Chapter 32
NORA
Grandma calls while the wedding estate burns behind me.
I answer before the second ring. "Grandma?"
Static scrapes across the line. Her breath comes through close to the phone, thin and uneven, while a siren sounds somewhere behind her.
"Nora, sweetheart, I need you to listen."
She hasn't called me sweetheart in years.
Konstantin hears the change in my voice. One hand closes around the vehicle door as he leans toward the phone, but a shout cuts across the garage before I can put the call on speaker.
Part of the west wall has failed. Two fire crews are trapped behind falling timber, with a family driver still unaccounted for near the covered entrance.
"Stay in this vehicle," he tells me. "Mikhail remains outside."
"Something happened to Grandma."
Konstantin looks toward the command team rushing across the snow before facing me again.
"Keep her on the line. I'm sending the house detail to your channel now." He catches me beneath the hair, pressing his mouth hard against my forehead before running toward the fire.
"Grandma, where are you?"
"The woman next door fell. Her number called, so I took the spare key over with one of the guards.
" Grandma stops to draw a shallow breath.
A man's voice says something beyond the phone, too muffled to understand.
"There was an accident. They say I may have hurt my ribs.
They're taking me to the central trauma hospital. "
The explanation arrives in pieces that don't fit. Grandma sounds watched rather than injured.
She keeps the neighbor's spare key on a small hook by her own door, marked with blue tape.
I've teased her for years about being the unofficial keeper of every plant, pet, and lock on the street.
A call from that house would pull her outside even with guards present.
Whoever arranged this knows exactly which kindness to use. "Who is with you?"
"A responder." Her voice catches. "Your husband should keep his men at the estate. They aren't needed here."
Someone told her to say that.
My pulse surges hard under my tongue. Smoke has already made my throat raw, and panic tightens it until I struggle to pull air through.
"Let me speak to the responder."
The phone moves. Fabric rubs against the microphone, followed by a low male voice.
"She is stable. Transport is already cleared through family dispatch. Do not interfere with the route."
"Give the phone back to her."
The line goes dead.
For an instant, the vehicle around me becomes painfully distinct. Water taps from the open door onto the rubber floor. A child sobs beneath an emergency blanket. Beyond the garage, burning glass collapses with a roar that makes everyone flinch.
Grandma's fear remains inside my ear.
I lunge through the open vehicle door.
Mikhail stands ten feet away directing a medic toward Galina. Snow melts across his bare head, running in black streaks through soot near one temple.
"Grandma left her house after a neighbor called," I tell him. "She says she's hurt and going to the central hospital. A man took her phone. She was being told what to say."
He raises his radio at once. "Medical transfer involving Nora's grandmother. Verify through house detail and central dispatch. Treat the caller as coerced."
The message travels across the family channel. I hear three acknowledgments, then a burst of speech from the mobile command post.
Behind us, the remaining service-wing roof folds inward. A column of sparks rises above the estate while everyone in the garage ducks from the concussion. Dasha's daughter starts screaming inside the vehicle. Another medic calls for help near the service doors.
Mikhail keeps one hand around my arm so I can't disappear into the movement. "You're staying with me until the route is confirmed."
"If she's in an ambulance, I need to meet her."
"We verify first."
I want to tear free. The part of me trained by the past two months holds still because this is what I should have done when the photograph arrived.
The family dispatcher answers through Mikhail's radio.
"House detail reports an emergency transfer under a valid responder credential. Destination is central trauma. Patient's assigned contact has been requested at intake. Medical transport is already moving."
"Where is her escort?" Mikhail asks.
"Recorded in the responder vehicle. The house detail remains in place."
The pressure in my lungs remains because nothing explains why Grandma warned Konstantin's men away.
"I heard coercion," I say close to the radio. "Flag the transfer."
"Flag entered. Central trauma confirms an unidentified female patient is expected from that district. No intake record yet."
The hospital confirmation supplies only an expectation, yet the dispatcher speaks with the calm authority of someone seeing a complete route. A green medical symbol appears on the transport tablet in Mikhail's hand.
"Call the hospital through a separate line," I say.
