Page 35 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

I say nothing. He’s right. Patrick didn’t list Cara only because she was available. Patrick is more devious. He chose the one woman guaranteed to put me in the car, in the hangar, in her suite, making choices I should’ve assigned to other men.

Maksim studies me for another second, then returns to the table. “Find the link between Patrick and Morozov. Find how much of our structure he saw. Freeze any channel that touched Blacklist handling until Leonid clears it.”

His eyes move to Abramov. “And check for an internal leak. If one exists, I want the name.”

Petrov gathers two sheets. “I’ll lock the freight wallets and flag charity routing.”

Abramov taps his tablet. “I’ll review all internal access.”

Leonid looks at me. “You’ll need her mind eventually.”

“No,” I state flatly.

“You will,” he says. “American vendor language, Patrick’s habits, digital trail. You can cage a hacker, or you can use one. The first option wastes money.”

Maksim almost smiles, which is never comforting. “Leonid is sentimental about efficiency.”

I stand before the discussion can circle back to Cara. “I’ll handle her.”

Maksim gives me nothing.

The meeting breaks into movement around the table, but the taste in my mouth stays bitter. I leave before anyone decides they can give me advice.

Outside the command study, a clerk stands near the side passage with route folders pressed to his chest. Thin, dark-haired, medium height, plain suit, forgettable face. The kind of man built by bureaucracy to vanish in hallways.

Oleg Baranov.

Leonid pointed him out earlier as one of the logistics clerks who handles miscellaneous paperwork. Harmless work on paper. Odd for him to be up at one in the morning. He sees me and is startled. Sweat shines at his hairline, though the corridor is cool.

“Antonov,” he says. His hands squeeze the folders until the edges bend. “I was bringing route corrections for Petrov. I may have botched a clearance note earlier, and I wanted it fixed before morning.”

“Which route?”

“Medical cargo through Smolensk. Nothing major.” He swallows. “I get nervous when I make errors.”

A clerk correcting his own work before sunrise can be guilty, careful, frightened, or all three. I take the top folder from him and open it. The stamp line is messy, though not enough to damn him.

“Leave it with Petrov’s assistant,” I say.

“Yes. Of course.”

He hurries away with small steps that try not to look fast.

8

DMITRI

Itake the north corridor back to Cara.

The guard unlocks her suite at my signal. Cara stands near the entrance in the same travel-rumpled clothes, pale and rigid, with questions burning through her face.

“Why did you come to the hangar yourself?” she asks. She throws the question like a salvo, fast and aimed well, and I feel the hit before I have an answer ready.

I step inside, and the guard shuts the door behind me. “Why does that matter?”

Her mouth curves with no humor. “You’ve answered a question with a question. I thought men with guns were supposed to be more direct.”

“Cara.”