34. Dmitri
DMITRI
Cara’s phone rings while we stand under the side portico, ready to move.
She has been waiting for it.
I have watched her check the edge of her sleeve, look at the open car door, and then look back at Yuri’s tablet. The route is live. The wire is live. Patrick has everything he needs. Now he only has to give her the time.
Cara reads the message once, then again.
I stay where I am, even though I want to cross the stone and take the phone from her.
On the second read, she looks at me. “Thirty minutes. He asked me to come alone.”
She turns the phone so Yuri can capture the screen. Yuri mirrors the message at once. “Captured.”
Abramov steps closer. “This bothers me. He added Vostok Meridian, asked her to confirm a childhood phrase, and now gives her thirty minutes?”
Cara keeps the phone in her hand. “He’s asking for proof, not love.”
I want to choke Patrick’s voice out of the device. Even through a screen, he leaves filth behind. I keep my hand at my side, and Cara sees it.
“He checked the fake route,” she says, turning toward Maksim. “He double-checked it through New Harbor, then moved the meeting to the hotel. Now he wants to know if I’m really panicking.”
“Dirty swine,” Dima mutters under his breath.
Maksim keeps his attention on me.
“Let her go,” he says.
Cara has dressed for the cover. She wears a dark fitted dress under a long coat, low heels, small earrings, and makeup that says control. Her hair is pinned up, with loose pieces around her face. She looks strained, careful, and one breath away from cracking.
She catches me looking and gives me a bitter little smile. “Mata Hari costume.”
I understand the joke and hate it in the same breath. Patrick has survived by selling lies people wanted to buy. Tonight, Cara will sell him one he wants badly.
Mikhail’s blue car sits in her coat pocket. The wire rests under her collar. Her phone mirrors to Yuri. We agree on two phrases.
If she says, “I need more time,” she is uncomfortable, and we tighten the circle. If she says, “Tell Kathryn I’m sorry,” I move, and the conversation ends there.
Cara repeats both phrases with her eyes on mine.
I step closer and lower my voice. “Don’t give him an inch.”
Her fingers brush my coat pocket. “I’ll make him ask for one.”
Abramov’s people order a car through a neutral ride service, then intercept it before it reaches the estate. The real driver takes cash, signs nothing, and leaves in another car. Abramov puts on the cap, gloves, and blank face of a hired driver.
Cara gets into the back seat like she is alone.
Dima trails three blocks behind with two men in a car that looks like it has seen better winters.
Ilya’s team is already staged near Vostok Meridian in a delivery van and a municipal service truck.
Vera, one of Abramov’s people, enters the hotel first as a temp admin worker, and another guard poses as maintenance near the service corridor.
A third car leaves the estate with me in the back. Roman drives, and a tech from Yuri’s team sits in front with the encrypted line open to the annex. I sit alone and listen to Cara breathe through the wire.
We keep distance between the cars so Patrick’s watchers won’t tie mine to Cara’s. I can still reach the hotel fast.
Roman glances at me through the mirror. “This isn’t the kind of hunt you like.”
“No,” I say, watching Abramov’s car two blocks ahead.
The tech keeps one hand over his earpiece. “Yuri has the phone mirror. Kirill has the hotel appointment system.”
Yuri comes through the line. “Patrick’s side has gone quiet.”
Good. He thinks he has control.
Kirill speaks next. “Oak and Tron just shifted two men to the service entrance. Filed as routine coverage.”
Roman turns onto the main road. “Routine my ass,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road.
Yuri adds, “Vera is inside. Admin desk has the appointment pulled up.”
I look at Cara’s car ahead of us. Her breathing stays even, and it almost breaks my control.
Vostok Meridian looks normal from half a block away.
Roman parks with the nose of the car angled toward the entrance, far back enough to look like a driver waiting for someone. Through the front windows, I can see wrapped lobby furniture, plastic runners over pale marble, and paint tins stacked near one wall.
Ilya reports from the delivery truck after checking the feed from Vera. “Receptionist behind the front desk. Badge, neat hair, and a clever face.”
He listens for half a second, then speaks into the earpiece again. “Half the cameras are easy to see.”
“The useful ones won’t be,” I mutter.
Dima joins the line. “Leonid checked the old paperwork. Part of the building is being prepared for a private clinic lease.”
I look at the bright entrance, the clean glass, and the careful mess of renovation work. Anyone who wants a legal explanation will find one in five seconds.
Abramov’s voice comes through. “Oak and Tron handle the outer layer. Thermal jackets, radios, bored faces.”
“Where?”
“Side entrance, loading bay, and lobby doors.”
“Watchers,” I say.
“Bird dogs,” Abramov scoffs.
