Page 94 of Nemesis

“No funny business, buddy. It’s just a sip. An air sip. I don’t want to catch cooties.”

I lift the bottle above his face. His lips pop open, just enough to catch the drizzle of beer. He grimaces as the liquor burns his cuts, but swallows the liquid down in desperate gulps. Sitting back, I take a generous drink.

“So,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “What’ll it be, Morozov? You gonna hit me with the needles?”

I smile. “And here I was, starting to think no one over here has heard of me.”

He spits out some of the blood filling his mouth. “It is merely economical for a traitor to familiarize himself with the best interrogators in the business. Heard Solokov bought you for New York.”

“Something like that,” I say. “You know, you may be one of the most prepared hostages I’ve ever had the privilege of breaking.”

He laughs, a sad, broken sound. “When you turn your back on your family, it’s easier to prepare for the eventuality of your demise.”

Now, that’s interesting. I reassess. Most liars all have the same fallacy: an unshakable certainty that they’ll come out the other side scot-free. And then there’s that word he chose. Family. The question forms as I sip my beer.

A gamble.

All of my money sunk into red.

“When did they take her?” I ask.

Everything stops.

The shaking starts at the joints of his knuckles. With each second, it consumes another inch of his body, spreading up his arms, down his legs. Soon, even his lips are wobbling against the sharp grooves of his chipped teeth. Breaths slurp into his lungs like a deflated juice box, one after the next. My gamble pays off as I watch the outer mask of his resolve melt, revealing a whole other beast beneath.

“Please…”

“Come on, buddy. You did your research on me. You know I don’t go after women.”

His head lowers. Some internal battle wages beneath the torn skin and bone. When the answer finally comes, it’s barely a breath. “Popov’s men killed my wife forty-three days ago. I was off on assignment, and I left…I left.”

I sigh, lifting the bottle back to his lips. “I’m sorry, brother.”

“You should have told me!” Siderov appears by my side.

“He couldn’t,” I guess, scratching my day-old stubble. Bet he had a hell of a leverage point to keep this guy in line.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because he said my daughter was next,” the man says, lowering his chin to his chest. “He had—has—photos of her going to school. Playing in the park. He has guys everywhere. I couldn’t risk it. I still shouldn’t be risking it.”

“I’ll double Tia’s guards immediately,” Siderov responds. “And I’ll see what we can do about sending her to one of our allies for the time being.”

The captive sobs in blatant relief. I try not to let the sound penetrate my shield. After all, this only ends one way. He fed Popov information behind Sasha’s back and caused numerous deaths through his treachery. Worst of all, he put Octavia in immediate danger by revealing the safehouse’s location. The most I can offer him is a clean, quick death. Better than most of us will get, myself included.

“But, for the sake of my own daughter’s life, I need something, Theodore,” Sasha continues. “You have to give me something I can use. In return, your daughter will be taken care of for the rest of her life. You have my word.”

He sobs harder, nodding. We wait patiently for him to clear his throat.

“He…he suspects you found your daughter.”

My heart sinks.

“He’s known I’ve been looking for ages. Give me something else, Theo⁠—”

“And he has a name, too. Clarke. Octavia Clarke.”

Who knew gambling could be so fun?