“Whatever it is,” I say, voice steadier than I feel, “I need to know. I can take it.” I press my hand to my stomach. “We can take it.”
Dima studies me for a moment. Then nods once. “Okay.”
We move to the couch. I sit. They remain standing.
Military briefing positions.
This is bad.
“Boris sent a message two days ago,” Dima starts. “Anton was going to Igor’s last known location. A meeting. Supposed to be quick—in and out.”
My heart’s already racing. “And?”
“And he hasn’t checked in since.”
The words land like punches.
“What does that mean?” I ask. “He’s busy? He’s undercover? He’s—”
“We don’t know.” Lev’s voice is tight. “Boris has tried every protocol. Every backup channel. Every emergency contact. Nothing.”
“How long?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
Forty-eight hours of silence.
Forty-eight hours since anyone heard from him.
“All our Moscow contacts have gone dark,” Dima continues. Flat. Factual. “No intel coming through. No whispers. Nothing. It’s a complete blackout.”
I’m not breathing. Can’t breathe.
“So, he’s…” I can’t say it. Can’t even think it.
“We don’t know,” Dima says. “He’s not confirmed dead.”
“But he’s not confirmed alive.”
“No.”
The room spins. I grip the couch cushion. Force air into my lungs.
“There are protocols for this,” Lev says quickly. “When someone goes dark. It doesn’t always mean—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off. “Don’t lie to me. Not now.”
Lev stops. Jaw tight.
I look at Dima. “Tell me the truth. All of it. What are the odds he’s alive?”
Dima doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften it. Just says: “Fifty-fifty. Maybe less.”
The honesty cuts deeper than any lie could.
“Igor’s smart,” Dima continues. “If he knew Anton was coming—if someone tipped him off—he could’ve set a trap. Taken him somewhere Boris can’t track.”
“Or killed him,” I say.