Mikhail points at one of the command staff. The woman dials from another device, speaks to emergency intake and covers the microphone. "They received the same responder notice three minutes ago. Female patient, possible rib injury, family transport."
Both the hospital and our dispatcher have received the same false emergency notice. Calling either one will only confirm the lie.
"Vehicle nine is cleared for the hospital," the dispatcher continues. "Temporary medical contractor at the wheel under estate credential four-seven. Assigned passenger escort is credentialed separately. The route avoids the eastern fire response."
An idling black sedan waits beyond the command vehicle.
Its driver stands beside the open rear door in a dark uniform, face exposed under a knit cap.
A second uniformed man waits beside the front passenger door.
The photographs on Mikhail's screen match both faces, along with the credential numbers clipped high on their coats.
Mikhail looks toward the burning house. A guard calls his name from the service doors, pointing toward a hose team that needs vehicles moved.
"I can send another person with her," he says into the radio.
"Negative. Assigned escort is already in place. Additional personnel will delay the medical corridor." The dispatcher sends the authorization to his tablet. Separate green fields cover the driver, escort, vehicle, and destination.
Mikhail turns the screen so I can read them.
"I told them the call sounded wrong," I say.
"It's in the alert. The hospital team will hold the responder vehicle when it arrives."
"Then let me go."
He speaks directly to the driver and escort, requiring the destination and separate emergency return phrases.
Both men answer correctly. Mikhail scans both credentials again before allowing me into the rear seat.
"Keep this channel open," he tells me. "You don't leave the car until our hospital team opens the door. "
"Tell Konstantin where I went."
"He already has the movement alert."
The driver closes me inside while the escort takes the front passenger seat.
As we leave the garage, I see Konstantin near the courtyard through smoke and falling snow. He stands beside a hose line, dragging a fallen section of timber away from two firefighters. Red lights move across his face before the car turns, taking him out of sight.
My phone shows one weak signal bar. The family radio built into the rear console carries the dispatch channel, where the same calm voice reports our vehicle entering the approved corridor.
Wet clothes chill against my back while the vent overheats my face. Soot grits between my teeth. When I wipe my mouth, black streaks cover the cuff of the coat someone placed around me during the evacuation.
My body hasn't finished surviving the fire. Muscles tremble beneath the borrowed wool, then lock each time the tires lose traction. I force my shoulders against the seat and watch the road through the shaking.
The car smells of wet wool, smoke, and the sharp plastic heat of an overworked vent. I press the sleeve of my coat across my mouth when coughing begins. Each spasm pulls under my ribs, leaving a sour metallic taste at the back of my tongue.
The baby is too small for me to feel, though my palm stays over the place I imagine protecting.
If this route is real, Grandma needs me calm when I reach her. If it isn't, panic will spend the strength I may need before I see whoever arranged it.
"How long?" I ask the driver.
"Fourteen minutes."
His voice is flat. Both hands remain on the wheel.
We pass the outer gate behind an emergency engine. The damaged barrier stands open, with guards directing vehicles toward the southern road. Our credential flashes green on their screen. Nobody stops us.
Two miles beyond the estate, the sedan turns west.
The central trauma hospital lies east toward the city.
"You're going the wrong way."
"Eastern response is blocked."
The rear route display shows a blue line bending north after the next junction, eventually circling toward the hospital. A family approval stamp glows beneath it.
I test the window control. The glass doesn't move. A clear fixed partition separates me from the front seats, its edges bolted under the upholstery. The car belongs to Konstantin's fleet, but somebody prepared it for a passenger who wouldn't be allowed to leave.
I press the call control.
"Vehicle nine requesting route verification," the dispatcher answers.
"We turned west. Confirm this road reaches central trauma."
"Confirmed. Emergency detour is approved due to fire congestion. Remain in the vehicle."
The driver never glances back.
Snow thickens beyond the glass, swallowing the lights of the estate behind us. Plows haven't cleared this stretch recently. The tires cut through loose powder before finding the hard surface beneath.
My panic gives way to a deliberate need to act before the next turn takes us beyond the last passing drivers. I have to leave a record of where I'm going while witnesses can still see this car.