Lina and liquor. They keep me alive during the Berlin winter. The long nights, gray days, and freezing rain make me want to drown myself in the Spree River. The urge goes away after four Moscow Mules and a rough fuck in my Skoda in an empty street in the Wedding district.

"You go now?"

Lina's accent is still thick after all these years. She's putting the stained yellow bra over her flat chest while examining her makeup in the rearview mirror.

"Yes. Night shift."

I crank down the window. The air is cold on my cheeks. The mist is still thick. Wisps of it curl into the car. I pick up the cigarette packet on the dashboard and flip it open. Empty. I curse.

Lina reapplies lipstick to her bottom lip. Some of it smeared my cock while she was blowing me. She knows I like that.

"You drive me back now?"

I nod but don't move. She readjusts her short leather skirt over her pale thighs and curls some of her dark brown hair behind her ear. She isn't the most beautiful whore at Der Kosak. Skinny. No tits. Small ass. Big nose. Brown eyes that are too far apart. She hasn't changed much since I met her two years ago. Back then, she was a timid seventeen-year-old girl who'd just arrived from some village in the mountains of Albania. She wouldn't look me in the eyes.

"Tell me about your home."

She stops what she's doing and looks into the distance.

"Father. Smell of fresh baklava. Hot air from mountains."

She smiles. I want to hear more. But then the smile vanishes, and she glances at me.

"Why you care?"

Good question. I don't. I can't. Dimitri Medvedev pays me to not give a fuck about Lina or the thousands of other Eastern European whores he employs in Berlin.

I pull out my wallet and hand her a hundred-euro note.

She shakes her head.

"Too much."

"Take it."

"I'm only seventy."

"Take it."

She blinks a few times at the note. Then she stuffs it into her fake Gucci handbag. She doesn't thank me.

I turn the key, and the car growls to life. The mist in front of us glows in the headlights. I stare at it for a few seconds. It's like we're not in Berlin. We're floating in the middle of a dark cloud somewhere far away. Just us.

"Why you work for Dimitri?"

I turn on the radio.

"Pick any station you like."

"Roland, tell me."

I crank up the window and put the gearstick into first. We don't say anything for the rest of the drive to Der Kosak.

***

Half an hour later, we exit the car under the red glow of the neon sign hanging above the club's front door. Lina doesn't say goodbye. I'm used to it.

I nod to the two bouncers and enter. The stench of smoke, dust, and vodka greets me. Dimitri Medvedev is sitting in the corner, smoking a cigar. It's dark. The only light comes from the fluorescent pink lamps lining the edge of the ceiling. As I get closer, I make out the faces of the two blondes sitting to his right. A brunette sits to his left. There's another brunette kneeling under the table. Her head is bobbing above his lap.

I met Dimitri eight years ago in a bar in the Neukölln district. I'd joined the Berlin police force a week earlier. I knew who he was. Every new recruit knew who he was. This guy had every police officer in the city on his payroll.

I remember thinking he didn't look like much of a gangster. He was short, scrawny, nearly bald, and wore rimless eighties glasses. But there was something cruel in the way he looked at people. I'd never met anyone whose eyes were so full of latent hate.

That night, he sat down next to me and got straight to the point: he didn't want the police interfering with his businesses. Drugs, money laundering, prostitution. He controlled most of it in German-speaking Europe.

I wasn't a hero. I never have been. What's the use? The world's fucked up. It always has been. It always will be. I might as well make some money and enjoy myself.

He handed me an envelope stuffed with five-hundred-euro notes. I stuffed it in my coat, downed my beer, and got up to leave. Then he grabbed my arm. He wanted to know if I'd been in the military. I'm a stocky guy. Maybe that gives it away. He smiled when I told him I'd served five years in the army. Kosovo and Afghanistan. I didn't say anything more about it. I don't care for the army or my time in it.

He said he'd fought for Russia in both Chenyan wars in the nineties. After leaving the army, he got involved with some veterans who were bringing young Eastern European women to cities across Germany, Switzerland, and Austria. It was all voluntary, he said. His people scouted out "talent" in some small town in Ukraine or Bulgaria and offered them a ride west along with some forged documents in exchange for a job. The girls only found out what the actual job was after they arrived. If they wanted to go back home, they could. None of them did. He grinned when he said that.

I didn't see a problem. These girls were poor. They had no future. They could at least make some decent money sucking dick and taking it up the ass here in Germany. I'm sure their families appreciated the extra cash flow. It was weird that he wanted to justify his business to me. Maybe he had doubts? Like I said: I don't give a fuck. I was happy to have a thicker wallet and VIP access to his best whores.

