33. Cara
CARA
The trap works, and it feels awful.
On Yuri’s screen, the fake message opens through the old Boston channel.
His hands move over the keyboard. “Confirmed. It’s Patrick. He’s using a relay.”
For one second, everything inside me goes cold. At the man behind the message. At the fact that he is there, watching, and still finding ways to reach into my life.
Then I sit straighter.
No. Not this time.
Maksim moves closer to Yuri’s chair. “He’ll need proof that Cara is personally involved.”
Every eye turns toward me.
Dmitri stands across the table. His hands rest flat against the wood, and his head drops for one brief count while every screen keeps moving around him. When he lifts his face, no one in the annex looks straight at him.
Elena crosses the annex and takes my hand. Her fingers close around mine, and when I look at her, she doesn’t give me pity. She gives me steadiness. She knows what it costs to stand near danger while a child waits for adults to keep their promises.
“Patrick will test the message,” I say before Dmitri can stop me. “He’ll try to confirm I’m behind it. Then he’ll try to control what happens next.”
Yuri turns in his chair. “I can send another line.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not yet. You built the channel. Kathryn supplied the right words. Now we wait for Patrick to ask for something only I would know.”
Abramov folds his arms. “What kind of thing?”
“A phrase, a call, a time, a place,” I say, looking at the screen. “Something that proves I’m really the one making the mistake.”
Dima looks at Dmitri. “That sounds like he pulls her out.”
Dmitri’s voice cuts through the annex. “Enough.”
Maksim lifts one hand, palm out, and stops him before he can move. “No one is moving her until Patrick shows us what he wants.”
Yuri studies the fake contact path. “If he arranges a meeting, he’ll use a place or channel he controls.” He says it before I can.
I touch the table edge because my hands need something to do. “Yes. He’ll ask for control.”
Dmitri turns his head toward me.
“He’ll want proof that I’m really behind the message,” I say. “Then he’ll try to move me somewhere safer for him.”
Maksim crosses half the room, then stops in front of me. “Somewhere with people, phones, and records he can manage.”
Abramov looks over. “A controlled site.”
“Maybe,” Maksim says, his eyes on me.
Yuri types fast and pulls up a list of places. “If he wants a controlled place, Vostok Meridian fits. Empty admin rooms, service doors, and paperwork that makes deliveries look normal.”
Abramov points at the screen. “Oak and Tron have men near that site. If Patrick chooses anything close to Vostok, Morozov will know.”
Dima looks from Abramov to Dmitri. “Then Patrick can show Morozov he still has control without showing himself.”
Abramov rubs his stubble. “So Patrick gets cameras, guards, and exits he doesn’t have to bring himself.”
“He’s inviting trouble,” Kirill says, chin propped on his knuckles.
To everyone in this room, Patrick’s stupidity has become tedious. He’s arrogant, desperate, and dangerous when he thinks he can win, and I hope this time, he doesn’t turn the gun on himself before we reach him.
Dmitri steps toward me. His coat pulls tight across his shoulders, and he stops before he gets too close.
“You’re not going anywhere because Patrick sends a message,” he says.
“I know,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I’m saying he has to ask first.”
A line appears between his brows, but he says nothing.
Maksim glances at Yuri. “Leave the path open. Give him time to touch it again.”
Elena’s hand stays around mine. “And if he asks only for Cara?”
Dmitri answers before I can.
“Then we decide how to answer without giving him Cara.”
I don’t like the way he says it, but I breathe a little easier because he says we.
For ten minutes, the annex runs on screen light, low voices, and the faint click of Yuri’s keys. Nothing moves. Then the old Boston relay flashes again.
Yuri straightens. “Second touch.”
Kirill moves closer to the side screen. “He’s typing.”
Dmitri steps to the table. “Read it.”
Yuri waits until the line comes through.
Cara, is that you?
My stomach drops so fast, I have to grip the table.
Kathryn goes pale. “That sounds like him.”
“Answer?” Yuri asks.
Dmitri’s face says no before his mouth can.
Maksim raises one hand. “Let her choose the words.”
Everyone looks at me.
I stare at the message. Patrick is cautious enough to hide behind a relay and stupid enough to think I’ll sound like the sister who used to clean up after him.
“What would I say?” I ask Kathryn.
Kathryn swallows. “You’d be angry. Scared, but angry. You wouldn’t beg.”
I nod once. “Type this.”
Yuri puts his hands over the keys.
I say, “You? How the hell did you find this?”
