Page 127 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Let him ask,” I say.

At twelve twenty, Oleg sends a request to leave early for a doctor’s appointment.

Abramov shows me the request on his phone.

I read it once. “Approve it.”

Dima smiles without warmth. “He runs.”

“Yes,” I say, taking my coat from the back of the chair. “And this time, I go with the tail.”

Abramov looks up. “You don’t need to be visible.”

“I won’t be,” I say.

At twelve forty, I follow Oleg out of the estate. Roman has the car waiting at the side entrance with the engine on. His face is blank behind the wheel. I get into the back, and Dima slides in beside me.

Abramov stays in my ear, Yuri tracks the feeds from the annex, and Ilya’s second team follows farther back in a car no one can connect it to Volkov.

We wait near the service road, parked between a delivery van and a rusted hatchback with one dead tail light. At twelve fifty-four, Oleg’s battered sedan rolls past us and turns toward the commuter settlement beyond the forest road. He drives under the speed limit with both hands on the wheel. His neck is rigid above his collar.

Dima watches the road ahead. “He looks cornered.”

“He’s checking his options,” I say, eyes on Oleg’s brake lights. “That means he’s about to choose one.”

At the edge of the settlement, Oleg parks behind a pharmacy and walks through the front door without looking back.

Yuri comes on the line. “He paid for something inside. Different name, same payment account he used last night.”

Oleg comes out six minutes later with a small paper bag in one hand and a receipt folded into his palm. He gets into a gray sedan, and the car pulls away.

Dima asks, “We follow?”

“Car two follows,” I say, watching the sedan leave. “Keep distance. If the driver starts checking mirrors, rotate the tail.”

The gray car takes him toward the city edge, drops him near a tram stop, then disappears into traffic. When Oleg steps out, he has a thin folio tucked under his arm.

Oleg stands under the tram-stop shelter. With his free hand, he wipes sweat from the top of his head. When the tram arrives, he waits until the doors start to close before stepping on.

Ilya’s voice comes through. “I have a car ahead of the next stop.”

“Good,” I say. “We stay behind the tram.”

Roman keeps our sedan two cars back while the tram moves through the city.

Oleg sits by the window for six stops with his bag on his knees and his face turned toward the passing shops. At every stop, he looks toward the doors, then back to the glass.

Abramov’s voice comes through my earpiece. “He’s heading toward the old freight transfer point.”

Yuri comes in after him. “Medical delivery lanes. Same district as last night’s runner.”

“Pavel Sidorin?” I ask.

“Likely,” Yuri says. “No face yet.”

The transfer point sits behind a row of gray industrial buildings with broken signs, loading bays, cold-storage units, and medical supply crates stacked under plastic. One private security guard stands near the gate, bored enough to miss anything he’s paid to miss. Oak and Tron has men nearby. They aren’t here to fight. They’re here to warn whoever owns the route.

Oleg gets off the tram and walks toward the side bay, clutching his coat closed with one hand and his folio in the other. Pavel Sidorin waits near the shutter with a messenger bag and a phone in his hand.