A man’s voice, deep and authoritative, asks a question in Uzbek.
I crack open my eyes again to steal a glance at the doorway. The new arrival is a lean middle-aged man wearing a military officer’s uniform. Judging by the insignia on his chest, he must be fairly high up.
The nurse answers him, her voice soft and uncertain, and then the man approaches my bed. I tense, prepared to defend myself if necessary despite the weakness in my muscles. However, the man doesn’t reach for a weapon or make any threatening moves. Instead he studies me, his expression oddly curious.
Going on instinct, I open my eyes fully and look at him, my body still coiled for a potential strike. “Who are you?” I ask bluntly, figuring that the direct approach is best at this point. “Where is this place?”
He looks startled, but recovers his composure almost right away. “I’m Colonel Sharipov, and you are in Tashkent, Uzbekistan,” he answers, taking half a step back. “Your airplane crashed, and you were brought here.” He has a thick accent, but his English is surprisingly good. “The Russian embassy has been in contact about you. Your people are sending another plane to pick you up.”
He knows who I am then. “Where are my men? What happened to my plane?”
“We’re still investigating the cause of the crash,” Sharipov says, his eyes shifting slightly to the side. “It’s unclear at this point—”
“Bullshit.” My voice is deadly quiet. I can tell when someone is lying, and this fucker is definitely trying to blow smoke up my ass. “You know what happened.”
He hesitates. “I’m not authorized to discuss the investigation—”
“Did your military fire a missile at us?” I use my right arm to prop myself up into a sitting position. My ribs protest the movement, but I ignore the pain. I may feel as weak as an infant, but it’s never a good idea to seem that way in front of an enemy. “You might as well tell me now because I will learn the truth one way or another.”
His face tightens at my implied threat. “No, it was not us. Right now, it appears that one of our missile launchers was used, but nobody issued the order to shoot down your plane. We received word from Russia that you would be passing through our airspace, and we were told to let you through.”
“You have an idea of who is responsible, though,” I observe coldly. Now that I’m sitting up, I don’t feel quite as vulnerable—though I would feel even better if I had a gun or a knife. “You know who used the launcher.”
Sharipov hesitates again, then reluctantly admits, “It’s possible that one of our officers may have been bribed by the Ukrainian government. We’re looking into that possibility now.”
“I see.” It all finally makes sense. Somehow Ukraine got word of my cooperation with the Russians and decided to eliminate me before I became a threat. Those fucking bastards. This is why I try not to take sides in these petty conflicts—it’s too costly, in more ways than one.
“We have stationed a few soldiers on this floor,” Sharipov says, changing the topic. “You will be safe here until the Russian envoy arrives to bring you to Moscow.”
“Where are my men?” I repeat my earlier question, my eyes narrowing as I see Sharipov’s gaze slide away again. “Are they here?”
“Four of them,” he admits quietly, looking back at me. “I am afraid the rest didn’t make it.”
I keep my expression impassive, though it feels like a sharp blade is twisting in my insides. I should be used to it by now—to people dying around me—but somehow it still weighs on me. “Who are the survivors?” I ask, keeping my voice level. “Do you have their names?”
He nods and rattles off a list of names. To my relief, Lucas Kent is among them. “He regained consciousness briefly,” Sharipov explains, “and helped identify the others. Besides you, he’s the only one who wasn’t burned by the explosion.”
“I see.” My relief is replaced by slowly building rage. Nearly fifty of my best men are dead. Men I’ve trained with. Men I’ve gotten to know. As I process that fact, it occurs to me that there is only one way the Ukrainian government would’ve known about my negotiations with the Russians.
The pretty Russian interpreter. She was the only outsider privy to that conversation.
“I need a phone,” I tell Sharipov, swinging my feet to the floor and standing up. My knees shake a bit, but my legs are able to hold my weight. This is good. It means I’m capable of walking out of here under my own steam.
“I need it right now,” I add when he just gapes at me as I pull the IV needle out of my arm with my teeth and peel the monitor sensors off my chest. My hospital gown and bare feet undoubtedly look ridiculous, but I don’t give a fuck. I have a traitor to deal with.
“Of course,” he says, recovering from his shock. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a cell phone and hands it to me. “Peter Sokolov wanted to talk to you as soon you woke up.”
“Good. Thanks.” Placing the phone in my left hand, which protrudes from the cast, I begin to punch in numbers with my right. It’s a secure line that moves through so many relays, it would take a world-class hacker to trace it to its destination. As I hear the familiar clicks and beeps of the connection, I reclaim the phone with my right hand and tell Sharipov, “Please ask one of the nurses to get me some regular clothes. I’m tired of wearing this.”