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Vadisk hopped out of the van and looked around, hating to break up the lighthearted moment they’d been having. Brief flashes of levity were necessary in tense situations, as it took the edge off the adrenaline.
Dahlia had parked the van at the back corner of the massive building. While the front had a paved, circular drive, back here was an area of packed dirt. There was only one other car, so this clearly wasn’t the designated parking area for militia members or household staff.
Hopefully if anyone took note of the van, they’d talk to the gate guard, who would tell them to avoid the pissed-off pregnant woman and just let her do her job.
“I’ll go first,” Dahlia said, “and figure out how many people are in there and the best way to go in.”
“Wait.” Montana pointed toward the back door. “Is that a laundry bag?”
Vadisk followed his finger to the tan sack sitting on the ground by the rear door. At first glance, he had assumed it was an odd-colored garbage bag, but now that he was really looking, he saw it was canvas.
Dahlia walked swiftly from the van to the bag, peeked inside, and then hauled it back, having to drag it part of the way.
“If we put that in the back of the van now, and leave the doors open, it will help sell that we’re the laundry people,” Montana said as he went to help Dahlia with the bag once she was under the trees.
“Check what’s inside,” she panted.
Montana hauled the bag into the van and Vadisk opened it.
Militia uniforms.
“Fuck yes,” Montana said with a grin, yanking out a pair of pants.
Ten minutes later, Montana was in uniform, and Vadisk was as close as he could get. The pants were too short, but luckily his boots came up high enough that he wasn’t showing off ankle. The shirt was on, the buttons straining to hold it closed across the chest.
“If you take a deep breath, you’re going to burst out of that thing like the Hulk,” Montana said.
Vadisk started to round his cramped shoulders but stopped when he heard something tear. “It will work,” he said. “I’m going to go get us some weapons.”
Dahlia looked worried, but Montana nodded. “We’ll go?—”
“Just me. You don’t speak Russian or Ukrainian.”
Montana’s mouth flattened, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“Montana, you go to Sinaver’s office and check it for bugs and cameras,” Vadisk said.
“You’re sure he’s not here?” Dahlia asked. “Maybe just check again.”
Montana took out his phone, which was luckily waterproof and had survived his leap overboard. “GPS puts him, or at least his phone, in Sevastopol.”
“Dahlia, do a quick sweep of the house, count any non-militia people you see.”
She nodded, adjusting the stack of towels she’d just neatly folded and tucked under her arm.
“We meet in twenty minutes outside Sinaver’s office.”
One by one, they went in, and this time Vadisk was in the lead.
The rear door opened to a dark hallway with paneled wooden walls and a tile floor. A partially open door led to a closet full of cleaning supplies. Vadisk left the door pushed open so Dahlia would see it in case she needed more props.
The back hall met a longer, perpendicular hall that traversed the building. He followed the sound of voices to the left, stepping through an opening into the back of the foyer, just under the stairs. Three men in militia uniforms stood near the open door to the room they’d seen last time they were here.
Vadisk strode forward, swaggering a little even though it made him feel like an ass.
One of the men looked up as he approached, eyes widening a little as he took in Vadisk’s size.
Vadisk nodded at him and turned into the room. Half a dozen men were inside, all of them just standing around and talking.
