16. Eduard
EDUARD
The meeting room is thick with cigar smoke and tension when we enter.
Six of our most trusted captains sit around the long mahogany table, their conversations dying the moment they notice Emma walking in behind us.
I watch their expressions shift from surprise to wariness to barely concealed curiosity as she takes a seat in the corner chair Rurik gestures toward.
She doesn’t belong here. Every man in this room knows it. An FBI agent sitting in on Bratva business is the kind of thing that gets people killed. But Rurik made the call, and none of them will question him. Not openly, anyway.
I settle into my usual spot at the table’s right side while Artur drops into the chair across from me. Rurik takes the head position, his pale eyes sweeping the room with that controlled authority that makes even hardened criminals straighten their spines.
“Continue,” Rurik says simply.
One of our senior captains clears his throat and returns his attention to the shipping manifests spread across the table.
He’s a thick-shouldered man in his fifties with graying hair and hands scarred from decades of enforcement work.
“The Pacific routes are running clean. No issues with customs at the usual checkpoints.”
“What about the Seattle shipment?” Artur asks, leaning back in his chair with deceptive casualness.
“Delayed.” The captain’s jaw tightens. “Port authority flagged one of the containers for random inspection. We had to reroute through Vancouver, which added three days and cost us the delivery window.”
I glance at Emma. She sits perfectly still, her gray-green eyes tracking the conversation without obvious reaction. But I know her well enough now to see the way her fingers rest against her thigh, the slight tension in her shoulders. She’s cataloging every detail and filing it away for later use.
The thought should bother me more than it does.
“The Vancouver route is compromised,” another captain says. This one is younger, maybe forty, with sharp features and a reputation for moving product faster than anyone else in our network. “Border patrol increased their presence after that weapons bust last month. We need alternate options.”
He spreads a map across the table, his thick finger tracing the current shipping lanes. “We could push everything through Portland, but that means dealing with the Italians. They’ll want a cut.”
“Fuck the Italians,” Artur mutters. “We’re not paying tribute to move our own shit through territory we’ve held for twenty years.”
The discussion continues, voices rising and falling as the captains debate routes, costs, and risks.
I watch Emma from the corner of my eye. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, but her attention never wavers.
When someone mentions a transport problem involving new traffic cameras along Highway 101, I see something flicker across her face.
Recognition.
She knows that route. Of course she does. The FBI probably has surveillance on half the roads we use.
The room falls into frustrated silence as the captains stare at the map, searching for solutions that don’t involve paying off rivals or risking increased law enforcement attention.
Then Emma speaks. “Highway 26 through the Coastal Range.”
Every head turns toward her. The silence shifts from thoughtful to dangerous in the space of a heartbeat. The older captain’s hand moves subtly toward the weapon I know he keeps holstered under his jacket. Others look at her with suspicion.
Emma doesn’t flinch. She stands and moves to the table, her finger landing on the map with confident precision.
“You’re trying to avoid the new cameras on 101, but you’re not accounting for the seasonal logging routes.
Highway 26 cuts through the mountains and connects to rural roads that bypass the main checkpoints entirely.
The traffic is lighter, the surveillance is minimal, and if you time it right, you can move through during shift changes when patrol presence drops. ”
The older captain stares at her like she just spoke in tongues. “How the fuck do you know about logging routes?”
“I’m FBI,” Emma says flatly. “We map criminal transport patterns. That includes knowing which roads you use and which ones you don’t.”
Artur laughs, sharp and surprised. “She’s got a point.”
Rurik studies the map, his expression unreadable. Then he looks at the captain. “Check it. If the route is viable, we use it.”
He nods slowly, his gaze still locked on Emma with a mixture of respect and distrust. “Yes, sir.”
The meeting continues, but the energy has shifted. The captains are more cautious now, more aware of Emma’s presence. They speak in vaguer terms, avoid specifics, and glance at her frequently like they’re waiting for her to reveal herself as the threat they all know she is.
When Rurik finally dismisses them, they file out quickly, their voices low as they discuss what just happened. I catch fragments of Russian, words like “risk,” “liability,” and “dangerous.”
They’re not wrong.
Once the room empties, Rurik turns to Emma. “That was either very smart or very stupid.”
“Probably both,” she admits.
I stand and gesture toward the door. “Come on. If you’re going to be here, you might as well see the rest of it.”
We leave the meeting room and move deeper into the estate, Artur heading off to his duties.
Emma walks beside me, her steps quiet against the marble floors.
I’m acutely aware of how close she is, the way her shoulder occasionally brushes mine when we turn corners.
