Page 80 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

The depot settles again, a message box now. Morozov left enough for me to recognize the road, then sent men to see whether I did.

I look at the van, the grit, the contractor token, and the wiped handles.

“No satisfaction,” I say.

Ilya’s gaze flicks to mine. “No satisfaction.”

“Pull the pickup’s path. I want its first stop and the second stop. The first may be bait.”

“And the third?”

“That’s where a patient man waits.”

Roman laughs under his breath. “We have patient men now?”

“We have orders.”

That kills the humor fast. Morozov put the aid crates and forged Volkov notes in front of cameras so Maksim would have to defend the family in public. Then he left the van for me. The grit, the token, and the old road all pointed back to my parents’ fire. He wanted me angry, he wanted me moving fast, and the pickup came to see if I took the bait.

I remind myself to be patient.

By late afternoon, the sky is gray and the road back to the estate is slick with sleet. Dima drives with the heat low and the windows clear. Roman sits in front with the evidence case across his lap. Ilya stays at the depot with his road men, checking the camera gaps one by one.

My phone lights twice. Abramov replies.

The company behind the Vostok storage yard links to one of Patrick’s Boston relay vendors. Same filing pattern, same payment path. No clean proof yet.

The second message is clearer.

Asset secure. Cara requested terminal access three times and called me a paranoid undertaker.

I put the phone away.

The estate gates open. At the service entrance, I pause and look toward the north wing windows. Then I take the evidence case from Roman and head inside.

I should go straight to Maksim’s office. Instead, I go to the north wing. The official reason is on my desk. Cara’s route notes need review, and the new road map needs to go on the internal board in my temporary office.

When I reach the study, I stop with one hand on the doorframe. Voices come from the small kitchen attached to the north wing. No one sounds hurt or afraid, but Cara is in there, and she isn’t alone.

Laughter comes from the hall. Mrs. Wentworth would call it a disturbance. Abramov would call it too many people in one place. I know the sound before I reach the door.

Cara.

I cross the hall. Sergei stands just outside the kitchenette with a pale, nervous face. When he sees me, he moves aside so fast, his shoulder almost hits the wall.

The kitchenette door is open. Inside, Lidiya has covered the counter with buns, sausages, mustard, chopped onions, pickles, boiled potatoes, and a small bowl of ketchup placed far from Cara.

Yuri stands near the kettle with a plate in hand. Kirill is beside the paper plates, looking pleased to be included and trying to pretend he came for work. No one notices me except Sergei. He knows he’s been caught, and for one second, he can’t decide whether to warn the others or save himself.

Cara stands at the counter with mustard on one finger and a serious look on her face.

“Bun first,” she says, lifting one. “Then sausage. Mustard. Onions. Pickles, unless this household has hidden them from me.”

Lidiya glances at the jar. “Why would we hide pickles?”

“Because everyone here keeps feeding me like I’m a sick duchess,” Cara says, and everyone laughs with her.

Her voice is the loudest. That’s what gets me.