Since then, I've become his most reliable goon in the Berlin police force. Not only do I protect him from the law, I also do odd jobs for him. Most of them involve intimidating politicians or getting rid of certain "liabilities" within his businesses. I'm good at it. I never fuck up.

"You wanted to see me, Dimitri?"

He takes a long draw on the cigar. The burning end glows in those dark eyes. He opens his mouth wide. The smoke floats there between his lips. Then he blows the fumes into the face of the blonde sitting nearest to him.

"You fucked up, Roland."

I shrug.

"How was I supposed to know the feds had a tip-off?"

"I've lost twenty whores on the Polish border because you didn't know what you should have known."

"Not my fuck up. I don't get informed about what the federal police are up to."

I hesitate. I don't like shoveling shit on others. It's not exactly honorable. But when my neck is on the line and someone else is to blame, fuck it.

"Florian Herbst and Julian Scholz get the memos from the feds. Ask them."

Dimitri stares at me. I don't look away. After half a minute, he says,

"I have a problem with my wife."

So this was it. I knew there was more to this meeting than the Polish border raid.

"Natasha's fucking Thea, that sixteen-year-old slut from Serbia," he says.

Dimitri closes his eyes and smiles. His fingers run through the bobbing girl's hair.

"Make them disappear."

I frown. I can follow his logic some of the way. His pride is hurt. He can't afford to lose face. But one thing doesn't make sense.

"You need a cop to take her out?"

Dimitri's face tenses. He's still. After a few seconds, he relaxes and sighs. He takes his hands off the girl between his knees and opens his eyes.

"I need you to take her out."

"Why me?"

"You aren't under federal investigation. Most of your colleagues are."

"Why not have one of your oafs take her out?"

The girl clambers up from beneath the table. She has mascara lines from her eyes to her jaw. Spit glistens on her chin. She avoids making eye contact. I admire her peachy ass as she brushes past me toward the bathroom door.

"She knows what my guys look like. They never see her without me. She'll suspect something."

I try to think of some other way to get out of this. I don't mind killing people. I've shot a lot of thugs dead. Nobody in my department cares about any 'irregularities' when it's a criminal. But executing this guy's wife? Killing her would be a big deal.

"I don't know how I'm going to pull that off, Dimitri. My bosses are going to ask questions. She's got a clean record."

His nostrils flare.

"Then find a fucking way."

I shake my head.

"No can do. You're going to have to find someone else."

He slams his fist into the table. The whores jolt.

"Just fucking do it!"

We stare at each other for what seems an age. Then I turn and walk towards the door.

"I know you like that Albanian girl. Lina, right?"

I stop and peer over my shoulder. He's smirking.

"She hates it in the ass. I had to pay a lot of money for that perk."

The smirk widens to a toothy grin.

"What the fuck of it?"

"Oh, you know how it is, Roland. Berlin's a dangerous city. It would be a real shame if anything were to happen to her."

He sips his whiskey and smacks his lips as he puts the glass back down. My fists are trembling. My right eyelid is twitching.

"Tell me where to find your wife."

He leans back and wraps both arms around the whores to either side of him.

"Probably with Thea. I haven't seen her in two days."

***

I go down the stairs to the floor where the whores hang out. Lina isn't there. I see Yulia, a redhead from Ukraine I fuck when Lina isn't available. She's smoking on a red leather sofa. Her glossy black boots look shinier than usual. She's wearing a plain white miniskirt and nothing up top. I go to her.

"Roland, where you been? I miss you."

She probably does this with every client. Never believe the sweet nothings of a whore.

"Have you seen Thea recently?"

"Serbian girl who came in summer?"

I nod.

"Last week."

"Where does she live?"

"Highrise in Neukölln. Goethestraße."

"I thought Dimitri doesn't house any whores there anymore?"

Yulia shrugs.

"Some girls still there."

I turn to leave.

"Wait."

She leans towards me, pushing her shoulders forward. Her fat tits press together. Her grey eyes reflect the bright yellow ceiling light.

"Come, Roland. Why you not fuck me before you go? I jealous of Lina."

She licks the end of her finger and rubs the spittle around her pale nipple. I stir, but ignore it. There's no time for this. I walk away.

When I get into my car, the passenger door opens, and she steps in. She didn't bother to close the long leather coat she grabbed on the way out of the club.

"I also need to go to Goethestraße."

She gives me that practiced whore smile. Maybe she's telling the truth. It's always hard to tell with sluts like her. I hit the gas, and we drive into the mist.

