Chapter 12 Public Claim #2
Anton's voice, off-camera, theatrical and pleased: "Maksim Petrov. Sonya, my little ballerina. I know you're planning something tedious for my performance night. So predictable. So boring."
The camera pans to show him—finally, after fifteen years, I see the face that goes with the voice that haunted Elena's death. He's thirty-eight now, still projecting cultured sophistication like a mask, still moving with dancer's controlled precision.
"So here's a new choreography," Anton continues, smiling at the camera.
"Bring Sonya to Juilliard's main stage at Lincoln Center, ten-thirty PM sharp.
Come alone—just you, Sonya, and me. The performance requires an intimate audience.
If you bring your armies, if I see one federal agent, one Bratva soldier—" He touches the young woman's shoulder.
She flinches violently. "—I start cutting pieces off this one. "
He crouches beside her, speaking directly to the camera now.
"Every hour you're late, she loses something.
Toes first—you know how important those are for dancers.
Then feet, ankles, legs. By midnight, there won't be much left to save.
But you'll arrive on time, won't you? Because Sonya's too soft to let another dancer suffer for her. "
He stands, brushing invisible dust off his clothes. "Ten-thirty PM, Halloween night, Juilliard Theater main stage. Don't be late. Oh, and Sonya—" His smile widens. "Wear white. You know the costume. Be my Giselle one last time."
The video ends.
Silence in the conference room.
Sonya is white, then red with rage. "That's Natasha. My friend from Mariinsky. She moved to New York three years ago, we've been meeting for coffee—she has nothing to do with this—"
"It's a trap," Sergei states. "Designed to isolate you, force you onto that stage alone."
Sonya's already analyzing the video, rewinding, studying the footage.
"Look at the lighting. Afternoon sun through a window—that's ground-level space, not deep underground.
And the window faces—" She pauses, concentrates.
"East. Morning light would be direct, afternoon is indirect.
This is an east-facing ground-level studio. "
She pulls out her phone, texting rapidly. "Sending this to Mila. She can analyze the footage, narrow down location, and find exactly where he's keeping her."
Mariana returns at 5:15 PM—Sergei must have called her while we were processing. She reviews the video with professional assessment.
"He's escalating. The hostage divides your focus, forces you to choose between confronting him and saving her." She looks at us. "But if we know where she is—"
"We run two operations simultaneously," I finish.
"Sunday night, Sonya and I will go to the main stage, and give him his performance.
The moment we're on that stage, your tactical team breaches wherever he's holding Natasha.
He'll be focused on Sonya—won't know we're extracting his leverage until it's too late. "
Sergei nods slowly. "Dual operation. Team A engages Anton at the main theater. Team B rescues the hostage from the secondary location."
"Risky," Mariana says. "If he has surveillance on the hostage location, he'll know the moment we breach."
"Then we break fast. Clean extraction, minimal time between entry and exit." I meet her eyes. "Your people can do that."
"FBI Hostage Rescue Team can do it in under three minutes if we have the exact location." She pulls out her tablet. "But we need perfect intelligence. Building layout, entry points, hostage position, any guards or surveillance."
Sonya's phone buzzes. She checks it, and relief flashes across her face.
"Mila's got preliminary results. Seven possible locations based on the video—all former dance studios within the Lincoln Center complex.
She's accessing building security systems and city surveillance cameras to narrow it further. "
"How long?" Mariana asks.
"She says two hours for initial narrowing, another twelve hours for final confirmation. By Friday morning, we'll know exactly where Natasha is."
"Good." Mariana makes notes. "Friday we do full reconnaissance—thermal imaging, exterior surveillance, map every entry and exit. Saturday we finalize the tactical plan. Sunday we execute."
"He wants Sonya on that stage at ten-thirty PM," I say. "That's when the rescue team goes in. The moment he sees her, his attention locks on her. That's your window."
"Three-minute extraction," Mariana confirms. "In and out before he knows we're there. By the time he realizes his hostage is gone, she'll be in federal protection and we'll have all his leverage removed."
Sonya is quiet, staring at Natasha's frozen face on the screen. "She's terrified because of me. Because Anton's obsessed with me."
I pull her aside while Sergei and Mariana begin coordinating communication protocols and team assignments.
"This isn't your fault," I say quietly.
"She wouldn't be there if not for me. If Anton wasn't—" She stops, breathes. "I should have warned her, should have told her to leave the city, should have—"
"You didn't know he'd escalate this way. None of us did."
"I know how he thinks. I should have anticipated—"
I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. "We're going to get her back. She'll be safe before he even knows we're there."
