Chapter 24
Yefrem
T he private jet cuts through clouds at thirty-seven thousand feet, its engines humming with the kind of expensive efficiency that money can buy when you need to move quickly and quietly.
Through the small window beside me, I watch the landscape change from western mountains to midwestern plains, each mile bringing us closer to a confrontation I never wanted.
Celia sits across from me, studying the folder of evidence we retrieved yesterday. Blood stains the corners of several documents, a reminder of what this information cost. She’s been quiet since we left Sandpoint, processing everything that happened with Agent Kim and what it means for our mission.
Leonid occupies the seat behind me, coordinating with our advance team through encrypted communications.
Three of my most trusted men flew out earlier to establish surveillance and logistics in the Washington area.
Moving this many people and resources represents a significant risk, but Assistant Director Patricia Hendricks doesn’t have time for half-measures.
“Landing in twenty minutes.” The pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom. “Weather is clear with no delays expected.”
I check my watch and calculate timing. Once we reach the private airfield outside Richmond, it’s a one0hour drive to McLean, Virginia, where the Assistant Director lives.
If our intelligence is accurate, Hendricks follows a predictable schedule that includes taking her daughter to dance class every Tuesday evening.
Routine makes people vulnerable, but it also makes them accessible.
“You’re certain about this approach?” Celia looks up from the documents, concern written across her features.
“Calling her directly failed.” I gesture toward Leonid’s phone, which still shows the blocked number she refused to answer after the first attempt. “She thinks we’re the threat, not the solution.”
The conversation with Hendricks lasted less than thirty seconds.
Leonid identified himself as someone with information about threats to her life, but she dismissed it as intimidation and hung up.
Standard Bureau training teaches agents to assume unknown contacts are hostile until proven otherwise, which makes sense for normal circumstances but complicates our situation.
“She has no reason to trust us.” Celia sets down the folder and meets my eyes. “From her perspective, we’re exactly what they’ve painted us to be.”
“Which is why you’re the key to making contact.” The decision sits uncomfortably with me, but logic overrides emotional preferences. “You’re the least threatening member of our team.”
“And the most expendable if this goes wrong.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” The suggestion that I view her as expendable sends heat through my chest. “You’re pregnant, a civilian, and have no criminal record. If she’s going to listen to anyone, it’ll be you.”
Leonid ends his current call and leans forward between our seats.
“Surveillance confirms her schedule. Dance class for the daughter runs from six-thirty to seven-thirty every Tuesday. She parks in the same section of the garage, exits through the main lobby, and usually stops for a smoothie afterward.”
I study the building schematics he displays on his tablet.
It’s a standard suburban dance studio, in ground floor retail space with parking underneath.
There are multiple exit routes, good sight lines, and a minimal security presence.
As locations go, it offers tactical advantages for both approach and escape. “Camera coverage?”
“Standard security system, but nothing sophisticated. Our people have identified blind spots for positioning.” He swipes to thermal imagery showing heat signatures inside the building. “The class size is consistent, with usually eight to ten children plus parents.”
The presence of civilians complicates everything, children, especially. If something goes wrong during the approach, innocent people could be hurt, which violates my personal code regardless of tactical necessity. “What about her security detail?”
“None visible. Either she’s not taking the threat seriously, or Bureau leadership hasn’t informed her about the danger. Why would they when the director is in on the plan to kill her?” Leonid closes the tablet and checks his sidearm. “It makes our job easier, but also more concerning.”
If Hendricks doesn’t know she’s a target, it means the corruption reaches higher than we initially suspected. Someone with authority over her security arrangements is either compromised or deliberately keeping her vulnerable. Either possibility suggests our timeline is shorter than anticipated.
The jet touches down smoothly on a private runway surrounded by Virginia countryside and owned by an associate of mine with less than legal uses for the area. There are no tower communications, and we’ve filed no flight plans filed with civilian aviation authorities.
A black van waits on the tarmac, non-descript and properly registered to one of my shell companies.
Leonid handles the logistics while I help Celia down the aircraft stairs, noting how the stress of the past few days has affected her energy levels.
Pregnancy complications are the last thing we need during an operation this sensitive. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired, but functional.” She accepts my hand but doesn’t lean on it more than necessary. “The nausea has been manageable today.”
“Let me know if that changes.” I guide her toward the van while scanning the surrounding area for potential surveillance. “This isn’t the time for heroics if you’re not feeling well.”
She nods and lets me help her inside. “No heroics from me,” she says with a wan smile.
“Remember that,” I say sternly, hating to put her in this position.
The drive to McLean takes exactly one hour through traffic that grows heavier as we approach the D.C.
metropolitan area. I use the time to review approach scenarios with Leonid, discussing contingencies for various outcomes.
Best case, Hendricks listens and agrees to cooperate.
Worst case, she views our approach as attempted kidnapping and calls for backup.
“Remember, minimal contact time.” I catch Celia’s attention in the van’s rearview mirror. “Show her enough evidence to establish credibility, but don’t linger. If she seems receptive, suggest a follow-up meeting somewhere more secure.”
“And if she panics?”
“You walk away. Don’t try to convince her, and don’t stay to argue.
Get back to the van, and we leave immediately.
” I mean we leave the country and head for Morocco.
New identities await in the jet, should we need them.
If this goes sideways, I don’t want to linger and make it easy for them to catch me for a murder I didn’t commit.
The dance studio occupies the ground floor of a modern office complex, with a huge wall of windows revealing parents watching their children practice.
It’s a normal suburban scene featuring the kind of domestic routine I never experienced but somehow find comforting.
Hendricks’ daughter is building memories that won’t involve violence or fear, at least not yet.
Leonid parks the van three spots away from Hendricks’ sedan, positioning us with clear sight lines to both her vehicle and the studio entrance.
The parabolic microphone he sets up will capture conversation from a reasonable distance, allowing us to monitor the interaction without direct involvement.
“She just arrived.” I track Hendricks through binoculars as she exits her car and walks toward the building.
She’s mid-forties, with a professional bearing, and moves with the confidence of someone accustomed to authority.
Her daughter skips beside her, maybe eight years old, carrying a ballet bag and chattering about something that makes her mother smile.
The domesticity of the scene startles me, making me briefly imagine taking my own daughter to classes someday.
It’s a bit surreal to see a federal law enforcement officer, dedicated to protecting society, taking her daughter to dance class like millions of other parents.
She has no idea her own colleagues are planning to murder her, or that a Russian criminal she’s never met is currently her best hope for survival.
“Class is starting.” Celia checks her watch and adjusts the small recording device concealed in her jacket. “I should position myself near the exit.”
“Remember the approach we discussed as a non-threatening, concerned citizen with information about threats to her safety.” I test the parabolic microphone, confirming clear audio reception. “Don’t mention my name unless she specifically asks.”
Celia nods and exits the van, walking casually toward the building entrance.
She’s dressed appropriately for the suburban environment, looking like any other parent or family member picking up a child from activities.
She’s the kind of person who wouldn’t attract security attention or trigger defensive responses though I can’t take my gaze off her—both because I’m worried about her and because she’s stunning to me.
The next hour passes slowly. I watch parents come and go, children visible through the studio windows practicing routines that seem impossibly complicated for their age.
It’s all normal life, and the kind Celia and I are fighting to build for our own child.
The irony isn’t lost on me that we’re using violence and deception to secure a peaceful future.
“Movement.” Leonid alerts me to activity near the studio entrance. “Class is ending.”