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Several framed photographs stand inside the glass cabinet. Vera holds Misha as a newborn, steadies him through his first steps, and sleeps with him against her chest. No other man appears in the photographs.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You can continue refusing from the armored car.”

She starts toward me, the knife still in her hand. Behind the sofa, Misha watches everything and stays exactly where his mother told him to be. I catch her wrist, twist, and pry the blade from her fingers when a suppressed crack cuts through the apartment.

I reach for Vera as glass sprays across us, and the bullet tears into the cabinet where she had been standing minutes ago.

5

VERA

The second shot comes through the shattered window before the first pieces of glass stop moving.

One of Abramov’s men shuts the apartment door behind us and throws the deadbolt before taking position beside the entry shelf.

Alexei drives me down beside the sofa, one arm across my shoulders and his other hand braced against the wall. His body covers mine for half a second before pain cuts across his face and his elbow buckles.

Abramov catches the back of Alexei’s coat and hauls him behind the dividing wall. “Stay away from the windows,” he snaps, pointing two men toward the front door while another reaches from cover and yanks the curtains closed, taking away the shooter’s clear view.

Misha is curled behind the far end of the sofa. He doesn’t scream, and his wide eyes remain dry and fixed on me.

I reach around the sofa. “Come to Mama.”

He crawls across the rug, and I catch the back of his pajamas before pulling him against my chest as another round punches into the cabinet behind us. Alexei reaches across the narrow space and places the yellow car in Misha’s hand. “Hold it tight.”

Abramov touches his earpiece. “The shooter’s across the street, in the rear passenger seat of the black sedan. He’s firing a rifle through the window, and the driver’s holding position.”

Alexei presses a hand beneath his ribs. Blood darkens the borrowed black shirt over his dressing. “What about the service entrance?”

Abramov listens, then points toward the kitchen passage. “Two men came in through the rear service door. One is on the second-floor landing, and the other is moving up.”

One of his men checks the front peephole, then shakes his head.

The rifle outside is keeping us pinned while the men inside come for me. Belov wants me moved tonight.

Abramov never raises his voice, yet every man moves the instant he signals. One guard drops behind the heavy armchair and keeps his pistol aimed at the front door. Another drags the packed bag away from the window, checks the zipper, and hooks it over his shoulder.

Alexei looks at Abramov. “All three shots came from the sedan?”

Abramov nods. “Yuri confirmed it from the exterior feed. The men who entered through the service entrance are the grab team.”

“Alive if possible,” Alexei says, tightening his fingers against his side. “I want names.”

Abramov checks the front door again. “You can ask for names after I get you downstairs.”

I shift Misha onto my right hip. “We need another way out.”

Abramov signals one guard toward the kitchen. “Check the service stairs. No elevator.”

The guard slips past us and opens the narrow door beyond the pantry a few inches. He angles his pistol down the stairwell, then jerks back when a shot cracks from below.

“Blocked,” the guard says, crouching beside the frame. “Shooter between the second and third floors.”

A hard knock strikes the front door, and everyone falls silent.

The second comes slower.