Jake's car engine was still running, a dull hum blending into the distant rumble of the main avenue's traffic. With his hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, biting his nails down to the quick, Jake kept his eyes glued to the hospital's facade. Specifically, the third floor. He didn't know exactly which window was Bek's, but he pictured the Kazakh in there, trapped in that hospital bed, enveloped in the poison the Russian was surely whispering into his ear.
He checked his phone for the tenth time in the last five minutes. Nothing. His messages weren't even showing as read. His chest ached with a sharp pang of pure guilt; that damn interview was still playing on a loop across the news channels, and he just wanted to scream to the world that his career wasn't worth a single second of Bek's pain.
"Answer me, please, Bek..." he muttered against the windshield, feeling the crushing weight of desperation.