Yuri speaks again. “Cara is at the front.”
On the wire, Abramov says, “You’re clear to step out, Miss O’Connell.”
Her hired car stops. I lean forward. Cara opens the door before Abramov can do it for her. Good. Patrick would expect that from her. She hates being managed.
She looks at the fare on the driver’s screen, pulls cash from her bag, and passes it through the gap without speaking.
Abramov takes it like any tired driver would, gives her a bored nod, and pulls away before she reaches the curb.
Cara walks toward the entrance with her phone in one hand and her coat closed around her.
Roman whistles. I ignore it this time. He’s young, and he’ll learn.
The tech raises a tablet so I can see the lobby feed from the admin worker’s button camera. Vera is already inside, seated behind a side desk with a temp badge, a stack of forms, and her face turned toward a screen she’s not really reading.
Cara enters beneath the renovation sign. She keeps her face straight ahead and acts normal, failing only enough for Patrick to believe it if he’s watching.
“Receptionist has eyes on her,” Yuri says.
Kirill comes in. “Appointment window changed again. Five minutes shorter.”
Yuri adds, “Patrick wants pressure.”
Roman taps the wheel. “He’s moving her fast.”
“No,” I say as Cara stops at the front desk. “He’s seeing whether she obeys.”
Through the wire, Cara’s voice reaches me clearly.
“I have an appointment update,” she tells the receptionist, and the tired edge in her voice is good. “There may be a problem with the appointment window.”
The receptionist looks at her screen. “Name?”
Cara waits half a beat. “No names. The person who changed it said you would know.”
The receptionist’s fingers move across the keyboard.
Yuri says, “Hotel system opened the fake file.”
Kirill comes in right after him. “New Harbor-adjacent wallet check. Same cluster as before.”
Yuri’s voice tightens. “That wasn’t only a verification. Someone used it like a signal.”
“To whom?” I ask.
Kirill answers after one hard click of his keyboard. “Whoever controls protected access inside the hotel.”
My hand closes around nothing.
Roman glances at me again. “This hunt wears a suit.”
“Yes,” I say.
Years ago, I would have put men through windows before lunch and called it progress.
Morozov knows that. Patrick knows enough of it.
Maksim was right. The men we need won’t walk in with blood on their cuffs.
They use appointment windows, guard schedules, donor accounts, fake clinic leases, and renovation signs.
If I storm the place now, Morozov gets exactly what he wants, Volkov violence tied to a woman and child.
Cara keeps her voice steady. “I was told there would be vanilla ice cream.”
The receptionist looks up. Every muscle in me pulls tight.
Yuri says, “The device that sent the meeting time just came online inside Vostok.”
The tech turns in his seat. “He’s here?”
“East service stairs,” Kirill says. “Low floor.”
Dima comes through from the second car. “Give me the word.”
I look at the lobby feed. Cara stands at the front desk with one hand on her phone and the other near her pocket. She knows we heard. She knows Patrick is close enough to watch.
The receptionist turns slightly, listening to someone through an earpiece we couldn’t see before. Vera sits at the side admin desk, eyes on her screen, close enough to hear the receptionist speak.
Near the service corridor, our guard in maintenance gray pushes a cart past the wall camera and slows by the lift.
Yuri speaks again. “Patrick’s device is moving toward the service lift.”
Kirill follows fast. “Oak and Tron just updated the service schedule.”
I keep my eyes on Cara. “What changed?”
“Service lift opened under private security access,” Kirill says.
No one speaks for a second. Cara’s breathing catches through the wire, then steadies.
My hand goes to the door handle.
“Hold,” Maksim says through the line from the estate annex. “Let them show their hand.”
The service corridor feed flickers on the tablet. On the lobby feed, Cara turns her head slightly, as if someone has called her from the side.
Dima says my name once. My fingers tighten around the door handle.
Through the wire, Cara says, “I need more time.”
Abramov moves first. “Field layer tightens. No contact yet.”
On the tablet, our maintenance guard looks once toward the lift and keeps moving.
Yuri says, “Patrick’s phone stopped by the service lift.”
Kirill adds, “Lift is still open.”
Roman already has the car angled toward the side entrance.
Cara takes one careful step away from the front desk and keeps her phone visible in her hand. The lift indicator changes floors.
Yuri says, “Someone is coming up.”
Then Kirill gives us the hook.
“Second access just opened the same lift,” he says. “Morozov private security override.”
Maksim’s voice cuts through the line. “We got him.”
On the lobby feed, the service door opens. Cara turns. A man steps out in a dark coat, thinner than the file photos, smiling like he has every right to be there.
“Sukin syn,” I curse under my breath.
Through the wire, Patrick says, “Hey, Care Bear.”