Chapter 13 The Trap #2
The mansion feels quieter suddenly. Just Chicago forces, Philadelphia security, Maksim's core team. Everyone else is in position in New York, watching, waiting.
Dinner is quiet.
The tactical teams eat in shifts—some in the dining room with maps and equipment, others in the kitchen grabbing food quickly. The mansion feels like a military base, controlled chaos barely contained.
Maksim and I eat in his study, needing the relative quiet. I push food around my plate, not really tasting anything.
"You should eat," he says.
"I know."
"You'll need the energy tomorrow."
"I know." I set down my fork. "I keep thinking about her. Natasha. She's been in that studio for over thirty hours now. Bound to a chair. Terrified. Wondering if anyone's coming."
"We're coming."
"But she doesn't know that. She doesn't know about the teams, the planning, the extraction. She just knows she's Anton's hostage and I'm his target." I meet his eyes. "She must be so scared."
"Sunday night, she'll be safe. That's what matters. Mariana's team is the best in the country. Three minutes from breach to extraction. Natasha will be in federal protection before Anton even knows they're there."
I want to believe him. I try to believe him.
But I've seen what Anton does to dancers. The seven victims. The systematic destruction. The theatrical cruelty.
I'm terrified we're going to be even a minute too late.
At 9:00 PM, I find myself in Maksim's study again, staring at the Juilliard Theater blueprints for what must be the twentieth time today.
Stage dimensions: 40 feet deep, 60 feet wide. Proscenium arch: 35 feet high. Orchestra pit: 15 feet deep, 60 feet wide. Wings: 20 feet each side. Fly system: 75 feet to grid.
I've memorized every measurement, every sight line, every entrance and exit.
"You know that stage better than the designers now," Maksim says from the doorway.
I don't look up. "I need to know where he'll position me. Where I can move. Where the rescue team will be stationed. If I miss something, if I'm not positioned right, if he sees through the performance—"
"You won't miss anything. You've prepared for this more thoroughly than any performance of your career."
I finally look at him. "This isn't a performance. This is Natasha's life. And yours. And mine. And—" The words catch. "I can't fail."
He crosses to me, sits in the chair beside mine, takes my hand. "You won't. But you also can't control everything. We will execute the plan and adapt to whatever happens. Together."
"What if the rescue goes wrong? What if he hurts her before they get there?"
"Then we adapt. Mariana's operators have done hundreds of hostage rescues. They'll get Natasha out before Anton realizes what's happening."
I'm quiet for a moment, studying our joined hands. "I keep thinking about Elena. How you couldn't save her. How Anton called while she died and you were powerless."
I feel him stiffen slightly. The comparison stings, I know. But I need to say it.
"That's why we're doing this differently," he says, voice steady. "That's why we have teams, plans, contingencies. That's why you're not alone on that stage—you'll have an earpiece, communication, backup thirty seconds away."
"But in the moment, when I'm facing him, when he's talking about his 'art' and his obsession—I'll be alone with him. Just like Elena was."
"No." His grip tightens on my hand. "Elena was ambushed in her home with no warning, no preparation, no backup. You're walking into a trap we've spent three days preparing for, with an army positioned to extract you the second things go wrong. It's not the same."
I lean against his shoulder, letting his certainty steady me. "I'm scared."
"Good. Fear keeps you sharp. It's overconfidence that gets you killed."
We sit in silence for a few minutes, the blueprints spread before us, the weight of tomorrow pressing down like a physical thing.
"Two more days," I whisper.
"Two more days. Then we end this."
At 11:00 PM, we finally go to bed.
Not to sleep—neither of us can, really. But to rest. To hold each other. To find whatever peace we can before the final countdown.
He pulls me against his chest, his hand tracing patterns on my back. No names tonight. Just abstract designs, soothing and repetitive.
"After Sunday," he says quietly, "we launch the foundation. Honor all seven women. Save the ones who come after."
I want his certainty. I try to borrow it, let it seep into me through our joined bodies and synchronized breathing.
