Chapter 17 The Hunt
Chapter seventeen
The Hunt
Sonya
Seven weeks now. The tiny bump is more noticeable each day.
Maksim is already awake, watching me from his side of the bed.
"How bad?" he asks quietly.
"Manageable. Crackers help." I reach for the sleeve of saltines on the nightstand—Dr. Volkov's recommendation from last week's follow-up appointment.
The Philadelphia Bratva doctor confirmed everything is progressing normally. Stress hormones back to acceptable levels, fetal heartbeat strong, my body recovering well from the Halloween trauma. Cleared for light activity, teaching, normal life with caution.
By 8:00 AM, I'm dressed and downstairs in the breakfast room. Natasha joins me—she's been staying in the blue guest suite for two weeks now, recovering from her own ordeal.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, pouring tea.
"Pregnant and nauseous. You?"
"Better every day." She settles across from me. "Sergei suggested I might stay longer. If that's okay with you."
"Of course. Stay as long as you want. Actually—" I pause, the idea forming. "I wanted to ask you something. The foundation needs instructors. I can't teach full-time right now with the pregnancy, and we already have students enrolled in both Philadelphia and New York. Would you consider teaching?"
Her eyes widen. "Seriously?"
"You're an excellent dancer. Patient, skilled, and you already have teaching experience from your Brooklyn studio. Plus—" I meet her gaze, "—you understand what it's like to survive trauma and find your way back to dance. That perspective matters."
"I'd love to." Relief and purpose flood her expression. "When do I start?"
"This week. We can coordinate schedules, split the students. I'll take Philadelphia in person, handle New York via video calls for now. You can cover whichever you prefer."
We spend breakfast planning—class structures, student needs, scheduling. It feels good to focus on building instead of just surviving.
Later that morning, Maksim finds me in his study reviewing foundation documents.
"Mariana scheduled that special task force meeting for today," he reminds me. "Federal building in Manhattan, 10:00 AM. She arranged it Friday so we'd have time to coordinate. The helicopter leaves in thirty minutes."
My stomach tightens. "Any news on Anton?"
"That's what we're finding out."
We take the helicopter at 9:00 AM sharp—forty-five-minute flight from Philadelphia to Manhattan. We arrive at the federal building at 9:45 AM
The task force occupies a secure conference room on the eighth floor—FBI agents, NYPD detectives, representatives from Homeland Security. Everyone is hunting Anton Kozlov.
Mariana greets us at the door. "Congratulations on the wedding," she says quietly. "Heard it was beautiful."
"Thank you. Any updates?"
Her expression answers before her words do. "Nothing. Complete silence since Halloween night. No sightings, no communication, no activity on any known aliases or accounts."
We enter the conference room. Twenty people around a large table, screens displaying maps and timelines and surveillance footage.
The meeting starts at 10:00 AM sharp.
"Two weeks," says Agent Castillo, leading the briefing. "Anton Kozlov disappeared from Penn Station area November 1st at approximately 3:00 AM. Wounded from gunshot to shoulder. No hospital admissions matching his description. No body found. No confirmed sightings since."
She pulls up a map of New York City with markers. "Last confirmed location here. Surveillance cameras tracked him to the subway maintenance tunnels, then lost him. We've searched every inch of those tunnels. Nothing."
"He had an escape plan," Maksim says from beside me. "Months of living in Lincoln Center's underground. He knew those systems. Probably had supplies cached, alternate identities prepared."
"Agreed," Mariana responds. "We've expanded the search nationwide. DMV records, airport surveillance, bus stations, train terminals. If he's traveling, he's doing it off-grid."
"What about his obsession?" I ask. Everyone turns to look at me. "Anton is obsessive. Compulsive. He spent five years focused on me specifically. Does that kind of obsession just stop because he's wounded and running?"
"No," says Dr. Patel, the FBI's behavioral analyst. "Obsessive personalities don't abandon their targets. They adapt, plan, wait for opportunity. The silence is tactical, not surrender."
"So he's planning something," I conclude.
"Almost certainly."
The meeting continues for two hours—reviewing evidence, discussing theories, coordinating resources. By noon, we're no closer to finding him than we were two weeks ago.
After the meeting, Mariana pulls me aside.
"I want to schedule regular strategy sessions with you," she says. "Your psychology background, your understanding of Anton's patterns—you're an asset we're not utilizing enough."
"What kind of sessions?"
"Video calls, twice a week. Analyze his behavior, predict his next moves, narrow down possible locations. You know how he thinks better than anyone."
I glance at Maksim, who nods approval.
"Tuesday and Friday afternoons," I agree. "After foundation classes."
The week develops a rhythm.
Mornings (9 AM - 12 PM): Foundation work.
Teaching Philadelphia students in person—five enrolled so far, all from difficult backgrounds.
Word spread after the announcement at the October Bratva meeting.
Dancers escaping abuse, recovering from injuries, seeking legitimate careers away from family crime connections.
I teach modified classes, respecting my healing ankle and early pregnancy. Natasha assists, taking over demonstrations when I need to conserve energy.
Afternoons (1 PM - 3 PM): New York students via video call. Three enrolled there, working with a local studio space we're renting. I teach remotely, Natasha plans to travel there twice a week starting next month.
