Chapter 27
Celia
T he quarters we’re assigned in a federal building feel more like a prison cell than a place of protection.
Generic furniture sits arranged in sterile rooms, reinforced windows refuse to open, and the constant awareness that armed guards monitor our every movement from positions I can’t see wears on me.
The building directory I glimpsed during our arrival listed it as the “Federal Witness Security Operations Center,” which sounds impressive but does nothing to calm the anxiety clawing at my chest.
I pace from the living room to the kitchen and back again, counting steps to keep my mind occupied.
Forty-three steps each way, and I’ve made this circuit at least fifty times since they took Yefrem away eight hours ago.
My feet ache, my back protests, and the morning sickness that I thought was improving has returned with a vengeance, probably triggered by stress hormones that can’t be good for the baby.
Leonid sits at the dining table with a book he took from the shelf.
He’s ostensibly reading but is actually watching me with the kind of careful attention that suggests he’s more worried than he’s letting on.
Every few minutes, he glances toward the reinforced door, and I catch him checking his phone even though he knows the agents confiscated our regular devices and gave us monitored ones instead.
“You should sit down.” He closes the book and turns to face me fully. “Pacing won’t bring him back faster, and you need to conserve your energy. He won’t be happy if I let you wear yourself out while waiting.”
“I can’t sit still.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend because frustration bleeds through despite my attempt to stay calm. “Every minute that passes is another minute they can use to build a case against him.”
“Yefrem is smart. He’s smarter than any prosecutor they can put in a room with him.” His voice carries the kind of confidence that comes from years of partnership, but I catch the uncertainty underneath. “If anyone can talk their way out of an impossible situation, it’s him.”
“What if they don’t want to listen? What if they’ve already decided he’s guilty and this whole immunity discussion is just a way to extract information before they throw him in prison for life?”
The question hangs in the air between us, giving voice to the fear that’s been growing since they led him away in handcuffs.
I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know how federal prosecutors operate when they want convictions.
They make deals, extract everything useful, and then find reasons to break those deals when it’s politically convenient.
“That won’t happen.” But Leonid doesn’t sound as certain as his words suggest.
“How do you know?”
“Because the evidence we have is too valuable for them to ignore, and because prosecuting Yefrem would mean protecting the same corrupt agents who tried to kill Assistant Director Hendricks.”
I want to believe him, but doubt gnaws at me like hunger.
Federal bureaucracy doesn’t always follow logical patterns, and justice doesn’t always align with what makes sense.
Sometimes, good people get destroyed by systems that are supposed to protect them.
How many times did Gemma and I watch TV cop shows together and note that same issue?
TV isn’t real life, but it’s hard to separate out facts and fears right now.
A sound outside makes me freeze mid-step. Vehicle engines, multiple ones, grow louder as they approach the building. I rush to the window despite knowing the reinforced glass will only show me shadows and general shapes.
“Leonid?” My voice comes out as a whisper.
He joins me at the window while both of us try to make out details through glass designed to prevent exactly what we’re attempting. “Could be shift change. Could be supply delivery.”
“Or it could be more agents coming to arrest us for additional charges we haven’t thought of yet.” My stomach dips at the thought. Until they secured us in this apartment, I wasn’t entirely sure we weren’t going to be charged too.
The vehicles stop, and I count at least three sets of headlights. The number seems too many for routine facility operations but not enough for a full tactical response. It’s the kind of convoy that suggests official business but not immediate danger.
Car doors slam shut, and I strain to hear voices through the reinforced walls. They’re mostly male voices carrying authoritative tones and sound like they’re coordinating official actions rather than casual interactions.
“I think I see someone walking toward the entrance.” Leonid presses closer to the window. “I can’t make out details, but the body language looks familiar.”
My heart pounds so hard I wonder if the stress might hurt the baby. Everything about this pregnancy feels precarious already, between the morning sickness and the constant anxiety about our situation. The last thing I need is to add cardiac stress to the list of complications.
