift he felt increasingly unworthy of. His love for them was a fierce, primal thing, a protective instinct that ran deeper than bone. And yet, he was the one who had now introduced the threat of instability into their sheltered world.
His measured tone, the way he rarely raised his voice even in anger, had once been the product of hard-won discipline – years spent mastering impulses in a world where losing control could be fatal. But that control had frayed. The habits had dulled from disuse, the sharp instincts grown sluggish. It was the only explanation for what he had let happen with Zoe Jordan.
The ritual of departure was next. Backpacks zipped, lunchboxes packed with cut sandwiches and organic apple slices. Shoelaces double-knotted. Max knelt by the front door, performing his part of the routine with a practiced air. He hugged Maddie first, her small arms wrapping tightly around his neck.
“Be good in school, princess,” he whispered into her hair, inhaling the scent of her, trying to brand it into his memory.
“I will, Daddy,” she murmured against his shoulder.
Then Adeline, who launched herself at him with characteristic exuberance, nearly knocking him off balance. “Don't forget the red lava!” she instructed, her voice muffled against his chest.
“Wouldn't dream of it, firecracker,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion he struggled to conceal. It wasn’t just love; it was a desperate, clawing fear of loss, a premonition that felt like a cold hand gripping his heart.
Elizabeth waited by the door, car keys in hand. She leaned in for a kiss, quick and warm, her lips tasting faintly of coffee and maple syrup. “Don't work too late,” she said, her eyes holding his for a moment longer than usual, a silent plea within them. “We miss you when you’re not here.”