The scent of her clean, a contrast to the cigar smoke from the office.
“You didn’t have to help them,” I say quietly.
“I know.” She doesn’t look at me. “But if I’m stuck here, I might as well make myself useful.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Making yourself useful?”
Her jaw tightens. “What else would I be doing?”
“Gathering intelligence. Planning your next escape. Figuring out how to bring us down from the inside.”
She stops walking and turns to face me, her gray-green eyes sharp. “Would you expect anything less?”
“No.” I hold her gaze. “But I’d be disappointed if you weren’t honest about it.”
For a moment, something shifts in her expression. Not quite trust, but maybe the beginning of understanding. Then she looks away and continues walking.
We pass through a corridor I know she hasn’t seen before, one that leads to the estate’s operational nerve center. The security room sits behind a reinforced door with biometric locks. I press my palm against the scanner and the mechanism disengages with a soft click.
Inside, three guards monitor a wall of screens showing camera feeds from every angle of the property. The main gates, the gardens, the perimeter fence, and the forest beyond. Everything is visible, recorded, and archived.
Emma’s attention locks onto the screens immediately.
I watch her eyes move across the feeds, tracking patterns, noting blind spots, and memorizing guard rotations.
She’s good at hiding it, pretending to only glance casually, but I see the way her gaze lingers on the eastern service gate where deliveries enter each morning.
She’s already planning.
“Impressive setup,” she says, her tone carefully neutral.
“It needs to be.” I move closer to the screens, pointing out specific feeds. “We have over two hundred cameras covering the estate and surrounding property. Motion sensors along the fence line. Thermal imaging in the forest. Guards rotate every six hours on staggered schedules.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re going to figure it out anyway.” I turn to face her. “And I’d rather you understand how thorough we are than waste time testing weaknesses that don’t exist.”
Her lips curve slightly. “You think there are no weaknesses?”
“I think any weakness you find will cost you more than it’s worth.”
She doesn’t respond, but I see the challenge in her eyes. She’s already calculating, already searching for the flaw in our system. It’s what makes her dangerous. It’s also what makes her fascinating.
We leave the security room and head outside. The afternoon sun is warm against my skin as we cross the courtyard toward the training range on the estate’s western edge. The sound of gunfire echoes across the grounds, sharp cracks that punctuate the otherwise quiet afternoon.
Artur is already there, leaning against a post while several guards practice with handguns and rifles. He grins when he sees us approaching, that cocky smile that usually means he’s about to cause trouble.
“Perfect timing,” he calls out. “We were just discussing whether FBI agents can actually shoot or if it’s all Quantico propaganda.”
Emma’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the flash of irritation in her eyes. “You want to find out?”
“Absolutely.” Artur pushes away from the post and gestures toward the range. “Show us what you’ve got, sweetheart.”
She doesn’t correct him for calling her “sweetheart” this time.
Instead, she walks to the weapons table and selects a Glock 19, checking the magazine and chamber with practiced efficiency.
The guards watch with barely concealed skepticism.
They’ve seen plenty of people who think they can shoot. Most of them can’t.
Emma takes her position at the firing line, her stance perfect. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t show off. She just breathes, aims, and fires.
The first shot hits the center mass. So does the second. And the third. By the time she empties the magazine, every round has landed within a tight grouping that would make most of our men jealous.
The range goes quiet.
Artur whistles low. “Well, fuck me.”
“Maybe later,” Emma says without looking at him, and I have to bite back a laugh.
She sets the weapon down and turns to face the guards, her expression calm. “Anyone else want to question my training?”
No one speaks.
As we leave the range, one of the captains who handles our Baltic shipping connections approaches Artur. He’s older, maybe sixty, with a weathered face and hands that have seen decades of hard work.
“The shipment from Klaip?da is confirmed for Thursday,” he says in heavily accented English. “Baltic Logistics is handling the transport.”
Emma freezes.
The change is subtle, but I catch it. The way her shoulders stiffen and her breathing shifts. The way her eyes go distant for just a fraction of a second before she forces her expression back to neutral.
But it’s too late. I saw it.
“Baltic Logistics?” I ask, watching her carefully.
He nods. “Same company we’ve used for the past five years.”
Emma’s hands curl into fists at her sides, so tight her knuckles go white. Then she forces them to relax, but the damage is done. Whatever that name means to her, it’s significant.
Artur notices too. His dark eyes narrow as he studies her face. “Something wrong?”
“It’s the same logistics company that handled security at the party where Krystal disappeared,” she says slowly.