Chapter 23
Celia
The parabolic microphone Leonid installed picks up fragments of conversation from inside the building.
The voices are too distant and distorted to make out individual words, but they’re enough to confirm the meeting is proceeding as planned.
I adjust the headphones and try to find a frequency that cuts through the static while my fingers tremble slightly as I work the controls.
Everything about this situation feels wrong.
The isolation, the remoteness, and the fact that we’re trusting someone desperate enough to request a face-to-face meeting in the middle of nowhere weighs on me like a millstone.
My father always said that when something feels off, it usually is.
Right now, every instinct I have is screaming danger.
The forest around us stretches for miles in every direction.
Tall pines create a canopy so thick that sunlight barely penetrates to the forest floor.
It would be beautiful under normal circumstances, but now, it feels oppressive and full of hiding places and potential threats.
Every shadow could conceal a sniper, and every rustle in the underbrush could signal approaching enemies.
I shift in the driver’s seat, trying to find a position that gives me clear sight lines to both the building and the access road we used to reach this location. The leather seat creaks softly as I move, and I wince at the sound because it’s too loud in the oppressive quiet of the forest.
Through the binoculars, my eyes dart along the tree line, looking for anything that doesn’t belong, like movement that’s too regular, reflections from optical equipment, or disturbed vegetation that might indicate recent passage.
It reminds me of sitting in the hunting blind with my dad one autumn, waiting for deer, and how he instructed me to find them visually before ever trying to shoot one.
When I had a shot, I’d deliberately missed but so had my father.
The hunting trips were for bonding, not actually taking down animals.
A sharp crack echoes through the forest, distracting me from the memory, and is followed immediately by shouting.
The parabolic microphone picks up the chaos of multiple voices, more gunshots, and the unmistakable sound of Yefrem cursing in Russian.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I comprehend the meeting has gone catastrophically wrong.
The sound of shattering glass behind me comes too late for evasion. Cold metal presses against the base of my skull before I can turn around, and a voice I recognize from surveillance recordings speaks directly into my ear.
“Don’t move. Don’t scream. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Agent David Kim. I’ve heard his voice a couple of times on recordings our surveillance teams captured during late-night meetings with cartel representatives to discuss evidence tampering and witness intimidation.
Seeing his face in the rearview mirror confirms what the voice already told me.
This was a trap, and we walked directly into it.
Either the informant is on it, or they were aware of his investigation and followed him here.
“Hands where I can see them. Drop the gun.”
I release the Glock 19, letting it fall to the passenger seat while keeping my movements slow and deliberate. The barrel of his pistol remains pressed against my skull, a constant pressure that makes every breath feel precarious.
“Smart girl. Now turn around slowly.”
I rotate in the seat until I’m facing him almost directly.
He’s younger than I expected from the surveillance photos, maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of clean-cut appearance that screams federal law enforcement.
Under different circumstances, he’d be unremarkable and the kind of person you’d pass on the street without a second glance.
“Slide over to the passenger seat. Keep your hands visible.”
I comply, moving carefully across the center console while he maintains the gun’s position. Once I’m in the passenger seat, he climbs through the broken rear window and positions himself directly behind me with the pistol now pressed against the back of my head once more. “Where’s the notebook?”
The question confuses me for a moment. “What notebook?”
“Don’t play stupid. Yefrem’s notebook that will implicate him.”
“I don’t know anything about a notebook.”
“Wrong answer.” The pressure of the gun barrel increases. “Your boyfriend is going to die today, and you can choose whether you die with him or help us clean up this mess.”
The casual way he discusses murder makes me tremble. This isn’t desperation or fear but calculated violence from someone who views killing as routine.
“We know Lang is dead. We haven’t found the body yet, but we know your Russian boyfriend killed him.
” His voice carries the tone of someone explaining simple facts.
“What we need is that notebook to expose Kulikov as supporting evidence, and we need to make sure the right story gets told about what happened.”
