Page 77 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Ilya calls from the road a little before noon. His face fills the wall screen in my downstairs office, with gray winter behind him and a map clipped to the dash. The feed shakes once as his vehicle takes a bad stretch of road, then steadies.

“We found a support van,” he says.

“And?”

“It’s linked to Riga. Same rear-door dent from the Riga warehouse camera. Wrong plates at the border. The plates are burned off now, the inside is wiped, and the driver is gone.”

“Where did it turn up?” I keep my eyes on the screen.

“Old tire depot off the east bypass. Moscow side. It moved through a contractor lane after the Riga hit.”

A crease pulls between my brows.

Ilya notices. “Yes. The depot sits near the same service-road network as your parents’ file.”

Five years ago, after the fire, I learned every road near my family’s house. I learned which cameras missed the side lanes, where snow could cover tire marks, and how a car could leave through the old brickworks road before police reached the house.

“I’m coming,” I say.

I close the feed and stand. Petrov’s route notes sit open on the desk. The Riga strike is marked in red.

Morozov paid a clerk. He forged the clearance. He used a humanitarian label, moved the fuel, and left stolen proof pointing back at Volkov.

Now he’s putting his trail where we’ll see it and waiting for us to move too fast.

On my way out, I stop by Abramov’s office. The door is open, the screens are active, and his chair is empty. Two analysts work at the long side table with headsets on.

I send Abramov one line.

Old road lead tied to Riga support vehicle. Keep the asset under glass.

I don’t wait for the answer.

Dima brings the car to the service entrance before it fully stops. He is inner circle, steady under pressure, and loyal without needing to prove it. His deputy, Roman, takes the front passenger seat. His coat is open enough to reach the gun under his arm. I get into the back.

The lead car carries two of Ilya’s road men in plain coats and dirty plates, with one rifle broken down under the rear seat and another tucked behind the panel. Dima keeps our car in the middle. The rear car carries three men, one medic bag, one long case, and enough ammunition to finish trouble on the road.

Moscow opens around us in winter layers. Estate walls give way to factories, storage yards, snow-streaked loading docks, and men smoking under corrugated awnings. Dima drives without rushing, and I watch the city turn into service roads and freight yards.

Ilya’s voice comes through the secure channel.

“Lead car, right in three hundred meters. Camera dead on the corner.”

The lead sedan turns first, and Dima follows after six seconds. Behind us, the rear car keeps the lane until a delivery truck blocks the camera angle, then slides in after us.

Ilya continues. “Depot is behind the tire yard. Most of it is fenced in. The north gate doesn’t open anymore, and the east fence has been cut and patched twice. Current entry is through the old service door.”

“Any watchers?”

“We’ve got eyes on the roof across the lane and another man at the yard office. No fresh tails yet.” Ilya taps his earpiece and glances at another monitor before returning his attention to the screen.

Dima glances at the rearview. “Blue sedan has been with us since the fuel station.”

“I see it.” Roman looks into the side mirror. “Give it a minute.”

The sedan holds two cars back, dull paint, clean windshield, driver with both hands visible, passenger staring forward. Maybe civilian. Maybe hired.

In this work, maybe is enough.