Page 128 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Pavel sees Oleg’s face and steps back. He knows something went wrong.

“Close the exits,” I say.

Roman pulls in near the loading bay. Dima opens his door before the car fully stops, and I get out after him. Ilya’s second team blocks the service lane. The private security guard near the gate reaches for his phone, but Roman takes it out of his hand before the call connects.

Pavel turns to leave. Dima catches him by the back of the jacket and drives him against the metal shutter. Oleg freezes with his folio pressed to his chest. I walk toward him.

“Oleg,” I say.

His knees almost give. “Mr. Antonov.”

Pavel struggles once.

Dima tightens his grip. “Don’t embarrass yourself,” he says, pressing him harder into the shutter.

Oleg’s mouth opens and closes. “I didn’t know.”

I stop in front of him. “You don’t know what I’m asking yet.”

He starts crying anyway, and I have the answer I need.

We move them into an empty dispatch office at the edge of the site, away from workers, loading crews, and anyone with a phone.

Our second car rolls past the main gate and parks by the far loading bay. Ilya’s men step out, light cigarettes, and block the service lane without looking our way.

The scene stays contained. Glass stays intact. Workers hear nothing worth repeating.

Dima checks the folio before we sit Oleg down and drops it on the table in front of him. Route copies, blank claim sheets, one city-stamped correction form. Cover papers. Nothing worth carrying unless someone told him to carry it.

Oleg breaks before I touch him.

Patrick paid him first for small things. Clearance changes, timing shifts, batch approvals. Corrections no one important would read twice. Then Patrick came back with more money, cleaner names, and warnings that made Oleg shake when he repeated them.

“He said clerks survive because they stay useful,” Oleg says, his voice shaking. “He said a man who forgets that gets replaced.”

His breath catches, and he makes a small sound.

“I never knew about the boy,” Oleg says, hands shaking on his knees. “I swear. I never knew the clinic was a threat.”

I believe that part. Oleg is scared into talking, and he doesn’t have the spine to lie well.

“Where is Patrick?” I ask, standing over him.

Oleg wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I don’t know. He doesn’t meet clerks now. He uses Pavel, receipts, claim numbers, and phrases.”

Pavel turns his face away.

Dima grips his shoulder. “Eyes forward.”

Oleg rubs his hands together. “Patrick is your man, not me. I’m nothing. I only changed what they told me to change.”

Oleg’s fingers start picking at the edge of his folio. “Patrick has names. The cleanup records from when Morozov moved money. He knows who paid New Harbor and who made it look legal.” Oleg leans forward. “You don’t need me. You need him.”

“Which people?” I ask.

Oleg shakes his head fast. “I don’t know names. I swear, I don’t know names.”

“You heard something,” I say, leaning in.