32. Dmitri
DMITRI
The fake message sits on Yuri’s screen. A mistake made by a woman with no sleep and no options. I have to admit it looks real.
Oleg is contained. Pavel is contained. Vostok Meridian has a name, a use, and men guarding it. New Harbor has exposed itself through charity language. Patrick is hiding and running because Morozov needs whatever he knows.
The pieces are there.
I still need proof.
Now Cara’s fear becomes the thing Patrick follows.
Yuri keeps his fingers above the keyboard, waiting for my word. Kirill drags on his cigarette, his eyes on the screen.
Abramov stands near the feed with his phone ready. Dima leans against the wall, arms folded. Their faces make it clear they would rather drag Patrick through a window than watch a message travel through one.
Cara stands beside the table. Her face is tired, but her eyes are clear.
Maksim enters before Yuri sends anything live. He listens to the plan, reads the message once, and checks the false nanny contact, the empty transport request, and the Boston-style phrasing built in Cara’s voice.
“No real child details,” Maksim says, pointing to the screen.
Yuri shakes his head. “None.”
Maksim looks at Kirill. “The transport request.”
Kirill keeps the cigarette low between two fingers and taps the map with his other hand. “Only a shape. It goes nowhere useful.”
Maksim turns his gaze to Cara. “Only your voice.”
Cara lifts her chin. “That’s what Patrick will chase.”
Maksim studies her for a moment, then looks at me. “My study.”
I don’t move at first. Cara’s eyes flick to mine. Maksim walks out, and I follow him.
His study still carries the old parts of power. I have known this room since his father’s time, when I was fifteen and newly sworn to the Volkovs. Maksim was eighteen then, all long limbs, clean arrogance, and a kind mouth he learned to hide soon enough.
I look around at the dark wood, the heavy desk, the whiskey tumbler near one hand, and the black ashtray with cigar smoke curling above it.
“Pakhan,” I say.
Maksim shuts the door and walks behind the desk.
“You don’t want to use her as bait,” he says, pouring whiskey he doesn’t offer me.
“I don’t want that word near her.”
Maksim sets the bottle down. “Then choose another word and do the work.”
My mouth tightens.
He leans back against the desk. “If you put Cara away, Patrick won’t bite.”
“Good,” I say.
Maksim’s mouth hardens. “No. Then Patrick chooses the next target himself.”
“Patrick isn’t the prize,” Maksim says, gentler now. “He’s the part we pull until Morozov moves.”
I look toward the window, where winter presses against the glass.
“Morozov is counting on you to act like a father before you think like a strategist,” Maksim says, and his voice loses the edge. “I know why that is hard.”
I look back at him. For once, Maksim doesn’t use command to cover what he means.
“Every time Morozov touches your life, I tell you to hold back,” he says, rolling the tumbler between his fingers. “Your parents, the fire, Cara, now the boy. I know what that costs.”
I don’t want to hear it.
Maksim steps closer. “If you grab too soon, you burn the channel. If you lose control in the field, Morozov proves your family can move Volkov decisions. That’s exactly what he wants.”
“He touched my son,” I say, and my voice comes out calm.
Maksim nods. “He did. So make him commit a mistake big enough to bury him.”
I want to cancel the plan. My body wants it with a force that almost feels clean. Strip Mikhail’s name from every file. Put Cara upstairs behind ten guarded doors. Pull Patrick out of whatever hole he’s using tonight.
Leave Morozov with ash in his mouth.
I stand in Maksim’s study instead, and I swallow every answer that would make me easy to steer.
Maksim nods again, as if he sees the choice happen. “Go.”
Back in the annex, Cara looks at me. She knows. I tilt my head toward the corridor, and Cara follows.
The hall outside is empty except for one guard at the far turn. I stop near a tall window, and she stops close enough for her sleeve to brush my coat.
“I dislike this plan,” I say.
Cara lets out a slow breath. “I know.”
“I won’t put you away to make myself feel safer,” I say, forcing the words out. “But if the bait wakes anything, we move together. No heroics. No private sacrifice.”
Her lips part, and she looks at my mouth.
I close the space between us. “You don’t decide alone because you’re scared.”
“I promise,” she says, touching my sleeve.
I take her hand. Her fingers are cold, and mine close around them before I make the touch gentler.
“Promises before danger are the easy ones,” I say, rubbing my thumb once over her knuckles.
Cara steps closer. “Then remind me when it gets hard.”
My breath catches in my chest. I lower my head until my mouth is near her ear, close enough to feel her shiver. “When it gets hard, you look at me before you move.”
Cara’s hand tightens around mine, and her head almost rests against my chest. “And you?” she whispers.
I pull back enough to meet her eyes. “I do the same.”
My thumb brushes across her lower lip. The guard clears his throat at the far turn and finds the ceiling fascinating.
Cara’s mouth curves. “Your men have excellent error handling skills.”
“Some of them,” I say, releasing her hand before I forget where we are.
Inside the annex, Yuri is ready. Maksim stands near the back wall. Elena has joined him, calm and watchful, with one hand resting over the other. Dima straightens when Cara returns beside me.
Yuri looks over his shoulder. “Send?”
I look at Cara.
She nods, short and swift.
“Send,” I say.
Yuri taps the key. The fake message leaves through the nanny contact and brushes the old Boston channel Cara built into its path. It doesn’t go to Patrick. It only passes close enough for him to notice if he’s still watching.
Nothing happens.
One minute passes. Then five.
Dima shifts his stance. Abramov checks his phone twice. Kirill watches the channel map with his cigarette held low. Yuri keeps both hands above the keyboard and waits.
Kathryn sits beside Cara, and both of them stare at the screen.
At fifteen minutes, the old Boston channel checks the message.
Yuri leans forward. “First touch.”
A second marker appears near the first.
Abramov looks up. “Same old Boston channel?”
Yuri types fast. “Yes. Different access point.”
My hand closes at my side.
Cara grips Kathryn’s hand.
Patrick hasn’t shown his face, but someone has followed the message through the old Boston channel. Whoever it is didn’t just notice it. They opened it, checked the false nanny contact, and tried to read the empty transport request.
Yuri’s screen flashes again.
He leans closer, both hands on the keyboard now. “He’s inside the message.”
My voice stays calm. “Patrick?”
Yuri shakes his head. “Not direct. He’s using a relay, but he’s reading it like he knows her.”