Page 122 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Now he’s using the same method again.

Cara. Mikhail. Patrick.

Patrick carries the secret. Cara becomes the pressure point. Mikhail becomes the threat. Morozov keeps finding ways to turn family into a weapon.

“Names, wallets, approvals, old routes.” I tap the table. “Patrick is buying another day alive.”

Cara blinks once, then looks back at Patrick’s name on the screen. The room has too many men talking, and none of it reaches her.

I pull a cigarette from the pack on the table and light it without looking away from the screen. I take one slow drag, let the smoke out through my nose, then set the lighter down.

“He’ll sell pieces until someone decides he’s worth more dead,” I say quietly.

Cara’s eyes move to me. “Then we need him before that choice gets made.”

On the screen, the runner steps close to Oleg. No envelope changes hands, no drive, no packet. Oleg takes the pharmacy receipt from his pocket, folds it once more, and gives it to the runner like trash.

Dima leans toward the screen. “I can’t read that without taking it.”

“Don’t take it,” I say.

Dima’s head turns. “You sure?”

“No,” I answer, watching the runner leave. “But we can follow the paper.”

Oleg remains in the alley after the runner leaves. Thirty seconds. Forty. His hands shake badly enough for the camera to catch it. Then another car pulls up, and he gets in.

The city begins to pale at the edges when Oleg crosses into a municipal records district. He enters a government building through a side entrance just before dawn, flashing a pass that shouldn’t exist.

Yuri captures the pass image. “That’s new.”

Kirill checks the number. “Issued yesterday afternoon.”

Cara’s voice drops. “Someone is feeding him confidence in small pieces.”

Maksim returns near sunrise, dressed for the day and already briefed. He doesn’t ask why Cara is still there. He looks at me first.

“Does Oleg know?” Maksim asks, taking his place at the table.

“No,” I say. “But he knows danger is close.”

Maksim looks at the municipal feed. “Let him believe he survived the night. His next mistake will be cleaner.”

Oleg returns to the estate just after eight, pale, sweating, and dressed in the same cheap coat. Through the internal cameras, I watch him sign into his small logistics station, greet another clerk, and avoid looking toward the secure corridors.

He becomes dull again. Weak coffee beside his keyboard. Bent shoulders, routine face, a man shaped like nobody’s problem.

Dima stands beside me with his arms crossed. “Say the word.”

“Find the pressure point,” I say. “Don’t accuse him. Don’t corner him.”

Dima looks at the feed. “Then what do you want?”

“Make him feel the floor move,” I say. “Enough to run.”

Abramov slips his phone into his pocket. “If we scare him inside the estate, he bolts to whoever controls the courier channel.”

I look at Oleg on the screen.