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“My men and the villagers will wonder where I am,” I warn.
“They won’t,” Morozov replies. “One of my men will inform your people you’ve been invited to dine with me and my wife when he takes your car back to the village.”
I hear the smile in his voice.
They march me toward the chopper, firm hands guiding me like a prisoner of war. The blades scream above us, drowning out my thoughts. I stumble inside, heart hammering.
What the hell have I stepped into?
The flight lasts fifteen minutes. Fifteen long, silent minutes with nothing but the roar of the blades and the vibration of tension humming through my bones. The hood muffles sound, but I feel the descent in my gut—my ears pop, and the cabin tilts.
Then the shift of boots. A door groans open.
Hands grab me again and march me forward. Inside.
Cool air. Quiet hallways. The thump of my own heartbeat sounds louder than anything else.
I’m shoved into a chair, my wrists still bound. Then the hood is ripped off.
Stark white walls. Fluorescent lights that hum overhead. A metal table bolted to the floor. No windows.
I flex my jaw.
So this is how the general plays it.
The guard clicks one cuff around my right wrist and loops the other through a steel ring fixed to the tabletop. I test the chain. Just long enough to sit back or lean forward. Not long enough to do anything useful.
The door clicks shut.
I exhale and wait. There’s not much else to do except wonder what the fuck is going on? This is what I get when I act on impulse driven by a need not to face what’s really eating me—the picture of Gavriil taking Tara through to the bedroom. Two weeks after we’d been together. My jaw clamps down hard, and I breathe through my nose, trying to squash the raging anger inside me.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m snapped out of my torment when the door opens.
A bulky guard steps in first, blocking most of the frame. Then the general follows, coat open, scarf loose around his neck. His eyes sweep the room, landing on the cuffs.
“Why is he restrained?” he asks.
“Security protocol, sir,” the guard answers. “To ensure he doesn’t pose a threat.”
The general’s gaze moves to me. Steady. Unmoved. But there’s something beneath the surface. Calculation.
I stare right back.
“Uncuff him.”
“Sir—”
“Now.”
The guard hesitates, then hands his rifle to the general before stepping forward. I lift my wrist, and he unlocks the first cuff.
He leans in close—too close. His voice drops to a whisper, meant for my ears alone.
“We respect the Dragunov name,” he says. “But we follow General Morozov. Remember that.”
I hold his stare. And in that moment, I notice the insignia on his sleeve—a thin red stripe interrupted by a circle containing the number five. On his flak jacket is a red dragon.
The uniform has just been taken from The Dragunov Guard—that insignia on the sleeve tells me they are a revival of it.