Keep him talking. The thought surfaces from some survival instinct I didn’t know I possessed. As long as he’s explaining his plan, he’s not pulling the trigger. “What story is that?”
He flashes a cold smile lacking any amusement.
“Yefrem Kulikov is a dangerous criminal who killed a federal agent to cover up his own crimes. He murdered Assistant Director Patricia Hendricks when she got too close to exposing his network.” He looks briefly at his watch.
“He’ll be murdering her in a matter of days. ”
The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but it’s clear they’re planning to kill an innocent person and blame Yefrem for it. Frame him for crimes he didn’t commit while committing actual murders themselves.
“Patricia Hendricks is a clean agent, a twenty-year veteran, and a mother of two.” Kim’s voice takes on an almost conversational tone, as if we’re discussing weather instead of murder.
“When her body is found, and when the evidence points to Kulikov, every clean agent in the Bureau will be hunting him personally. No questions asked, and no benefit of the doubt. No more cloak-and-dagger shit as we try to skirt below the radar to find him. We’ll have every resource at our disposal. ”
I try to process the scope of what he’s describing. It’s not just individual corruption, but systematic conspiracy involving multiple murders and elaborate frame jobs. “And if I don’t cooperate?”
“Then you die here, and we tell the story anyway. Your death becomes more evidence of Kulikov’s brutality because he murdered his girlfriend when she tried to run from him.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
He chuckles. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll be dead.
We’ll paint it that he realized you’re the weak point in his operation and eliminated you.
” The gun shifts position slightly, and I feel the safety clicking off.
“You know it’s true, right? You’re his weak spot.
He cares about you, which makes him predictable. Vulnerable.”
I force myself to remain still and to keep my voice steady despite the terror clawing at my chest. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“The location of Yefrem’s notebook and where you’ve been hiding while investigating. I want all the evidence he’s found so I can destroy it. We also require your cooperation in framing Kulikov for crimes we’re going to commit anyway. Oh, and silence about Bureau operations you’ve been exposed to.”
“And in exchange?”
“You live. You’ll get a new identity and money to start over.” His voice takes on an almost reasonable tone. “Think about it because your boyfriend is going to die tonight regardless. The question is whether you die with him or build a new life.”
The offer is designed to sound appealing, but I can hear the lie underneath it.
People who casually discuss murdering federal agents don’t leave loose ends alive.
Whatever they’re promising, the reality would be very different.
They would kill me whether it’s right after they take my statement or wait months until I’m settled in a new life, thinking I’m safe.
I couldn’t do that to Yefrem anyway, but I don’t believe his promises for a second. “I need time to think.”
“You have about thirty seconds before your boyfriend bleeds out in that building. Then the offer expires.”
Gunfire erupts from the direction of the abandoned structure from multiple weapons firing in sustained bursts. Through the broken rear window, I see muzzle flashes lighting up the interior of the building like deadly fireworks.
“Sounds like time’s up.” Kim’s voice carries grim satisfaction. “What’s it going to be?”
Before I can answer, shadows move through the trees toward our position. I think I make out two figures running in a tactical crouch, weapons drawn, and moving with the kind of coordinated precision that speaks to years of partnership.
Yefrem and Leonid.
Kim sees them at the same moment I do. He curses and swings his pistol toward the approaching figures, momentarily removing it from my head. The opportunity lasts less than a second, but it’s enough.
I throw myself forward against the dashboard as gunfire explodes around the SUV. The rearview window disintegrates completely under the assault. Safety glass rains down on my back as I press myself as low as possible in the seat.
The firefight is brief but intense. Kim manages to fire three rounds through the passenger window before Leonid’s shot takes him center mass. He collapses backward across the rear seat, and his weapon clatters to the floor.
Yefrem reaches the driver’s door first, yanking it open and scanning me for injuries with eyes that hold barely controlled rage. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Shaken, but fine.” My ears are ringing, and I think I must shout the words, because he winces.