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“The orderly does.”

“Was he memorable?”

“He panicked.”

“Then no.”

Maksim dismisses the nurse with a glance. She leaves after warning both of us that my blood pressure needs to remain stable, which sounds optimistic considering our profession.

He waits until the door closes. “How much do you remember?”

“Leaving the warehouse, getting into the car, and Leonid arguing about the route.”

Maksim folds his hands behind his back. “He wanted the northern road.”

“I overruled him.”

“You chose the road where they were waiting.”

“Yes.” A deep breath pulls at the damage behind my ribs, so I keep the next one shallow. “How many?”

His pause tells me enough before he answers. “Three dead. Leonid’s alive.”

I stare at him. “Who died?”

He gives me the names, and I know every one of them. Denis had a daughter studying in Paris. Ruslan had recently bought a dog too large for his apartment. Timur Zorin complained about his wife every morning and called her every evening before he slept.

I put the names away where grief can’t interfere with usefulness. “What happened to the shooters?”

“Four died at the scene,” Maksim says. “Dmitri found two more alive afterward.”

I shift my attention to the door. “Can they speak?”

“They can still answer questions if the questions require blinking.”

“Generous of him.”

The door opens again, and Dmitri enters as if summoned by criticism. Dried blood covers two knuckles, another man’s blood marks his shirt collar, and he wears the irritated expression of a man forced to leave an interrogation before reaching his favorite part.

“You look terrible,” he says.

“You’ve mistaken the monitor for a mirror.”

Maksim pulls a chair closer to the bed but remains standing. “The attack team knew your route, the vehicle order, the shift rotation, and the precise point where the signal jammer would cut our communications.”

“Then the information came through our security structure.”

Maksim confirms it with a nod. “Yes.”

“Who changed the route sheet?”

Maksim answers without checking a note. “Three men had access. Two are dead, and the third disappeared six hours after the shooting.”

“Give me his name.”

“Grigori Anisimov.”

I know Grigori’s accounts, his mistress, his gambling habit, and the brother he claims not to speak to. Men who build secret lives should avoid working for a strategist who studies patterns for a living.