His eyes dart left before he answers, hunting for a story that might hold under pressure, and I’ve interrogated enough men to know what that fraction of a second means.
“My mother.” The words tumble out too fast. “Stage four pancreatic. Vadim said he’d cover the treatment in Switzerland if I just kept him informed about—”
His hand moves toward his glasses again—that nervous tell.
I grab his wrist and twist until something pops.
He screams.
“Focus, Sergei.” I hold the pressure steady, watching sweat break across his forehead. “What did you tell him about my wife?”
“Everything—” He’s gasping now, face grey with pain. “That you told her the truth and she stayed anyway—” His voice breaks into a sob. “That she’s synthesizing antidotes now.”
The last part lands in my chest and stays there, burning.
“What’s he planning?”
“An auction.” Sergei’s shaking so hard the chair rattles against the floor. “Private. Tonight at midnight on Polina’s yacht, in Odessa. He’s selling MX-42 synthesis to the highestbidder. FSB, Chechens, whoever pays. Starting price: three hundred million euros.”
Three hundred million fucking euros.
“And Anya?”
“He wants her dead before the auction closes.” His voice drops to something barely audible. “Said a weapon only has value if no one can defend against it. Said the chemist who created it, becomes a liability the moment she understands what she made. Said if you won’t eliminate her—”
“He’ll do it for me.”
“Da.”
I release his wrist and straighten, pulling the Makarov from my shoulder holster. This time I point it—center mass.
“My girls—” He’s begging now, tears tracking down cheeks gone grey with terror. “They can’t know, they can’t grow up thinking their father was—”
“They’ll know what I tell them to know.” My voice comes out flat, emotionless, the way it always does when I’m about to pull a trigger. “Your wife gets the story you died with honor. Your mother gets the treatment in Switzerland. Your daughters get protection and pension and a father they can be proud of.”
“Thank you, Roman, spasibo—”
“Don’t thank me.” I check the magazine with hands that stay steady through will alone. “You could have asked. You sold me out.”
I chamber a round.
“Goodbye, Sergei.”
The sound is swallowed by stone walls that have heard worse. Sergei slumps forward, and I’m already holstering the Makarov before his body settles.
“Wine cellar,” I tell Luka without looking back. “Make the calls. His family gets everything I promised.”
I’m halfway up the stairs before I let myself think about Masha—about grape juice on my shoes and a girl who won’t understand why her father never came home. I think about it for exactly three seconds.
Then I hear Anya scream, and I stop thinking about anything else.
Anya.
My blood goes cold and then immediately fucking boiling, and I’m running before the sound finishes with the Makarov already in my hand and every thought in my head narrowing to a single point:mine, mine, if anyone touched her I’ll tear this house down with my bare hands—
The lab door is open.
Wrong. She never leaves it open—containment protocols, she calls it.
