Chapter 16 Luka
LUKA
The office feels smaller at night, the walls closing in around the walnut desk and the shelves lined with ledgers.
The lamps throw a warm circle over the maps spread out before us.
Misha stands braced at the corner, his jaw locked, and one hand on the table as if he intends to steady the entire house through force alone.
Kolya paces by the windows, his eyes cutting between the driveway gates on the monitor and the satellite view of our route from Denver to Aspen Ridge.
“Again,” I say. I prefer repetition. It rubs falsehood raw and leaves what is true.
Misha nods once, dragging his hand down his face. “The intercept is clean. Two separate channels, one in Russian, one in English. Name is muttered, not shouted, but it is there. Ray. The rest is Sokolov slang. They talk about a welcome-home present for us.”
Kolya stops pacing. “They will not go for the scout,” he adds. “They are not stupid. They want the primary.”
They want Sage broken, but I do not say it. They want the transfer to end with my men bleeding on a mountain road and her sister loaded into a different car.
I pull the map closer and draw my finger along the route Kolya chose this afternoon.
He knows the switchbacks like a lover. He prefers the secondary road that looks harmless on paper and turns merciless when the weather changes.
It keeps ambushes from stacking cars across a neat straightaway.
It forces any attack to take place at a distance, giving my men time to move and time to kill.
“Reinforce both,” I say. “Two extra in the scout, three extra in the primary. Staggered departure. Elevation checks with the comms units every five minutes. I want remote eyes on the hairpins and the turnout before Black Bear Pass.”
Misha’s mouth tightens with approval. “Easy.”
Kolya lifts a brow. “I will need Albert for the second vehicle.”
“He is yours,” I answer.
No one suggests we wait. I set the clock, and now I live by it. If I hesitate, Ray will smell fear. He’ll turn delay into momentum and grind it over everything I care for until there’s nothing left but a road glittering with glass.
“We stay with the schedule,” I instruct.
Misha doesn’t answer right away. His silence isn’t defiance. It’s calculation, the sound he makes when he’s measuring what he hates against what he can live with. His focus moves from my face to the empty chair across from the desk. He doesn’t speak her name. He doesn’t have to.
“You put your hand on a stove, you expect a burn,” he says. “You put your heart near a war, you expect trouble that bleeds through places strategy cannot reach.”
Kolya exhales a low sound. “He is not wrong.”
I sit back in the chair and let the leather cool my shoulders through my shirt. “Say what you want to say.”
Misha leans in, the lamplight highlighting the pale line that runs from his ear to his jaw, an old fight that he won because he always wins.
“Your attachment is not my concern until it becomes my problem. I think it already has. I do not know if I can trust you to make the brutal call if she is in the middle of it.”
“I make brutal calls every hour of my life,” I remind him, even as heat lifts along the back of my neck. “You have watched me do it.”
“Not like this,” he returns. “You are clever when you do not care. When you care this much, you are not clever, you are nuclear. You destroy the target, yes, but the earth under your own feet shakes and your balance changes.” His focus doesn’t falter.
“I need to know if you will let this ambush come to you just to pull Ray from whatever rock he crawls under.”
The truth is simple. “Yes.”
Kolya mutters a prayer under his breath in Russian. “At least he is honest.”
Misha’s eyes narrow. “Then I will make my own plan behind yours, in case honesty turns to smoke.”
“Do it,” I say. “Hide it even from me.”
Kolya slips out, but Misha holds his ground. His eyes stay on me, silent and assessing. “You are not your father,” he says finally. “You do not need to pretend you are made of steel. But if you let this woman pull you off balance, I cannot fix what will happen.”
“I do not ask you to fix me,” I admit. “I ask you to keep me honest.”
“I am trying.” His voice lowers without losing its strength. “If the primary is pinned and you are forced to choose between the sister and your men, you will remember this conversation.”
“I will choose what must be chosen,” I state, my hand closing around the edge of the desk until the wood groans.
He studies me for a moment longer. “Then remember what must demands.”
“Go,” I tell him. “Check the units. Wake Ivan and put him on external screens. If a rabbit moves near the south fence, I want to know.”
