Page 93 of Bratva Baby

“He wants to think I am.”

A short silence follows. Then Anton says, “Niko.”

Niko straightens. “Here.”

“If she gets scratched, don’t come back.”

“She has a gun,” Niko says.

Anton’s voice drops into something almost lethal. “Why does she have a gun?”

I answer before Niko can dig his own grave. “Because you keep them in obvious places.”

Kolya coughs. “I’m going to remember this conversation forever.”

“Focus,” I say, though my mouth almost curves despite the fear trying to eat through my ribs. “Anton, listen to me. Maks believes the package exists, but he won’t believe it forever. He’ll test me fast. I need him looking at me long enough for you to move the records and the coat man. If the third box is risky, leave it.”

“No.”

“Anton.”

“No. You nearly got yourself killed making this play. I’m not leaving the proof behind.”

“That proof only matters if you’re alive to use it.”

He says nothing. That one hit.

Kolya comes back on. “We can move two boxes and the coat man now. Third box in four minutes if our side car gets the angle.”

“You have three,” I say. “After that, Maks starts wondering why I’m late or why he can’t see me yet.”

“We’re on it.”

The call cuts.

I sit back and let the phone rest against my thigh. My hands finally begin to shake, small and irritatingly, and I curl them into fists under the folded schedule.

By the time the Khimki storage strip appears ahead, the whole night has narrowed to fences, repair sheds, yard lamps, and the ugly shape of the gate Maks chose. The driver slows two blocks out.

Niko turns to me. “Last chance to stay in the car.”

I look past him at the east service gate. One man stands near the repair shed, hands in his coat pockets, head turned slightly as if he’s been waiting for me. Another shape moves behind the fence.

Maks isn’t visible.

The car rolls to a stop beside a dead loading office, far enough from the gate to make me walk and close enough that Maks’s men will see me coming. Pavel gets out first, scans, then opens my door. I step into the cold with Anton’s coat around me, my father’s lie in my mouth, and a real drive hidden in my scarf.

For one second, I press my hand to my stomach. “We’ve got this,” I whisper. Then, I look at Niko. “Give me another minute. I need to make one last phone call.”

26

SOFIYA

I make the last phone call before I step away from the car.

Niko keeps one hand near his coat, eyes on the repair shed, while the driver watches the street through the rearview mirror and pretends he isn’t listening. The east service gate sits half a block ahead, dull metal under the yard lamps, with one man posted beside it and another shape moving behind the fence. Maks isn’t visible, but I can feel him in the setup.

The call connects, and I speak before anyone on the other end can ask why I’m calling this late. “If I don’t call again in twenty minutes, open the message I just sent. Don’t trust anyone who tells you I’m unstable, compromised, or confused. And please call your son when I tell you to.”