“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.”

The colonel nods and walks out of the room. A second after he leaves, Peter’s voice comes on the line: “Esguerra?”

“Yes, it’s me.” My grip on the phone tightens. “I assume you heard the news.”

“Yes, I heard.” A pause on the line. “I had Yulia Tzakova detained in Moscow. It seems like she’s got some connections that our Kremlin friends overlooked.”