Late Afternoons (3 PM - 5 PM): Strategy sessions with Mariana on Tuesdays and Fridays. The rest of the week, foundation planning—using Maksim and Alexei's Bratva connections to expand reach, leveraging my gallery network for funding and legitimacy.
Evenings: Pregnancy, marriage, the ordinary life we're trying to build.
By Wednesday, I'm exhausted but fulfilled. This is what I wanted—purpose beyond survival, building something that helps others.
Thursday at 2:00 PM, I'm teaching a Philadelphia class when the nausea hits differently.
Not the gentle morning queasiness I've managed all week. This is sudden, overwhelming, undeniable.
I excuse myself mid-demonstration, make it to the studio bathroom just in time.
Maksim finds me there five minutes later—he'd been watching from the doorway as always.
"Everyone’s okay out there?" I ask weakly, leaning against the sink.
"Natasha took over." He wets a paper towel, hands it to me. "You okay in here?"
"Morning sickness. Except it's afternoon." I press the cool towel to my face. "Seven weeks pregnant is glamorous."
He gathers my hair back gently as another wave hits and holds it while I'm sick, then helps me rinse my mouth after.
When I'm steady enough to stand, he turns me to face him. Kisses my neck softly, right below my ear.
"Even like this," he murmurs against my skin, "you're magnificent."
"I just threw up."
"You're growing our child. Teaching students. Hunting a serial killer. You're magnificent."
His hand settles on the small bump, protective and reverent.
"I need to get back to class," I say, but don't move away from his touch.
"Natasha has it. Take five more minutes."
We stand in the bathroom together, his hand on my stomach, my back against his chest, stealing a moment of quiet in the middle of everything.
Friday afternoon, 3:00 PM. Second strategy session with Mariana via video.
She's in the federal building conference room. I'm in Maksim's study, laptop open, notes spread before me.
"Walk me through his pattern," Mariana says. "Seven victims over fifteen years. What's the common thread beyond ballet and Bratva connections?"
I review my analysis—the spreadsheet I've been building, tracking every detail Mila uncovered.
"Escalation," I say. "He takes more time with each victim. Irina in 2009—quick kill, relatively clean. Elena in 2010—he called during, made it theatrical. By 2020 with me, he spent five years building the obsession before the physical attack."
"So with each victim, he invests more. Gets more elaborate."
"Exactly. And his methods get more psychological. Early victims were straightforward violence. Later victims—like Anastasia, who's non-verbal in psychiatric care—he destroyed mentally more than physically."
Mariana makes notes. "So if we apply that pattern to you—"
"I'm his magnum opus. Fifteen years of evolution leading to me. He poisoned me, held my friend hostage, forced a performance at Lincoln Center, revealed my pregnancy before I knew. Every aspect calculated for maximum psychological impact."
"And now he's silent."
"Because he's planning something even more elaborate." The certainty settles cold in my stomach. "Halloween wasn't his finale. It was his preview."
Mariana's expression is grim. "I was afraid you'd say that."
We spend the next hour analyzing possibilities. Where would he go? What resources does he have? How is he surviving wounded?
"He had this planned," I conclude. "Months, maybe years. Escape routes, cached supplies, alternate identities. He's been living underground in New York for months—that takes preparation, resources, connections."
"So he's not improvising. He's executing a long-term plan."
"And we interrupted it at Lincoln Center. Made him adapt. But the core plan—whatever he's ultimately building toward—that's still active."
After the call ends, I sit in the study, staring at my analysis.
Anton is out there. Wounded but planning. Silent but obsessed.
And I'm pregnant, visible, exactly the target he wants.
Saturday evening, November 20th.
Maksim and I are in the bedroom, preparing for sleep. I'm eight weeks pregnant, showing just enough that my clothes are getting tight, but not obviously pregnant to strangers.
"Three weeks since Halloween," I say, studying my reflection in the mirror. "No word, no sightings, nothing."
"The task force is frustrated. Mariana said they've never had a suspect who disappeared so completely after such a public incident."
"Because he's good at this. Fifteen years evading capture. This is what he does." I turn from the mirror to face him. "What if he's waiting for me to show? For the pregnancy to be obvious?"
Maksim's expression darkens. "He won't get near you."
"But what if that's his plan? Wait until I'm further along, more vulnerable, more visible?"
"Then we increase security, limit public appearances, whatever it takes."
I cross to him, let him pull me into his arms. "I'm scared. Not of being pregnant or being married or building the foundation. I'm scared of him out there, silent, planning whatever comes next."
"I know. Me too."
We stand together in the quiet bedroom, both understanding the truth: Anton's silence isn't surrender.
It's the calm before something worse.
Sunday, November 21st. Morning.
I wake up early, check my phone. Email from Mariana, sent at 3:00 AM.
No new leads. Federal task force expanding international search—Canada, Mexico, Russia. If he flies out of the country, we'll find him. Stay vigilant.
I show Maksim the message.
"Russia," he says thoughtfully. "That's where he's from. Where he trained, where most of his victims were. If he went back—"
"He'd have resources there. Connections. Places to hide." I set down the phone. "But would he really leave? While I'm here, pregnant, exactly what he wants?"
"I don't know. That's what terrifies me. We don't know what he's planning, where he is, what comes next."
Three weeks of silence.
The hunt continues, but the hunter has become a ghost.
And we wait, building our life while watching the shadows.
Because Anton Kozlov is still out there.
And his silence is the most frightening thing of all.