“Check what?”
“Stand up, please.”
The hairs on the back of my neck shoot up, my heart thrashing in my chest.
I stand slowly, trying to think of a way out that doesn’t end with me dead on this cold floor. Alexei moves behind me, starts patting me down professionally. Shoulders, arms, back, chest.
His hand stops over the recording device.
“Mikhail.”
“Yes?”
“He’s got something.”
Volkov’s expression darkens. “What kind of something?”
Alexei rips open my jacket, pulls out the recording device, and holds it up.
“The kind that transmits to federal agents.”
The silence in the office is deafening.
“So,” Volkov says finally, his voice edged with anger. “The desperate father story was bullshit.”
“No. That part’s real.”
“But the cooperation with law enforcement is also real.”
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Eight months.”
“And what exactly did you tell them about our organization?”
“Everything I knew.”
Volkov nods slowly and steeples his fingers.
“Alexei.”
“Yeah?”
“Kill him.”
Alexei draws his gun and my breath hitches.
“Wait,” I say, holding out a hand.
“Wait for what?” Volkov asks through gritted teeth.
“You just confessed to organized conspiracy, multiple players, and years of operation,” I say. “And every word was transmitted to FBI agents who are probably surrounding this building right now.”
Volkov looks at Alexei, who still has his gun pointed at my chest.
“Shoot him.”
