Zotov flinches. “I don’t know,” he admits, his shoulders slouching forward. “Ilyasov didn’t tell me much. He is the one who arranged the pickup from the motel and he is the one who arranged where to keep them. I don’t know anything.”
“And do you know why?” I ask.
Zotov stares up at me, blinking. He looks so much younger now. So much weaker. I almost feel bad for him.
“Because you are expendable.” I enunciate each word. “Ilyasov sent me here because, either way, he would win.”
It’s clear Zotov doesn’t understand what I’m saying, so I spell it out for him.
“Ilyasov wanted us to kill each other. He wanted every single person in this room to die and he set it up so he wouldn’t have to pull a single trigger. The son of a b***h is smart. It runs in the family. I admit, I’ve been a bit slow
