I do not reach for my tablet. The codes are logged in my memory. I maintain the pressure.
“What else?”
“The vault—in Geneva—recordings?—”
“Location.”
“Helvetia Trust—safe deposit box—seventeen-A.”
His eyes are losing focus. I have pushed too far. I release his throat entirely.
The reaction is immediate. He sobs, great wracking sobs that shake his entire body. But he is not pulling away. He is straining toward me, his bound hands reaching for contact.
“Don’t let go,” he begs. “Please don’t let go.”
I should step back. I should document the intelligence.
I do not step back.
I move my hand to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him forward until his face presses against my stomach. He clings to the contact.
“I’m not leaving,” I hear myself say.
His sobbing continues, muffled against my body. I hold him through it.
This is not interrogation. This is not extraction.
The shaking gradually subsides.
“What?” I ask.
“Yours,” he whispers. “I’m yours. I know that now. I was fighting it, but I can’t fight anymore.”
I feel the weight of what I have created. I have reduced him to a creature that exists only in relation to my presence.
The mission is complete. By any professional metric, I have succeeded.
But as I look down at him, I realize something the Kennel never prepared me for.
I do not want to give him up.
Ivan will expect a recommendation. Elimination is the logical choice.
I cannot give him that analysis.
Because when I look at Nikolai Petrenko, I do not see an asset to be disposed. I see something that belongs to me.
I tighten my grip on his hair.
“The extraction is complete,” I say. “There is nothing left for me to take from you.”
He looks up at me. The expression in his eyes is not fear.
It is hope.
“What happens now?”
I do not have an answer.