But I know what Anton is capable of. I've lived with the evidence in my shattered ankle for five years.
Sunday night, I’ll face him on stage, in his trap, playing his broken ballerina one last time.
And I'm terrified I won't be good enough to save Natasha, save Maksim, save myself.
"I love you," I whisper into the darkness.
"I love you too," he responds immediately. "That's why we're both coming back Sunday. That's not negotiable."
I fall asleep holding onto that promise like a lifeline.
SATURDAY
I wake at 6:00 AM to an empty bed. Find Maksim in his study already, reviewing tactical updates from overnight surveillance teams.
"Anything changed?" I ask.
"Thermal signature still shows two heat sources in the Starr Theater rehearsal space. No movement in or out of the building overnight. Anton's holding position." He looks up. "How'd you sleep?"
"Badly. You?"
"Same."
We have coffee in silence, both knowing today is the final preparation day. Tomorrow night, everything will happen.
I spend most of Saturday in the third-floor studio, not dancing but preparing mentally. Visualizing the stage at Juilliard. Anton's likely positioning—center stage, controlling the space like a director. Where he'll want me to stand—downstage, in the light, visible and vulnerable.
How to keep his attention while the rescue happens half a block away in a different building.
Maksim watches from the doorway, his usual position. But today he's not working on his laptop. Just watching me pace, visualize, prepare.
"You're shifting modes," he observes around 2:00 PM.
"What do you mean?"
"From warrior to performer. I can see it in how you're moving, thinking. You're not planning combat anymore—you're planning a performance."
He's right. The past two weeks, I've been training to fight, to survive, to be dangerous. But tomorrow night, I need to be something else.
At least on the surface.
At 3:00 PM, a delivery arrives. The costume.
I take the costume to my room—the blue guest suite I haven't slept in since returning from the safe house.
It's beautiful in a haunting way. White tulle and silk, fitted bodice with delicate straps, romantic tutu that falls to mid-calf. Exactly what Anton specified: Giselle costume, Act II, the ghostly Wili.
But built into the seams and structure are hidden tactical elements.
At 3:30 PM, Mariana joins me via video call on my laptop, the costume laid out on the bed where she can see it through the camera.
"Communication device here," Mariana says through the laptop screen as I hold up the costume, indicating where she means. "Nearly invisible pocket at the neckline. The earpiece connects wirelessly. You'll hear everything—our teams coordinating, the rescue operation, Maksim's position."
I find the pocket—barely visible even when I'm looking for it.
"The weapon," Mariana continues. "Show me the left hip."
I turn the costume, revealing the tulle folds. "Here?"
"Yes. But not a gun—costume can't conceal anything that large without compromising the silhouette. We've built in a specialized sheath for a push blade. Three-inch carbon fiber blade, lightweight, accessible through this seam in the tulle."
I find the hidden seam, practice the motion. Reach, grasp, draw. Two seconds from decision to blade in hand.
"GPS tracker is woven into the hem," Mariana adds. "Even if you lose the earpiece, we'll know exactly where you are in the Lincoln Center complex."
I try on the costume while Mariana watches through the video feed. It fits perfectly. I practice the blade access again, the movement hidden by the natural flow of the tulle.
"Faster," Mariana instructs. "Again."
I repeat it. Reach, grasp, draw. One and a half seconds this time.
"Good. You look—" She stops. "You look exactly like what he wants. Fragile. Beautiful. Helpless."
"Good. That's the point." I study myself in the mirror, angling so she can see. "Let him think he's won. Let him think I'm still his broken ballerina. Right until the moment I'm not."
Dinner at 7:00 PM is tense and quiet.
Maksim and I eat at the dining table, but neither of us talks much. What is there to say? Tomorrow night is planned down to the minute. We know our roles, our timing, our contingencies.
All that's left is execution.
At 8:00 PM, the final equipment check begins.
I watch from the doorway as the tactical teams test communication devices, inventory medical supplies, clean and secure weapons. The controlled energy in the mansion is palpable—focused purpose, barely contained readiness.
