Page 135 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“He’ll believe it,” Dmitri says.

I look at the screen and see what Patrick will see. A scared sister, a hidden child, and a chance to get control before anyone else does.

“He’ll want to,” I say.

32

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.