Page 143 of Stolen Empire

"Gavriil," I say quietly, "the sedan across the street."

He follows my gaze and his hand moves toward the gun holstered under his jacket.

"I see it."

"Take two men and pull the driver. I want to know who sent him and what he's seen."

He nods and signals the other soldiers.

They fan out to approach the sedan from multiple angles.

The driver sees them coming and tries to pull away, but Gavriil is faster.

He yanks the door open and drags the man out onto the street before the car can gain speed, while one of his men dives inside to stop the car.

I walk across to where they've got him pinned against the hood.

He's young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of nervous energy that screams amateur.

Blood runs from his nose where Gavriil hit him, and his eyes dart between the three men holding him down.

I instantly recognize Timofey Denisov, a Radich enforcer.

"Who sent you?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, just tries to twist away from the hands holding him.

Gavriil hits him again, harder this time, and the man's head snaps back against the metal hood with a sound that makes me wince internally.

"I don't think I need to ask, but I'll be polite," I say.

"Who sent you to watch us?"

"Nobody," he gasps.

"I'm just parked here. I didn't do anything."

"You're watching the Vetrov compound with a telephoto lens in your passenger seat."

I nod to where one of my men has retrieved the camera from the car.

"Don't insult my intelligence."

The snow starts falling harder, fat flakes that stick to Timofey's bloody face and melt into pink trails.

He's shaking now, either from cold or fear or both.

I feel nothing watching him suffer.

This is what happens to people who spy on us, who think they can gather information without consequences.

"Look, I'm Radich," he finally says.

"Okay? They sent me to watch the compound and report on who comes and goes."

"Oleg is dead," Gavrill points out.

"I saw Dimitri kill him myself."