The sound of keys in the door lock sends adrenaline through my system like an electric shock. I step back from the window and position myself where I can see whoever enters first, though I’m not sure what I’ll do with that information.
The door opens, and two federal agents enter, scanning the room with professional alertness before stepping aside to allow someone else through.
Yefrem walks into the safehouse.
He doesn’t get dragged, carried, or restrained in handcuffs. He walks freely between the agents like someone being escorted rather than someone being arrested. The relief that floods through me is so intense I have to grab the back of a chair to keep from collapsing.
He sees me immediately, and the expression on his face mirrors what I’m feeling. Hours of uncertainty and fear dissolve into the simple reality that we’re both still here, still safe, and still capable of holding each other.
I cross the room faster than my tired legs should allow, and when his arms close around me, tension leaves both our bodies. He holds me against his chest with desperate intensity that suggests he wasn’t entirely certain he’d see me again either.
“It’s over.” His voice is rough with emotion as he speaks against my hair. “We’re free, or we will be.”
The words don’t immediately make sense. Freedom sounds like something that happens to other people, not to us. Freedom feels like a concept from another lifetime. “What do you mean?”
He pulls back enough to look into my eyes while his hands move to cup my face with the gentleness I’ve learned to associate with his most serious moments. “I made a deal. Complete immunity in exchange for everything we have on Lang’s network.”
“Complete immunity?” The phrase sounds too good to be true.
He nods, giving me a small smile. “We’ll get new identities for all of us, including your mother if she wants to relocate. The deal includes federal protection during the investigation, then we disappear into whatever life we choose to build.”
I process this information slowly because I’m afraid to believe it’s real. “They agreed to that?”
“Lipsey and Hendricks both signed off on the preliminary agreement. The evidence we collected is too valuable for them to ignore, and they understand that prosecuting me would mean protecting the same corrupt agents who tried to kill Patricia.”
“I told you, Celia.” With a smile, Leonid joins us while relief becomes evident in his posture as he clasps Yefrem on the shoulder. “How long until it’s finalized?”
“Seventy-two hours for them to verify our evidence and coordinate with appropriate authorities, and then formal arrangements for new identities and relocation begin.”
“And until then?” he asks.
Yefrem gestures toward his ankle, where I notice the monitoring device for the first time. “I’m under house arrest here while they process everything, but we’re together, and that’s what matters.”
I sink onto the couch because I’m suddenly exhausted as adrenaline fades and the reality of our situation settles in. “You really think this will work? That they’ll honor the agreement?”
“I think they understand we have information they need more than they need to prosecute me for defending myself and protecting innocent people.” He sits beside me while his hand moves automatically to rest on my stomach. “But more importantly, I have backup plans they don’t know about.”
“What kind of backup plans?”
He drops his voice lower, probably worried they’re monitoring us.
They probably are. “New identities I arranged independently before we left Sandpoint, along with resources they can’t freeze or monitor, and escape routes that don’t depend on federal cooperation.
I don’t fully trust the government to keep its word, so I’ve prepared alternatives. ”
The admission doesn’t surprise me. Yefrem has survived this long by always having contingency plans and never depending entirely on other people’s promises.
Even in cooperation with federal authorities, he’s maintaining the kind of strategic thinking that’s kept us alive.
“Do you really think our child will be safe?”
He nods sharply. “I think our child will grow up. Whether that happens through federal protection or through our own efforts doesn’t matter as long as the result is the same.”
I lean against his shoulder while drawing comfort from his solid presence and the steady rhythm of his breathing. “Tell me about the deal again. All the details.”
For the next hour, Yefrem walks us through his negotiation with Lipsey and Hendricks, explaining how he presented our evidence and what specific protections they’ve agreed to provide.
The scope of Lang’s corruption network, the depth of documentation we’ve compiled, and the potential for saving other federal agents’ lives all contributed to their willingness to make a deal.