Chapter 43 Lena
Lena
Location: Coastal North Carolina — Afternoon
The café is crowded.
That’s why I chose it.
Tourists. Locals. College kids with laptops. The kind of place where anonymity comes easy and danger feels theoretical.
I’m halfway through my second coffee, scrolling through notes on my tablet, when the glass window beside my table shatters.
Not explodes.
Shatters.
The sound is sharp and violent, like the air itself cracking open.
Someone screams.
I don’t.
I duck.
Instinct takes over before thought—chair scraping back, body dropping low, hands over my head as glass rains down across the tile floor.
A second later, a car horn blares outside. Tires squeal.
Silence follows. Thick. Disoriented.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts.
“What the hell—?” someone yells.
“Is anyone hit?”
I lift my head slowly.
The table where I’d been sitting seconds ago is covered in glass. My coffee cup lies shattered, dark liquid bleeding across the floor.
If I’d leaned forward instead of back—
If I’d taken one more sip—
My hands start to shake.
A barista rushes over. “Ma’am—are you okay?”
I nod, throat tight. “I think so.”
Police arrive quickly. Too quickly, maybe. They tape off the street and interview witnesses.
“A delivery truck clipped a utility pole,” one officer says casually. “Pole snapped. Window went.”
An accident.
That’s the word they keep using.
But I know better.
Because utility poles don’t snap cleanly at the base.
Because delivery trucks don’t disappear that fast.
And because the hair on the back of my neck hasn’t stopped standing up since the moment the glass fell.
I step outside, hugging my coat around me despite the warmth.
And that’s when I see it.
Across the street. Half-hidden behind a parked SUV.
A man.
Watching.
Not filming. Not pretending to be on his phone.
Just watching.
Our eyes meet.
His gaze doesn’t widen. Doesn’t flick away.
He nods once.
Then turns and walks into the crowd.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
I don’t remember dialing Ronan.
I just know he answers on the first ring.
“Lena.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I say immediately. I tell him everything.
Silence. Sharp. Focused.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. But Ronan—someone was watching. He waited.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m already moving.”
“Good,” he says. “Don’t stop.”
I turn down a side street, heart racing, scanning reflections in windows, listening for footsteps.
“Lena,” Ronan says, voice low and lethal. “This wasn’t a coincidence.”
“I know.”
“This was a test.”
I swallow hard. “Then he’s closer than we thought.”
“No,” Ronan corrects. “He’s already crossed the line.”
I duck into a bookstore, forcing myself to breathe, to look normal, to disappear.
“I’m not backing down,” I tell him quietly.
“I know,” Ronan says.
And then—softer:
“That’s what scares him.”
I hang up and lean against a shelf, knees weak.
The world keeps moving around me. Shoppers browsing. Pages turning.
But something fundamental has shifted.
Malenkov didn’t come for me directly.
He brushed past my life.
Just enough to let me know—
I’m visible now.