These people are going to war tomorrow. For Natasha. For me. Against Anton.
The weight of that responsibility is crushing.
At 9:00 PM, I need to move. To dance. The studio calls.
Maksim follows without asking, taking his usual position by the window.
I put on the white costume, needing to practice moving in it. The tulle is lighter than I expected, and won't restrict my movements. The bodice fits like a second skin. I can dance in this. Can fight in this if necessary.
I run through scenarios—signaling through choreography, moving in costume with a hidden weapon, creating tactical openings while appearing vulnerable.
Maksim watches, and I can see him understanding. This is my war preparation. Not physical training anymore, but mental and tactical integration.
At 9:45 PM, breathing hard from the improvised choreography, I stop in the center of the studio.
"I'm going to kill him," I say.
Maksim straightens slightly. "We're going to stop him."
"No." My voice is steel. "If I get the chance, if he's in front of me and I can end it—I'm taking the shot. He killed Elena. He destroyed my ankle. He's held Natasha for over thirty-six hours. He's killed at least five women we know about. I'm ending him."
He studies me for a long moment, seeing the warrior he helped create over two weeks at the safe house.
"Okay," he says finally.
"Okay?"
"If you get the clean shot, take it. But you come back to me after. That's the only rule."
I cross the studio to him at 10:00 PM, pull him into a desperate kiss.
We haven't had sex since Wednesday—too much planning, too many people in the mansion. But now, the night before we face Anton, the need crashes over us both.
Against the studio wall. Quick, hard, desperate.
I'm still in the white costume. He's in tactical pants and t-shirt. We don't fully undress—clothing moved aside, not removed. Life-affirming before potential death.
He lifts me, my legs wrap around his waist. The tulle of the costume bunches between us. No finesse, no careful choreography. Just raw need and the knowledge that tomorrow one or both of us might die.
"Come back to me," he demands between thrusts.
"Come back to me," I counter, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
We climax together—fast, intense, desperate. Stay connected after, foreheads pressed together, breathing synchronized.
"I'm not losing you," he says.
"I'm not losing you either."
We straighten our clothes, make ourselves presentable, and return downstairs at 10:30 PM.
Sergei is waiting in the study, his expression grim.
"Anton sent another message," he says, pulling up audio on the computer.
No video this time. Just sound.
Natasha is screaming. Just screaming—raw, terrified, the sound of someone who's been pushed past endurance.
Then silence.
Then Anton's voice, theatrical and pleased: "She's still alive. Still has all her pieces. For now. Don't be late Sunday, Sonya. I'll be waiting."
The audio ends.
I feel my face go blank—survival mechanism, locking away emotion so I can function tactically.
"Twenty-four hours," I say, voice steady despite the screaming still echoing in my ears.
Maksim nods. "He's confirming the deadline. Wants us to know he's serious."
We spend the next hour reviewing contingencies one more time. Memorizing tactical callsigns and frequencies. Going over every possible scenario and our response.
At 11:30 PM, Maksim addresses everyone in the mansion—tactical teams, support personnel, everyone involved in tomorrow's operation.
"Sleep for at least six hours. We leave for New York at 4:00 PM tomorrow—need to be positioned at our command center by 8:00 PM. Between now and then, rest, eat, prepare mentally. When we deploy, we go sharp. Lives depend on it."
The teams disperse to their assigned sleeping areas.
In our bedroom at midnight, I finally break.
Tears for Natasha, for Elena, for all seven victims whose names I've memorized. For tomorrow's terror. For the possibility that I might fail everyone who's counting on me.
Maksim holds me, lets me cry, doesn't try to fix it with words.
We sleep in each other's arms—or try to. Rest comes in fragments, interrupted by nightmares and the ghost of Natasha's screaming.
Tomorrow is Sunday, Halloween night.
Everything we've prepared for, everything we've survived, everything we've built together—it all converges at Lincoln Center in twenty-four hours.
Tomorrow, we will end him.
Or he ends us.