Somewhere outside the door, Nik could hear the drum of footsteps and the murmur of hushed voices. They were too quiet for him to pick out the words, but there's a sixth sense for your mother tongue, and his gut told him it was Russian. He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. They hadn't bothered gagging or blinding him, which didn't bode well for their intent.
His head ached. His jaw wasn't broken but it had been a close call, and his nose was sore. It was like his interrogator had been told to hold back. Nik hasn't got a good look at him, but there had been something familiar about the intense stare, the way the man carried himself.
The door opened. He squinted against the harsh light that spilled through behind his visitors, casting their bodies in dark shadow, and tilted his chin down to watch their progress through his eyebrow. His wrists twisted in the restraints, ankles testing the knots of the rope that kept them trapped against the chain legs. They knew he was dangerous with whatever they left loose.
Chair legs scraped and thumped against the floor nearby, the wood creaking as it gained weight. A lamp clicked on in the corner of the room and softer orange light illuminated the familiar face sat close. A face he had washed, wiped the snot from, pinched the cheeks of and kissed goodbye on the forehead when he enlisted. "Vovan," he acknowledged in lazy greeting.
Makarov frowned and the men he had brought in shifted uncomfortably. Nik watched his younger brother lean back in the chair and glanced down at his lap. He'd expected to see a firearm, but there was a bowl of kasha instead. Nik lifted an eyebrow and studied Makarov's face closely. Makarov smiled. He liked having Nik on the back foot, even if it was minor. "You need to eat. If you spit it at me, bite me, I will execute Kyle Garrick's entire family."
The bottom dropped out of Nik's stomach. Before Britain had left the ECHR, it would have been impossible for Makarov to get his men across without someone knowing there was a risk, but now? Britain had left all the intelligence sharing organisations and sat in isolation. It was a haven for international criminals. Nik would know. "You are lying."
"I do not lie, Sasha," Makarov murmured. "His three month old niece is very sweet. It would be a shame." They sat in silence for a moment as Makarov gave Nik time to digest the information and make his decision. No words were said, but Makarov sensed the moment Nik had ceded ground, such was their link even after all these years. He scooped the first of the oats onto the spoon and offered it. Nik ate obediently.
"I was going to kill you after all this is done," Makarov said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself rather than Nik. "But I am not so sure I could do it. Tell me, when you look in the mirror, do you see him?"
Nik used the mouthful of kasha to buy time for his response. He studied Makarov's face and saw their mother looking back; his anger and spite made his face sharp, but it wasn't made for rage. It was made for laughter. "Do you see her?"
Makarov's nose scrunched up, like the taste of the venomous rebuttal he wanted to say was distasteful even to him. He fed Nik another few spoonfuls, scraping up a dribble of oat and milk from the corner of his mouth before sitting back again. "You look well. Far better than when you served."
"You do not," Nik said, seriously. "You are not eating again."
Makarov looked to the left and barked at one of the men nearby. He left without a word, leaving just the one. That had to be Nolan. Only one man would be permitted to stay behind for the conversation to steer in this direction. Makarov looked back, steely eyes narrowing. "Toppling the world order is busy work."
Nik hummed. He ate the rest of the kasha without comment. When Makarov sat back the second time, Nik's belly was pleasantly full and he realised most of his headache had been hunger. "Why am I still alive, Vovan?"
"I want you to be alive to see it."
"To see John Price's face when he realises you have betrayed him."
Nik's shoulders tensed. "You know I would never."
"While you have been with me, I have laid a trail for him to follow. There will be evidence for him to find. You passed their location to Shepherd, of course, but there is more. Intercepted radio messages, financial trails, satellite signatures showing your aircraft near my safehouses, dead drops with notes... Oh, Nikolai Nikolai. Volk shkuru menyaet, a povadki — te zhe."
With each successive bread crumb, Nik felt the heat drain out of him. "He won't believe any of it."
"Perhaps not in a normal situation. But... He is grieving. Already he has crossed a line. He will withdraw... become more reckless, and abandon other allies. And he will push the 141 into more dangerous operations, take greater risks."
Nik knew it was true. He knew John better than most. He was a brilliant man; hardworking, chivalrous, intelligent. But his temper compromised him. Abandonment and betrayal were his weak points, so he had cultivated the strength of identifying the right people and leading them. He surrounded himself with the best, those he could trust, but if he had misjudged? He would doubt himself, his leadership, and everyone around him.
If even Nik would betray him, then John had no one.
Makarov could see his victory written in Nik's face. "Would you like a smoke?"
Makarov snapped his fingers and Nolan moved forward with matches and tobacco. Nik watched Makarov assemble the cigarette in silence, his heart beating hard in his chest. When the cigarette touched his lower lip, he took it mechanically, nostrils flaring as Makarov struck the match.
Thin grey smoke curled towards the ceiling as Nik filled his lungs with it. Makarov sat back, passing the matchbox between his fingers thoughtfully. "The final step is, of course, to leak your location. He will kill you himself, and then he will die thinking his lover betrayed him."
"I am not his lover," Nik said, trying to limit the regret that leaked into his tone.
Makarov barked a laugh. "Perhaps you have not sucked his cock, big brother, but you are his lover and he yours." He stood then, taking the bowl with him. "Like the Spartans of old, no?"
"You have misjudged him. He won't fall for your schemes. He hasn't yet."
"I am an expert in the behaviour of wounded animals, Sasha. He will take the bait. And then I will put him out of his misery."
Nik swallowed, staring at his mother's face warped with bitterness and rage, and realised Makarov was right.
He needed to escape. Get to John. Before it was too late.
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