After a few minutes, Yulia places her hand on my crotch and rubs my inner thigh. I keep my eyes on the road.

"You so closed, Roland. Why?"

The "y" she adds before every vowel always pisses me off.

"You know every girl at Kosak wants to suck your cock. Why you like Lina so much?"

She pulls on the zip and reaches into my pants. I hold my breath. I jerk when her cold fingers cup my balls.

"You hard. I not surprised."

She frees my cock and starts beating me off. I pull on the steering wheel to turn onto Karl-Marx-Straße. A throng of hooded Turks at the pedestrian crossing sees what's going on. They cheer.

"Call me slut, Roland. I love it when you call me slut. Ruin my innocence."

"You're not innocent."

She laughs.

"True. I not."

"Why the fuck are you laughing?"

I grab her wrist and slowly tighten my grip. I'm still not looking at her.

"I feel nothing when I fuck whores like you. I don't care if you enjoy it or not."

Yulia leans into my face and kisses my lips. Salt, smoke, a hint of cheap red wine. They all taste the same. I don't kiss her back.

"Treat me bad, Roland."

She lowers her face and engulfs my cock. I take a hand off the steering wheel and finger her hair. I might as well enjoy this ride. Killing someone is always a downer.

"This is the only thing you're good for. Worthless cunt."

She gives a muffled moan. I apply pressure to her head.

"Don't fucking groan again until I say you can groan."

I start beating my hips into her face. The tip of my cock stabs the blubbery flesh at the top of her throat. She doesn't gag. After four years in Berlin. even the church girl from Kiev loses that reflex.

"You have no self-respect."

I stop at a red light and put both hands in her hair. I feel my cock enter her neck. I hold her there. She doesn't move. Ten seconds pass. Her scalp becomes tense. Twenty seconds. Her hand jerks to the side. She doesn't tap my thigh.

I let go.

She inches her face off the mess of saliva, tears, and makeup around the base of my cock. The tightness around my shaft slackens as it exits her throat. She sucks in air and starts lapping at the tip.

"Good slut."

I arch my back and coat the roof of her mouth with cum.

"Drink it all up like a good slut."

On the fifth spurt, she gags. I look down. A fresh mixture of saliva and cum splatters the sticky mess congealing along my thighs.

I grab her hair and yank her head off. She smiles at me. Delirious. I spit in her eye and rub it in with my thumb.

"Dumb fucking slut," I sneer. "Swallow it. Don't heave it out."

She cries out in pleasure. Then she collects the mess in her hand and puts it in her mouth. As she swallows it, her hand plunges between her legs, and she groans.

"So fucking tasty."

I shove her against the passenger door. The hand between her legs jerks furiously. She whimpers.

I reach over and grope her tits. There's nothing romantic about it. It's warm meat. I smack and slap and press and pull. The whimpering turns to bleating. I pinch a nipple. She yelps and crumples together, screaming something in Russian or Ukrainian or whatever the fuck it is that she speaks with her mother on the weekends.

When she's finished, she leans her head against my shoulder.

"You treat me good, Roland."

***

Ten minutes later, we arrive in the parking lot outside the highrise. The mist is beginning to thin out. From the street, I can see as high as the eighth or ninth floor. The windows below are either black or fuzzy yellow rectangles of light.

Yulia tells me Thea lives on the fifteenth floor. Again, she doesn't bother to close her coat. We go inside and enter the elevator. When the doors open to the fifteenth floor, a blonde with pale green eyes steps into the elevator. It's Natasha Medvedev. She's pointing a gun directly at my chest.

"You move, I kill you."

The distance between me and the gun isn't that big. She's probably never fired one before. I look her up and down. She's tall. Her tracksuit top and pants are baggy on her thin frame. If I get the gun, I could easily overpower her.

Something clicks behind me.

I turn. Yulia has a gun in her hands. The barrel is inches from my heart.

"Sorry, Roland."

I should have known. Never trust a whore. I turn back to Natasha.

She wags the gun in the direction of the corridor.

"Come."

We walk to Room 23. Natasha knocks on the door with the end of the gun barrel. It cracks open. A brunette with a baby face peers out. It's Thea. Then the door swings open. The room is small and dark and smells of weed and piss. There's a suitcase stuffed with cash on a table by the window.

"Sit down."

I lower myself onto the edge of the bed. I have no idea how I'm going to get out of this. Not with two guns pointed at me.

Yulia leans against the window and keeps the gun pointed at me. Natasha sits by the table and places her gun by the case.