He gives a short nod and walks out, leaving the air charged with everything he didn’t say.
I am alone with the low hum of the security feeds and the soft click of the clock.
The office smells like leather, paper, and a faint trace of smoke from the cedar logs banked in the hearth.
I could force sleep. I could lie on top of the quilt and pretend ten minutes of stillness might quiet me, but it would be a lie.
My pulse hammers on, unbothered by my pretense.
“Idi.” I instruct Vega to come, and he moves without hesitation.
His nails tick on the floorboards as he moves to my side with an expectation that I will issue a command.
He sits, head up, and ears forward. I rub the ridge behind his ear and feel the steady acceptance in his muscles.
He would walk into fire if I told him to.
Unlike men, he would not ask why. The loyalty does not soothe me. It hardens me.
“Snaruzhi,” I tell him. Outside.
We step out into the night. The mountain air slips across my face, cold and clean, with a taste of pine and distant water.
The lawn runs long and dark toward the tree line, and the drive cuts a pale curve toward the gates where my men will change out at midnight.
The house sits quietly behind me, a body at rest, ribs lifting and falling with the slow breath of sleeping rooms. Vega trots a pace ahead, nose to the wind, pausing to read the night before he looks back for my permission to roam.
I give a small hand signal, and he moves out along the gravel, a ghost of movement that disappears and returns, always within my reach.
I walk the perimeter watching the cameras pivot like patient eyes. I count the beats between the sweep of the motion lights. I listen for sounds that should not be there.
My control used to fit without thought. Now it hangs wrong, like a coat that won’t close, or a collar that doesn’t sit right.
I want Ray to come. I want him to crawl from whatever loyalty he rented from the Sokolovs and offer me his throat.
I want to take his plans and grind them into the mountain until nothing remains but the scrape of boots and the scent of burnt rubber.
I think of Sage in my house, walking through rooms with a composure that is not false courage but a decision she makes in every breath.
I think of the way her voice remained steady when she said she would bring her sister home.
She doesn’t understand men like Ray. She understands what’s worse: how a family shapes its own monsters and then learns to live with them.
When the circuits are done, and my muscles have quieted enough to pass for calm, I go back inside. Vega leads me toward the front hall, then veers off without waiting, drawn by something familiar. I know where he is going before I hear the kettle.
The kitchen lights are dimmed to a soft glow.
Sage stands by the stove, barefoot, wearing one of my dress shirts.
It hangs to mid-thigh on her, sleeves rolled up, and the collar open at the throat.
Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders.
She pours hot water over a tea sachet, the steam drifting over her face as she waits for the cup to fill.
Her profile is intent and unguarded, the way people look when they think no one is watching and there is no need to pretend.
Vega pads in, his tail giving a quiet arc.
He sits near her feet as if he has been doing this for years.
She glances down and smiles, a small, natural curve, her hand brushing the bridge of his nose.
The room suddenly feels too bright, then not bright enough.
It is nothing and it is everything at the same time.
I step farther into the room. “Are you stealing my shirts,” I ask, “or am I lending them without remembering?”
She turns, her smile lingering, then fading. “Borrowing,” she replies. “If you intend to punish me for it, you’ll have to stand in line.”
“I do not punish,” I answer. “I collect.”
She studies me over the rim of the cup. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is a promise,” I admit, and I do not pretend it is only about silk and buttons.
Her mouth flattens to hide a twitch that wants to be a smile. She takes a sip and winces when the heat snaps at her tongue. She blows across the surface and sets the cup on the counter as if it is heavier than just porcelain. Her eyes move to the clock mounted over the pantry door.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I would be concerned if you could.” I lean a hip against the island. “You’re anxious to have her back. It’s the only kind of impatience I respect.”
We stand there with the kettle tick-clicking as it cools, with Vega settling to rest his chin on his paws, and the clock on the wall pushing the second hand forward.
“You’ll bring her home,” Sage says, not as hope, but as fact.
“Yes.”
She breathes out, nods once, and carries the mug to the window, steam curling past her wrist. The glass is black with night. She drinks again and makes a face. “Terrible,” she says. “I forgot sugar.”