A heavy silence sat on the air between them. Then Vengerov straightened. “I see you’ve been very thorough. So you’ll sit on this data, and in return . . . what? I assume you wish me to withdraw Obsidian Corp.’s bid for the Pentagonal Spire?”

“The breaches end today,” Blackburn said flatly.

“One is conditional upon the other, yes.”

Tom saw Blackburn’s face shift as he got the confirmation it had been Vengerov behind the breaches, behind the hijacked drones—and blurry as his head was, Tom felt vindicated. He’d been right. It hadn’t been Medusa.

“Now, Lieutenant,” Vengerov said, “I suggest you tend to your eavesdropping trainee.”

Blackburn jumped, and threw a startled glance toward Tom.

With a sigh, Tom abandoned the pretense of sleep and heaved himself up as far as he could in the bed. His entire body was exhausted, his mouth bone-dry. “Where are we?” His voice came out cracked.

“We’re still in Obsidian Corp.,” Blackburn said, moving closer to him. “The medical bay. We’re waiting for some of our own people to retrieve you. Do you remember what happened?”

Tom gave a shaky nod.

“Try to rest,” Blackburn ordered him, but his voice was oddly soft. “You need your strength.”

But Tom couldn’t rest, he couldn’t, not with Vengerov there at the foot of the bed. It was like closing his eyes with some venomous snake looming over him, poised to strike.

Vengerov had an unblinking gaze like a reptile’s. “I must apologize for your incident earlier, Mr. Raines. I never thought to assign any personnel to attend to the external surveillance cameras. No one breaks into a building filled with killing machines in the middle of Antarctica, after all. Your medical expenses are, of course, complimentary.”

Who was Vengerov even pretending for? Tom knew he was the one behind what happened. Blackburn had to have guessed.

“Yeah, I bet you’re real sorry,” Tom said, his voice raspy. He assessed himself, saw the swollen toes of his right foot where he’d kicked at the door. Bandages confining his hands. Restlessly, he shoved one under his opposite arm to work the bandage off, hoping to see how badly hurt his hands were. “Funny how that door swung open and closed a bunch of times.”

“No hardware is perfect. Certainly not our automated doors.” Vengerov’s gaze dropped to the bandage Tom was working off, a certain amusement gleaming in his eyes. “But it does trouble me to think while I was luxuriating indoors, a frightened child was trapped out in the cold, begging to be let in.”

Rage boiled up in Tom. His furious gaze flashed up to Vengerov’s. “I never begged.”

Vengerov had to know what he was really saying—Tom hadn’t broken. Even if it almost killed him. He wished Vengerov would reward him by seeming distressed or disappointed, but the Russian oligarch smiled, something like anticipation on his face.