"My husband sent you here to kill me."

"Yes."

"He must die."

It takes me a second to register what she said. I scoff and wave at her dismissively.

"You will kill him," she says. "You will leave this room, drive back to Der Kosak, and then you will shoot that son of a whore in his face."

I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"And why would I do that?"

"Because otherwise we'll kill you."

"I'm a cop."

"We can prove you're corrupt. We will say it was self-defense."

"What's stopping me from leaving and then coming back with some of Dimitri's friends to kill you?"

"You won't."

"Why not?"

Natasha nods at Thea. The girl goes to the bathroom door and opens it. When I see who walks out, my stomach turns to ice. It's Lina. She goes to Natasha and puts a hand on the older woman's shoulder.

"You'll do it for her," says Natasha. "The four of us are leaving Berlin in an hour. Dimitri must die tonight. So long as he lives, he will try to find us."

She stands up and slips her tongue between Lina's lips. The girl kisses her back.

I lower my gaze to a coffee stain on the carpet and press my palm into my forehead. I should have noticed something. I should have realized what Lina was. The distant gaze. The reluctant touches. The weak screams. She never wanted me.

"How long has he known about the four of you?"

Natasha lets go of Lina and steps up to me.

"Not long. But he has known about my love for women for a long time."

I glance at Lina. Her expression is distant and cool. Did I really never suspect anything? Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't want to believe it. My eyes suddenly feel warm.

"Do it for me, Roland," she says. "I want to be happy again."

There's a lump in my throat. I try to clear it.

"You never once felt happy with me?"

"No."

There it is. The truth. It's sharp and bitter. We stare at each other for a few seconds in silence.

"You were kind to me, Roland. Not like other men. Not like Dimitri."

My legs feel heavy. Very heavy. The weight is spreading up my body. I want to slip into the floor and disappear.

"I was poor. A man came to my village and said I can work in Germany. Make money for my family. He take me. But then he stops the van and tells me and other girls no further. We must have sex with him to go on. He was old. Fat. Disgusting. But..."

She blinks several times. Then she swallows and says,

"But I let him fuck me. I thought it won't happen again. But it did. Every day."

I have nothing to say to that. She made her decision, and this was the consequence. I've always believed that.

"Go now," says Natasha. She holds out her gun to me. "Take this. Two are better than one."

I stare at the black metal with burning eyes. I know I have to take it. Lina will never feel anything for me. But I can at least save her. I can at least ensure she's happy.

I take the weapon and walk toward the door. When I reach it, I stop, turn, and go to Lina. I hold her waist. I breathe in her perfume. I look at her forehead, nose, eyes, lips, chin, cheeks. I want to taste her one last time. I want to feel her one last time. I lean into her ear and whisper, "I'm sorry."

I walk out without looking back. My skin feels hot and prickly. It's not fear. It's something else I don't want to admit. Something Lina and the alcohol kept at bay.

Outside, the mist has lifted. I get into the car and stare at the steering wheel. I rest my head against the rim. My heart is racing. I feel trapped. I need air. I push myself back into the seat. Then I slam my fist into the steering wheel. The honk pierces the early morning silence. I slam it again. And again. And again. My knuckle hurts. I peer up. The sky behind the highrise is a purple shade of gray. The low moon is dull and faded.

I turn the key to start the motor and look at the two guns lying on the passenger seat. In less than an hour, I'll be dead. I feel nothing. In the corner of my eye, I see Yulia standing in front of the car. A light breeze is playing with her coat. The inner edges flap and fall over her breasts.

I get out and walk over to her.

"I want to say goodbye," she says. She leans in and holds my coat. "Lina did not feel for you. But I do."

I open my mouth. She places a finger over my lips.

"No talk. I know you never feel for me. It okay."

"What about Natasha? Thea? Lina?"

"I love them. We will be happy away from here." She drops her gaze to my chest. "But I like men who hurt me in good way. Not bad. In way I like. Like you."

She kisses me. I keep my eyes open. I feel her fingers in my hair, pulling at the roots. Then I kiss her back and cup her face with my hands. I kiss her chin, neck, shoulder, collar, and breast. I flick my tongue again and again over the hard nipple. I suck on it. Then I run my lips up her cleavage, neck, chin, cheeks, and eyelids.

"Fuck me like whore one last time," she whispers.

I shove two fingers in her mouth and over her tongue. I push them along the inside of her teeth, press them into her cheek, and drive them down her throat. She gags. I force them deeper. Thick saliva gushes over my hand and runs down my wrist. Tears escape her tightly shut eyes.