Yuri sends it.
The reply comes back faster than I expect.
Prove it. Same phrase from Boston.
My mouth goes dry.
Patrick wants proof, and not Mikhail’s name, not a school, not a clinic, but me, the old rhythm of my life before home stopped feeling safe.
Kathryn leans beside Yuri’s chair, her face tight. “Use something small. Something Patrick would remember, but no one can use.”
I close my eyes for one second. “Vanilla ice cream. No names.”
Yuri looks at me.
“Vanilla ice cream was Patrick’s old warning phrase,” I say. “It sounded harmless, but it meant stop talking, move fast, and don’t ask why.”
Dmitri’s hand closes around the back of a chair.
“Send it,” I say.
Yuri sends the phrase. For ten seconds, nothing happens. Then the relay flashes again.
Vostok Meridian.
Dima curses under his breath.
Abramov lifts his phone. “Teams?”
Maksim raises one hand. “Wait.”
Yuri’s screen flashes again. This time, a New Harbor-linked account wakes beside the relay trail.
Kirill points at the wallet map. “He touched the money channel.”
Maksim’s eyes narrow. “The mistake.”
Dmitri looks from the hotel name to the account line. “He used New Harbor to make the meeting look real.”
Patrick took the hook because he wants Morozov to see that he can still move me.
“He’ll want more,” I say, closing my eyes for one second as Patrick’s smile comes back to me, close enough to make my skin crawl.
Dmitri steps beside me and takes my hand in front of everyone. His face is still hard with everything he hates about letting me go, but his grip is firm, and when he speaks, I know the fight is no longer with me.
“Then we give him less than he asks for,” he says, “and make him beg for the rest until he has nowhere left to hide.”
Preparation starts after breakfast. But we don’t have the timing window yet.
Abramov sets the field layer. Three vehicles, no obvious convoy, two walking teams, one woman near the admin desk, and one guard inside the building dressed as maintenance.
Dima chooses the men and rejects two because they walk like soldiers.
Dmitri checks every name, every car, and every door on Abramov’s map. He argues over the admin entrance, the service entrance, and the guard dressed as maintenance.
“What about timing?” Dima asks.
Yuri stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the screen. “He hasn’t given it yet.”
“He will,” I say, looking at my phone. “He’ll wait until the last second because he thinks that gives him control.”
I go to the north wing to see Mikhail.
He’s on the rug with Kathryn, Anna, and Sergei, who has somehow been trapped in a game of Candy Land.
Mikhail looks up when I walk in. “Mama, Sergei is bad at candy.”
Sergei stares at the board. “Candy has poor rules.”
My laugh dies in my throat, and Kathryn looks up from the rug.
Mikhail puts down his card. “Are you helping Dmitri?”
I kneel in front of him. “Yes.”
“Is he winning?”
“Not yet,” I say, brushing his hair back. “We’re trying.”
His small hand finds my sleeve. “Are you scared?”
I cup his cheek. “A little.”
Mikhail thinks hard, then crawls to the toys near the cushion. He picks up the blue car with the scratched door and the wheel that sticks, then places it in my palm.
“Blue crashes,” he says with great seriousness. “But blue keeps racing.”
I close my fingers around the car and pull him close. “Then I’ll take blue.”
Kathryn walks me to the door.
“She comes back,” Kathryn says, looking over my shoulder at Sergei.
Sergei nods once. “She comes back.”
Downstairs, Dmitri waits near the side entrance in a black coat, bare hands at his sides. He sees the blue car in my fist, and something moves across his face before he locks it down.
I close my fingers around the toy. “I’m coming back.”
“You are,” Dmitri says, and then his eyes move to my hand. “He gave you that?”
“Yes.”
His throat moves. “Red is with me.”
“I know.”
Dmitri steps closer and lowers his voice. “The wire stays on. You speak if anything feels wrong. If I tell you to walk out, you walk out.”
I lift my chin. “If I tell you Patrick is watching, you give Yuri time to catch the trace.”
His eyes harden, but he nods.
Abramov checks the wire under my coat collar with gloved hands. “Clear.”
Outside, the gray morning gives us cold pavement, dark vehicles, and men trying to look like drivers, workers, and strangers.
I’m about to take the planned route with Mikhail’s blue car in my pocket, a wire against my skin, and Volkov protection spread far enough back to let Patrick believe I am alone.
My phone lights up. The number is blocked, but the first line tells me who sent it.
Thirty minutes. Front Desk. Come alone.