Page 27

“Please wait, Mr. Dragunov.”
The voice is clipped. Not nervous, not deferential—just firm.
I stop mid-step, the keyless remote in my hand, and turn slowly toward the voice. The guard is young but trained. His flak vest doesn’t sit awkwardly on his shoulders. His hand doesn’t twitch near his weapon. He’s not here to ask.
Then I hear it—the low, rhythmic thump of blades.
A helicopter slices through the pale sky, descending over the Zorin farm like a hawk onto prey.
Fuck.
The guard doesn’t speak again. But steps closer to me. “There is someone who would like a word with you.” He nods toward the incoming chopper.
The helicopter touches down thirty yards from the farmhouse, kicking up a storm of dust and grit. I narrow my eyes against the wind, watching a tall man in civilian clothes climb out. Jeans, sheepskin-lined bomber jacket, thick wool scarf, cap pulled low—but there’s no mistaking the posture, the weight of command in every stride.
General Timofey Morozov walks straight toward me.
I guess this saves me a trip.
I slide my phone into my coat pocket and adjust the collar of my jacket. The general stops just in front of me and extends a leather-gloved hand.
“Mr. Dragunov.”
“General Morozov.” I take the handshake. Firm, measured. No posturing. No warmth either.
“I heard you were here,” he says. “Visiting one of the people under my protection.”
“Is that why you came?”
“When Ruslan Dragunov walks into my territory unannounced, I make it my business to ensure no one’s being harassed, harmed... or bullied.”
“I’m not here on official business,” I tell him. “But I’m glad you came. I was heading to your farm next.”
His brows lift slightly. “Also in a non-official capacity?”
“Yes.”
The air shifts, sharp and quiet. The unspoken tension builds between us like a rising tide. I tilt my head.
“Well, that’s a coincidence. I was going to call you in the morning when I heard you were at Dragunov Village,” the general informs me. “May I ask the intentions of your visit?”
“I’m looking for answers,” is my reply.
“Answers to what?” the general asks.
“What is your wife’s connection to Leonid Zorin?”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—small, fast—but I catch it. His hand raises, and he circles his index finger.
Then the world goes dark as a bag is shoved over my head and something hard jabs into my temple.
I know the feeling of the cold steel of a barrel even through a bag.
“Don’t resist, Mr. Dragunov,” the General says softly. “I would hate to be the one to ruin all the great things you want to accomplish.”
Surprise zaps through me.
My wrists are yanked behind me. I’m relieved of my gun and car keys, and zip-tied as a whisper of jasmine rides the air.