He slides a few printed photos out of his folder and lays them on the table in front of me.
“These are the men Mikhail put on the street this week,” he says. “They aren’t soldiers, they’re investigators. They get people talking then send in a clean-up crew to handle the rest if anything interesting comes up.”
“We’ll keep an eye out,” I say, recognizing one of the men vaguely. “What kind of pressure are they putting on people for information?”
“They’re paying cash,” he says. “Lots of it. Mikhail’s playing a lot of angles with this. When violence doesn’t work, money talks.”
“We always knew he was smarter than others gave him credit for,” I say, handing back the photos. “Our guys are well-paid. They aren’t going to turn for a few bucks.”
“We’d better be one hundred percent certain, Viktor, or you’re going to be on the run for a lot longer than you had planned.”
He’s not wrong. I’ll admit I didn’t think this all the way through when I took Anya. All I’m doing by staying underground is making myself look guilty, and Mikhail is smart enough to figurethat out. How long will it take him to squeeze the information out of one of my men?
“Does anyone suspect me?” I ask.
Sergei hesitates, which, in itself, is answer enough.
“There are whisperings,” he finally admits. “Especially among the smaller families. They’re saying you’re the only one ruthless enough to gun down three of Grinkov’s men in the street and leave the bodies for him to find. They’re saying Malenkov doesn’t have the stones for that kind of public insult.”
“They’re panicking,” I say. “They have no proof, so they just have to point the finger somewhere.”
“Normally, I’d agree. Except you did do it. So, in this one case, they’re right.”
“Is anyone else taking as heavy of losses as I am?” I ask.
He looks down at his notes to confirm. “Just you and Ivan,” he answers. “No one else has the manpower to spare. The smaller families are going underground, hoping this all blows over soon.”
I nod at this. They’re wise to batten down the hatches. It’s been decades since Brooklyn has faced such a threat. Mikhail, Ivan, and I are the three biggest players in the game, which means Mikhail is going to set his sights on me as soon as he realizes Ivan didn’t double-cross him.
I think through the board. If Mikhail is aiming his narrative at Ivan, then he wants this to be a familial dispute. He wants everyone to take sides, knowing most of them will choose him out of fear. As far as I know, he’s ruled me out completely, and he’s hoping I stay out of it.
That’s such a best-case scenario, it’s probably delusional. If Mikhail isn’t already watching my movements, I’d be shocked. I can almost hear the timer ticking down on me, and I know what has to be done.
“How long do you think we have for a relocation?” I ask him.
“Ideally, a week. Realistically, three days.”
I nod once, thinking through what needs to be done to get us ready to move in three days. The hardest part will be convincing Anya. She’s not going to like this one bit, but she doesn’t get a say in the matter.
“Start the preparations,” I tell him. “Which safehouse is our best bet?”
“Do we stay in the borough?” he asks. “That limits our movements considerably.”
I nod. “I don’t think we can cross the bridge now. I’m sure he’s got people watching”
“Dyker Heights then,” he echoes what I was already thinking. “That place is basically a fortress, and the neighborhood adds security on its own.”
“Prepare the transfer,” I tell him.
“That’s the easy part.” He chuckles to himself. “You’ve got to tell the girl.”
I don’t laugh back. Anya is going to be pissed that we’re leaving, and it’s not going to be pretty. He leaves to start planning the move, and I stay in the control room a few minutes longer, cycling between feeds. The SUV is gone now. There’s nothing onthe street to suggest any level of danger, which is unsettling in itself. I suddenly feel exposed here.
I check the interior hallway feed outside of Anya’s door and see that it’s shut. She’s been locking herself in her room since her failed escape, so that’s nothing new. It’s the mental lockdown that’s been concerning.
I sigh and leave the control room, ready for a fight. When I reach her door, I knock once, but don’t wait for her to answer before I enter. She’s sitting on the bed with her knees drawn slightly toward her chest. There’s a book in her lap, but she isn’t reading it. She’s staring out the window, lost in thought.
“What?” she asks, not turning her head toward me.