"You can't promise that."
"I can and I am." My voice is steel. "Sunday night, you walk onto that stage and give him the performance he wants.
Keep his eyes on you, keep him talking, keep him distracted.
And while you're doing that, Mariana's team will get Natasha out.
By the time Anton realizes what's happening, it'll be over. "
She searches my face, looking for certainty, for reassurance.
"And then we end him. Together. With Natasha safe, with his leverage gone, with nothing between us and justice except his delusions."
She leans into my touch for just a moment, allowing herself to be vulnerable for thirty seconds before straightening, stepping back, becoming the warrior again.
"Then let's make sure the plan is perfect," she says.
By 6:00 PM, we have the framework:
Friday morning: Mila confirms Natasha's exact location Friday afternoon: Full reconnaissance—Mariana's team maps the building, identifies entry points, establishes surveillance Saturday: Tactical planning—rehearse the extraction, coordinate timing, finalize communication protocols Sunday 10:30 PM: Dual operation begins
Team A (Maksim + Sonya): Arrive at Juilliard main stage, engage Anton
Team B (FBI Hostage Rescue + Sergei's men): Breach secondary location, extract Natasha
Timing: Rescue begins the moment Sonya steps on stage
Communication: Earpieces keep both teams coordinated
Goal: Extract Natasha before Anton realizes, remove his leverage, then take him down
"He thinks the hostage gives him control," Sonya says, studying the operational timeline. "He thinks I'll be paralyzed by fear for her, that I'll do whatever he wants to keep her safe."
"Instead, she'll be in federal protection while he's still monologuing," Mariana says with grim satisfaction.
"He's been so focused on his artistic vision, his perfect performance," Sonya continues. "He didn't account for us being three steps ahead."
"He's been operating alone for fifteen years," I add. "Solo killer, solo planner. He doesn't understand coordinated operations, military precision, the resources we can bring to bear."
Sergei pulls up the Lincoln Center campus map, marking the main theater and the seven possible hostage locations. "Once Mila confirms which building, we'll have sixty hours to prepare the extraction. That's sufficient time for a clean operation."
"What if he moves her?" Sonya asks. "Between now and Sunday?"
"We'll have surveillance on the confirmed location starting Friday," Mariana answers. "Thermal imaging, exterior cameras. If he moves her, we'll know immediately and adapt."
"And if he kills her before Sunday?" The question costs Sonya, but she asks it anyway.
"He won't." Mariana's voice is certain. "She's his leverage. He needs her alive to control you. The moment she's dead, you have no reason to cooperate. He's too smart to throw away his only card. Besides, that would break his pattern, ruin his performance, since she is not related to Bratva."
Sonya squeezes my hand, then releases it. Turns to face the operational map, the timeline, the tactical details. "Then let's make sure every second is accounted for. I'm not losing Natasha because we missed something."
By 7:00 PM, Mariana and her team have left with assignments. Sergei is coordinating with the Chicago team's arrival Sunday morning. Sonya and I are alone in the conference room, staring at Natasha's frozen face on the screen.
"Tell me about her," I say.
"Natasha Volkova. We trained together at Vaganova Academy, danced together at the Mariinsky for three years before I was promoted to principal.
She was good—not principal level, but solid corps dancer.
" Sonya's voice softens with memory. "After my injury, after Anton destroyed me, she visited me in the hospital in St. Petersburg.
Brought me books, refused to let me disappear into isolation. "
She traces Natasha's face on the screen with one finger.
"I came to New York a year after the accident.
Started grad school at NYU. Began rebuilding.
A year after I arrived, Natasha followed.
Three years ago now. She got a teaching position at a small studio in Brooklyn, trying to make it work.
We'd meet for coffee once a month, talk about dancing, about Russia, about building new lives in America.
She has nothing to do with Bratva, nothing to do with Anton's vendetta.
She's just—" Her voice breaks. "She's just my friend. "
"We're going to get her back. You've been training for two weeks to be deadly. Now you train for three days to be vulnerable. To be his broken ballerina one last time."
"I can do it." Her smile is bitter. "I've had five years of practice."
"Sunday night," I promise, "you walk off that stage with Natasha safe and Anton in custody or dead. That's how this ends."
She nods, but I see the weight she's carrying. The guilt, the fear, the responsibility for Natasha's terror.
I pull her against my chest, and she allows herself to break for just a moment. Silent tears, shaking shoulders, five years of isolation and three days of countdown all crashing down at once.
Doesn’t matter. It just gives us another reason to destroy him.