Chapter 20 Sergei #2
“Take the next right,” Kirill says. “Small road. No light.”
We turn. The car jolts over ruts. Tall pines rise on both sides. Their trunks catch our headlights. I count them in my head. When we pass a crooked birch that leans over the ditch, my neck tightens.
“Slow,” I say.
We roll forward. The trees open. A narrow lake stretches ahead, pale under the sky. On the far shore, a line of dark shapes stands. Cottages. Blue roofs.
We kill the lights and coast. The engine noise drops.
“Park here,” I say. “We walk the rest.”
We pull onto a flat patch and cut the engine. The second SUV stops behind us. Men spill out, low and quiet. Cold air hits my face. The smells of frozen water and old wood sit heavily.
We fan out. The ground crunches under our boots. No dogs bark. No cars move. The cottages sit in a row. Some shutters hang crookedly. One roof has lost tiles. The house at the far end has a faint shape on its door. As we get closer, the carving comes clear.
A fox. A round sun.
Cottage eight.
I raise my fist. The line stops.
We crouch in the shadow of a pine.
“Perimeter first,” I murmur. “No one touches the door until we see the back.”
Kirill sends two men to either side. They move around the house, disappearing behind it. After a minute, one clicks the radio twice. Clear. No movement outside. No car behind.
I step out of the trees and walk toward the front. My boots crunch on the hard ground. I count three tall pines and one crooked birch off to the side.
The well ring stands near the path. Three iron hooks rust on its rim. A thin rope hangs from one.
She was here. I feel it in my bones.
The windows are dark. Curtains hang inside. No light leaks around them.
I motion Vlad’s replacement second, Oleg, to the side. He checks the ground near the door with a small light. No fresh wires. No pads. No new screws on the hinges.
“Clear,” he whispers.
I stand to the side of the door and look at the carving. The fox’s eyes are small and sharp. The sun has lines around it.
I raise my hand and knock twice. Then three times. Two. Three.
We wait.
Nothing moves inside. No shuffle. No voice.
I look at Oleg. He nods. He grips the knob and turns it slowly.
It is unlocked.
He pulls the door open and steps back. Cold air flows out. No blast. No smoke.
“Go,” I say.
Two men move in first, weapons up. They sweep left and right.
“Clear,” one calls softly.
I step inside.
The cottage is small. Wooden walls. Low ceiling. A main room with a table, a stove, and a bed. There is a door to a bathroom in the back.
The bed is unmade. The blanket lies in a heap. A pillow lies on the floor. A hair tie rests near the leg of the bed. It is one of Raina’s colors.
On the table sits a plate with crumbs and a cup with a thin circle of dried tea on the bottom. The laptop is closed. A cable runs to the wall. The camera on top is missing.
I move to the bed and pick up the hair tie. I know the feel of it. She bought a whole pack of these last month. They sat in a bowl by our door.
“She slept here,” I say.
Kirill checks the stove. It is cold. He touches the side of the kettle.
“Not heated in some hours,” he says. “Hard to say how many. The room is cold.”
Oleg checks the bathroom. “Empty,” he says. “No one.”
I scan the walls. A small lens hole sits high in one corner. A camera stared down here at the bed and table. Now it is gone.
“Andrei,” I call on the radio. “Check for active feeds from this house. He liked to watch.”
“Already looking,” he says in my ear. “No live signals from this node now. He cut off.”
I put the hair tie in my pocket and walk back to the table. The laptop looks cheap. Generic. I open it carefully.
The screen shows a blank login field. No helpful feed. No message.
“Take it,” I say. “We try to lift from the drive later.”
Kirill slides it into a bag.
On the chair I see a small dent in the cushion, like someone sat here not long ago. I check the floor. There are marks near the door. Boot prints. One larger, one smaller. A drag where a foot slipped.
“He moved her,” I say quietly. “We are late.”
Something beeps softly.
All of us freeze.
The sound comes from the small shelf by the bed. A black box sits there, no bigger than my hand. A red light glows on its face. As we watch, it flashes.
“Motion sensor,” Kirill says.
It beeps again. The red light shifts to green.
Then a tiny speaker on the box crackles to life.
“Welcome, Seryozha,” a familiar voice says, clear and calm. The sound fills the room.
My spine goes rigid.
The men look at me. They hear only the distorted edge. I hear something else under it. The cadence. The way certain consonants hit.
I know this voice. I heard it on a winter night years ago when we shared cheap vodka and dreams on a broken bench behind our old building. I heard it in a dark stairwell when he begged me for a bigger cut. I heard it full of anger when I told him no.
Only one person ever called me Seryozha in that exact way. Not my mother. Not my aunt. Not my crew.
The box crackles again.
“You always were good at following crumbs,” the Courier says. “Too bad you never learned to share.”
My hand closes into a fist.
Now I know which ghost I am hunting.