Page 21 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Nice place,” she says over the wind. “Very kidnapper-chic.”

“You weren’t kidnapped.”

Cara gives me a flat look. “No? I must’ve missed the brochure.”

“You were collected.”

She laughs, short and mean. “Did I come with a receipt?” My eyes stay on her fingers as she drags a strand of hair from her mouth, pins it back, and loses the fight again.

I turn before her expression can get under my skin.

“Inside.”

“I’d love to say no to orders, but I see you brought the emotional support gunmen,” she says and flicks a look at the men behind us.

I keep my mouth in one hard, straight line.

We cross the hangar with two men at our backs and three ahead. Cara watches everything—freight doors, camera domes, office windows, emergency exit signs, fire panel near the wall. Five years ago, she walked into a hotel with me because she wanted one bad choice Patrick didn’t arrange. Now Patrick has arranged every inch of this, and she knows it.

I take her into the secure office at the back of the hangar. It has no windows, one steel door, a table bolted to the floor, two chairs, a water dispenser, and enough signal blockers hidden in the ceiling to make her phone useless even if we had left it in her hand.

Cara looks around and rubs her arms through her coat. “Wow. Warm. Really selling the hospitality.”

I close the door behind us. “Sit.”

She turns toward me with that mouth ready to cut. “Ask prettier.”

My hand stays at my side. My voice stays even. That matters, because her brother has already done damage, and I still don’t know how far the sister is tangled in it.

Yet.

In another Volkov file, I could almost hear Maksim’s dry laugh. Elena Sokolov said something close to that once, when Maksim dragged truth to her feet and expected gratitude. Women who enter the Blacklist rarely arrive meekly. Maybe that’s why they survive long enough to become a problem.

I pull out the chair with two fingers. “Sit, Cara.”

She stands a moment longer on pride alone, then takes the chair across from me. “I want my phone.”

“No,” I say and take the seat opposite her.

Her fingers flex once on the edge of the table. “I want a lawyer.”

“You can want one.” I open the laptop and wake the screen. “That doesn’t change where you are.”

Cara leans back, but her eyes move fast. “So this is the friendly part.”

“This is the part where you listen.”

“Funny. I usually need coffee before men start threatening me.”

I turn the laptop so she can see the first file. “Patrick O’Connell moved seven point eight million dollars through shell accounts tied to Volkov shipping contracts.”

Her face doesn’t break, which tells me she already knew Patrick lived near dirty money. The amount gets her, though. It shows in the tiny pull of her fingers against the table.

“Patrick has always been bad with numbers,” she says. “Usually in cheaper ways.”

I click to the next page. Bank paths. Freight clearances. False vendor IDs. Names she shouldn’t know and one name she does.

Her own.