ππππππ
One of the nurses dragged a chair over to where Artyom was sitting and I gratefully sat down on it, studying the profusely sweating man in front of me. In his early forties, Artyom was on the plump side, with a thick black mustache and a receding hairline. He was still in his army uniform, and I could see circles of sweat staining his underarms.
He was nervous. No, more than that.
He was terrified.
"Who are the people who paid you?" I asked him immediately after the nurses left the room. I decided to start easy because it might not take much to crack this man. "Who gave the order to shoot down our plane?"
Artyom visibly cringed. "N-nobody. Just a mistake. I clean the controlsβ"
I cut him off by lifting one of my crutches to pat the far end against his groin. Though I applied the lightest pressure to his balls, the man turned sickly pale.
