Page 125 of Secret Heir

Everything needed for an interrogation that doesn’t follow any legal guidelines.

“Artem.” I close the door behind me, the sound echoing in the small space. I pull up a second chair and sit down across from him, close enough that our knees almost touch. “Want to tell me what you did?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But his voice shakes and his eyes dart to the tools on the table then away.

“My seven-year-old son is in a medically-induced coma because someone poisoned his dinner plate. And you’re the only person who looks guilty.” I lean forward, ignoring the pain in my ribs. “So I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer. What. Did. You. Do.”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—I had nothing to do with⁠—”

I slam my hand on the arm of his chair, and he flinches so hard the chair scrapes backward. “Wrong answer,” I snarl.

For the next hour, I break him down piece by piece and question by question.

I use every interrogation technique I’ve ever learned. Good cop. Bad cop. Reasonable explanations. Unreasonable threats. I tell him we’ll protect him if he cooperates. I tell him I’ll kill his entire family if he doesn’t.

Some of it is true. Some of it isn’t. He doesn’t know which is which, and that’s the point.

When words stop working, I move to the table and pick up a pair of pliers. I guess it’s time for pain.

“Wait!” Artem’s voice cracks. “Wait, please, I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you everything!”

I don’t put down the pliers. “I’m listening.”

The words pour out in a rush. “Alexander approached me three months ago. I was at a bar in Brooklyn just having a drink and he sat down next to me and started talking. He knew things. Things about my family.”

“What things?” I ask as I sit down again.

“Where my sister works. Where my mother lives. The fact that my nephew has a heart condition and needs medication we can barely afford.” His voice is shaking. “He said he could help and pay for my nephew’s treatment. Make sure my sister was safe. But I had to do something for him first.”

My hands grip the pliers tightly. “Poison a child.”

“Not at first!” Artem protests wildly, his face pale with fear. “At first he just wanted information. Guard rotations. Security protocols. Who had access to what parts of the compound.” Artem is crying now, tears and snot running down his face. “I thought—I thought maybe he was just checking security. Making sure the boss was protected. It didn’t seem that bad.”

Stupid, idiotic boy. “When did it change?”

“After the car bomb failed.” His whole body is shaking now. “He contacted me through an encrypted messaging app and told me the new job. He said I had to poison the boy and make it look like natural causes if possible, but make absolutely certain he died.”

Red floods my vision. My hands clench on the pliers hard enough that the metal cuts into my palm. “He told you to murder my son,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry! God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to, but he threatened my family!” The words are tumbling out faster now. “He showed me pictures of my sister leaving work and my mother getting on the bus. My nephew at school. He said accidents happen all the time. If I didn’t do what he wanted, if I didn’t follow through, they’d all die.”

“Your family.” I stand up slowly and move around to stand behind him. “You were worried about your family, so you tried to kill mine.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“There’s always a choice.” I place the pliers on the table with a soft click and pick up something else instead, the rage roiling inside me. I want to destroy him. “You chose to save your family by murdering an innocent child. A seven-year-old boy who never did anything to you.”

“Please—” Artem begs.

“What were you supposed to do after?” I’m standing over him now, and I can smell his fear along with the sharp smell of sweat and piss. “After Daniel died. What was the next step?”

He swallows, looking like a dead man. “Confirm the kill and send him a message with a specific code word so he’d know it was done.” He hiccups. “The word was ‘sunrise.’ If I sent him a message saying ‘sunrise,’ he’d know the boy was dead.”

Dmitri and Pavel shift behind Artem and even though their faces are impassive, that one movement lets me know how angry they are. They can get in line behind me.

“And when it failed?” I ask softly. “When Daniel survived?”

“I was supposed to try again and keep trying until—” He stops, realizing what he’s admitting.