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Dimitri’s call with Levitsky would have happened already. With any luck, he bought us a little time, but the clock’s ticking.
With a sigh, I step forward with my little trolley of prepared items.
“Let me handle this,” I say gently.
Mikhail gives me a once over but doesn’t argue. He nods. “He’s all yours, Doctor.”
I casually pull up a stool and sit down in front of Belyaev. He recognizes me.
“You bitch,” he seethes. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I sit calmly in front of him, not at all intimidated. A tiny voice in the back of my brain is obviously worried he might break free and attack me, but I push the worry down. Mikhail made extra sure his zipties were tight, and he’s right behind me should anything happen. I just have to soldier through and get over the queasiness in my stomach. I can do this.
“Tell me where I can find Levitsky,” I say coolly.
“I’m not telling you shit.”
“He’s holding a boy hostage,” I reply as if he didn’t speak. “Simon’s only a year old. He’s innocent.”
“This is war,” Belyaev says indifferently.
“Give us the answers we’re looking for.”
“What are you going to do, girlie?” he snarls.
His features are harsh, his teeth yellow from years of smoking. He has a few nasty scars just above his right eyebrow and down the side of his left cheek. If I ever saw this man out in the wild, I’d be terrified.
But I have to be brave.
For Dimitri, for Simon.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” I say.
“What are you going to do?” he repeats with a dark laugh. “Break my bones?”
“No, nothing so violent. I don’t believe in hurting people.”
“You’re in the wrong line of business then, girlie.”
I reach over to my trolley and inspect my instruments. I pick up a syringe and a small vial of clear liquid. “You’re right about that. It’s almost ironic. Me, a doctor, helping the Bratva interrogate a man. It’s a wonder I still have my license.”
“What the fuck is that?” Belyaev spits, eyeing the syringe that’s now half full.
I look him over. A man his height and weight… This should be the correct dosage. When I move forward, he jerks back.
“Are you going to poison me?” he squeaks. It’s the first time I’ve heard his tough-guy facade crack.
“It’s not poison,” I say calmly. “I meant what I said. I don’t like violence. This is amobarbital.”
“The fuck is that?” he grumbles.
I don’t answer. It takes all of three seconds for me to inject him. A quick poke and it’s done.
He stares at me. On the outside, he doesn’t appear affected. His breathing is normal, as is his pupil dilation response. He smirks. “It didn’t do anything.”
I pick up the vial between my thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light. “I told you, it’s amobarbital. Though I suppose it’s more commonly known as a ‘truth serum.’”
His mouth drops. “No fucking way. That can’t be true. Stupid bitch. Did you really think…” He frowns.
