Pav calculated. Two on one. If this went sideways, someone was going to die. It was always like this. Two options. One loss you didn’t see until it was too late. But they’d had the opportunity to kill him and hadn’t. Pressure eased on his throat.
Pav swallowed. “Talk. Then leave.”
The heavyset man lowered the rifle and set it on the counter. He held his hands up in a gesture of peace.
The Russian, Zak, released Pav, allowing him to step back, putting distance between himself and the two men.
The man with the beard dabbed his lip, examining the blood on his fingers. “Well. That went about as expected.” His accent was thicker now, rougher.
“You broke into my house.”
Zak laughed. “Fair point.”
The bearded man grabbed the dish towel from the counter and pressed it to his bleeding lip. “Name’s Fox.” He gestured to the Russian. “And I’ve already told you, this genius is Zak.”
Zak removed the magazine from Pav’s rifle and set it on the table next to the bullet hole. He unholstered his handgun and laid it next to the rifle. “Good faith.” He picked up a piece of jerky and waggled it. “You make this yourself? It’s tasty.”
“Why don’t we sit like civilized men and talk?” Fox kicked a chair toward Pav, then turned and poured three coffees.
Pav stayed standing, back to the wall. Fox was older, late forties maybe, but he moved like someone who stayed sharp. Military tattoos marked the backs of his hands and his neck.
Zak carried himself loose through the shoulders, balanced over the balls of his feet. Also military. The expensive kind.
Fox brought the coffee to the table and took a seat. “I brought good beans. Can’t get good coffee for shit here these days. A peace offering, if you like.”
Zak leaned against the battered kitchen counter, relaxed.
Pav pulled the chair toward him, ignoring the screech of wood on wood. He sat and wrapped his hands around the mug. The heat bled through his palms, and he took a sip. Fuck, it was good. Real beans.Who brings good coffee if they’re here to kill you?
“We worked together once. When you were an active SEAL.” Fox pulled a compact tablet from his jacket and laid it on the damaged table. “Twelve years ago. Kazakhstan border, a retrieval op.” His eyes met Pav’s. “You tracked a target through a sandstorm. Found him in under six hours.”
Pav remained silent, but he remembered the mission. He eyed the two men. “What do you want?” His throat still stung from the Russian’s chokehold.
Fox tapped the tablet. Photos appeared. An apartment, door hanging off its hinges. A laptop on the floor, screen cracked. Clothes scattered. Signs of struggle.
“My niece.” Fox swiped to another image. “Dr. Harper Fox. She’s been missing seven days.”
Zak crossed to the table. “She works for International Health Outreach, running a women’s clinic on the Siberia-Mongolia border.” He pulled up a map, zoomed in on a region two hundred kilometers south.
“She sent this before they took her.” Fox swiped the tablet again. An email appeared, truncated mid-sentence, to her director in London.
Fox swore under his breath. “Stupid bastard sat on it for six days before contacting the family.”
Pav read the subject line. URGENT—Evidence of trafficking operation. She’d known they were coming.
“We checked her apartment.” Fox’s finger tapped the image of the broken door. “As you can see, there are signs of forced entry and a struggle. But the locals claim she packed up and left voluntarily. Her passport says otherwise. So do her clothes, her medical bag, everything she’d need if she’d actually left.”
Pav studied the photos. The apartment had been tossed, but not thoroughly. Whoever took her hadn’t been looking for something. They’d just wanted her gone.
No blood on the floorboards. No drag marks.
She’d walked out conscious or been carried clean.
Fast extraction. Disciplined. Three inside at a minimum. Another waiting with the vehicles if they knew what they were doing.
Fast entry, fast exit. This hadn’t been a panic grab.
“No neighbors called it in?”