She pulls my cock out and strokes it. I pull her skirt down and slide my hand between her legs. She whimpers and jerks to the sound of her soaked cunt smacking and oozing around my fingers.

"Worthless slut."

I remove my fingers from her mouth and cunt. She gasps and coughs. I slam her against the car and press her head into the cold metal. As I yank at her skirt, it rips. Her pale asscheeks fall out. I smack the right one. Then the left. Then the right. Harder and harder and harder. The rage consumes me. The skin reddens and darkens.

"Fuck me now!"

I plunge the tip of my cock between her asscheeks and run it down the crack. It brushes over her asshole and then finds her cunt. As I fall inside, I grab her hair and pound her. Smack. Shriek. Smack. Shriek. Smack. Shriek. I want to break her. I want to smash her until there's nothing left.

She rises onto her tiptoes. I snap her head back. She wails. I lean in. Her ear is between my teeth. I feel my hot breath on her face.

"Cum, you cunt."

She tenses up. Then she quivers. Then she shudders. Her mouth opens. There's no sound. She can't scream. I snap her head back again and stab her repeatedly with my cock. She yelps with each strike. I stop and hold myself against her. Every muscle in my body contracts. I close my eyes and scream.

When I reopen them, we're still frozen against the car. The sweat on her neck is hot on my chin. A bird chirps somewhere above us.

"I will miss you, Roland."

I take a deep breath. The icy air stings my nostrils. I push off. A blubber of cum slops onto the road between her feet. I turn her around, kiss her forehead, and get into the car.

As I drive away, I watch her in the rearview mirror. She lifts a hand. I turn the corner, and she's gone.

***

I drive to my apartment and down five Moscow Mules in quick succession. Both guns are loaded. I stuff a packet of cigarettes in my coat pocket and get back in the car.

Ten minutes later, I park outside Der Kosak. The sky behind me is pink. The street is full of people on their way to work. I get out. The two goons are still there. They nod at me. I pull out a cigarette, light it, and take a long draw. I'm starting to feel the alcohol. The street isn't stable.

I throw the cigarette to the ground and stomp it out. Then I turn to the door, pull the guns out of my coat, and shoot both bouncers in the head. A woman somewhere in the street screams.

I step past the crumpled bodies. Inside the club, I hear a gunshot. The bullet hits the wall to my right. I see a guy behind the bar and blast him. Another guy pops up from behind a door at the end of the bar. I blast him too. Then I drop behind a booth and wait for others to jump me. Whores are cowering on the floor and beneath the tables. Some are crying.

"Get the fuck out of here."

I can hear my slur. When none of them move, I fire a single shot at the ceiling.

"Get out!"

They scurry past me and out the door. When the room's empty, I move slowly toward the bar. As I stand up to look over the edge, Dimitri jumps out and shoots at me with a revolver. I unload the remaining bullets from both guns into his chest. He collapses to the floor.

My shoulder stings. I see a red patch. It's soaking my shirt. I can't move the arm. The bullet must have severed a nerve. It doesn't hurt. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's the alcohol.

I walk around the end of the bar to get to Dimitri. He's leaning against a low fridge stacked with beers. His shirt is bloodied and ripped. Blood is pooling on the floor beneath him. His breathing is quick and shallow. His eyes glance up at me.

"She... She... She told you to do it?"

I nod.

He tries to clear his throat.

"Why... Why you... do it?"

I step over him, pick up his revolver, and lift the barrel to his forehead. He stares straight into my eyes.

"Lina."

I squeeze the trigger.

***

I leave the bar and go down the street. I struggle to walk in a straight line. Everything is spinning. I want to throw up. I can't. People are staring at me. Some cover their mouths with their hands. A man tells me I need an ambulance. I shove him away. I can't feel my arm at all now. The shirt is soaked through.

After a while, I see a bridge. My legs are weak. I press them into the floor as hard as I can. When I get to the center of the bridge, I look over the railing. The Spree River. The water is gray and slow-moving.

I hear sirens. They're getting closer. Tires screech behind me. I turn. Nothing's in focus. I stumble. The car's black. Tinted windows. The doors open. Four men. They're not cops. They're armed. I step back. My good hand's on the railing. They aim. The sun is shining behind them. I look up. The sky's blue. There's no wind.

I push off with my feet. They open fire. Bullets thud into me. I feel nothing. I'm over the railing. The water's rushing toward me.

"Hot air from the mountains."

Closer.

"Smell of fresh baklava."

Closer.

It's Lina. She's smiling.

I shut my eyes forever.