Page 64 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Good,” Cara says. “Don’t change plans until then.”

Cara ends the call before Evan’s questions finish collecting shape.

Abramov’s deputy freezes the trace, and the monitors throw fragments across the screens. Cara sets the handset down with care. Her face stays composed, and her hand remains on the table, palm down, as if she is keeping the whole city of Boston from tipping.

I step closer. “What does gem mean?”

Elena’s eyes narrow at me.

Cara stares at her hand. “It means Kathryn understands me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

I lower myself until I’m level with her, one hand braced flat on the table, close enough that she can see exactly how little patience I have left.

Cara lifts her eyes to mine, undaunted. “It’s the only one you get.”

Anger moves through me hard enough for Abramov to notice. He turns back to his screen, choosing unawareness with professional speed.

I’m not angry because she ended the call. She ended it well. Cara kept Kathryn calm, kept Evan from learning which word mattered, and cut the line before Patrick could take more. The problem is that she did all of it while still holding things back from us.

Abramov speaks before I do. “Trace hit a masked relay chain. Cheap, messy, and fast. Two prepaid hops, then it dropped into a business exchange.”

“Patrick?” Maksim asks.

Abramov’s mouth tightens. “Partly. That’s the problem.”

One of Abramov’s men steps in from the side table and hands him a slip of paper. Abramov reads it once.

“New Jersey,” he says. “Temporary office lease. Rented last week under a shell company.”

“Patrick opens doors. He doesn’t build traps inside them,” I tell Maksim. “That’s the pattern I’ve been following.”

Cara tips her head a little, then looks away when my eyes find hers. She agrees with me, and she doesn’t want me to know it.

Abramov turns one screen toward us. “The relay didn’t only hide where the call came from. It sent a signal back when our trace touched it.”

Yuri goes very still. “A tripwire.”

“Yes,” Abramov says. “Whoever built this wanted to know when Volkov started checking the Boston line.”

Maksim’s face doesn’t change. “He knows.”

“Likely,” Abramov says.

Cara’s hand tightens on the table. “So when we called Kathryn…”

“Patrick may know we reached her,” Abramov says.

No one answers.

A side monitor wakes with Ilya’s face on it, the feed clipped at one shoulder, a road map open behind him. Ilya handles movement, exits, and the routes men use when they don’t want to be followed.

“Patrick called Evan after she opened the O’Connell archive,” Ilya says. “Within twenty minutes.”

Maksim’s face hardens. Elena folds her arms, and one hand closes around her sleeve. Abramov turns toward Yuri. His mouth opens like he wants to curse, then shuts again. He doesn’t waste anger unless it has a job.

Beside me, Cara raises both hands. “Hallelujah.”