taras_oleksei

Khartov shrugged.

"What about him?"

He paused, picking up the phone and crossing to the window to flick the ash off his cigarette.

Isaev had ash trays set out, but they were pristine, and he couldn't quite bring himself to use them.

"He's in fine shape," Khartov said. "Never been better. All healed up from your tough love, Captain."

He paused, taking a drag.

"And the leg too," he said, exhaling. "Quite the body on that bastard. Shame to to waste it on ballet."

Though he wasn't exactly sure where Barshai's brand of strength would be useful in the pursuit of traditional criminal craft.