“There’s a very simple reason I, a private contractor, am the one approaching you.” He weighed the glass in his hand for a thoughtful moment, as though figuring out how to dumb down his explanation. “There are certain codes of conduct the two governments have mutually agreed upon. That’s why the Russo-Chinese don’t hunt you down and kill you one by one.”

“Well, yeah. Then our side would do the same thing.”

“Precisely. These governments do, however, act unofficially. They have agents, contractors, in each other’s countries who would be eager to get their hands on enemy Combatants if possible. Everything like this done outside the official codes must be done privately. Take the Geneva Convention: your military is not allowed to torture enemy soldiers. Private contractors—mercenaries—are useful because we can. Certain codes can be violated as long as the official state entity isn’t doing it. I can violate the Geneva Convention; I can strike directly at Combatants if I choose; and I can engineer Medusa’s destruction, whereas your General Marsh cannot.”

“But you’d be using me to do it,” Tom pointed out. “I’m officially a ward of the military, so that’s still the military doing it.”

“As far as I understand, you were meeting her outside the military’s jurisdiction. As you would do once again. You were acting independently, without orders. You’ll do so again, and that’s why your strike on her won’t violate any treaties. And besides that, what can she do—tell someone you were behind an attack upon her? That would require her confessing to meeting an enemy agent. Again. You see, we already leaked to her government that she’d been liaising with you. She’s already on notice. She can’t afford to reveal her involvement with you a second time.”

Tom leaned his elbows onto his knees, his eyes narrowed. “Why would I do anything for the person who helped Dalton Prestwick reprogram me? And don’t give me that ‘for my country’ thing. You milk countries for everything you can take, but people like you don’t give anything back to them.”

“Oh, but there’s another reason you’ll do this, Mr. Raines. As things stand, you most assuredly will not be sponsored. If you did as I asked, I could change your situation.”

Tom was startled by the offer. “Obsidian Corp. doesn’t sponsor Combatants.”

“How could I? You all have my processors. A piece of me. It would be like that classic dilemma, where a parent must select which of his children to shoot. How could I play favorites?”

Tom sputtered a laugh.

Vengerov’s voice grew acidic. “Do I amuse you?”

Tom slouched back in his seat. “Yeah. I’ve never heard that classic dilemma of picking a kid to shoot.”

“Gunmen force a parent to choose a child to shoot. I’ve heard that.”