Page 93 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

My son.

New, true, and four years late.

Maksim says nothing through the line. Leonid drops his gaze to the tablet. Dima turns his face toward the door. Abramov keeps typing, but slower.

Cara presses her lips together, then gives me the rest.

“When he’s scared, he hides under tables,” she says, looking at the screen instead of me. “Not closets. Tables. He likes to see feet. He thinks if he can see where people are going, he can decide when to come out.”

I repeat it once in my head before I give the next order.

“Trusts strangers?” I ask, softening the words before they leave me.

“No,” Cara says. “Unless Kathryn uses her preschool-teacher voice. He trusts that voice. If she says something is a game, he’ll follow instructions.”

Ilya speaks through the road line. “We’ll route contact through Kathryn first.”

“You will,” Cara says, turning toward the speaker. “Not we’ll try. You will.”

I don’t correct her. She’s his mother.

“Favorite item,” I say.

“Red toy car,” Cara answers. “Tiny. Paint chipped on the hood. He calls himself a mechanic when he holds it.”

I can handle the logistics. I’m not ready for the boy. That’s what I tell myself. Then I realize Cara knows every small thing about him, and all I have is a red toy car.

“Comfort code?” Abramov asks, glancing at her.

“Blue lunchbox,” Cara says. “If Kathryn says, ‘Blue lunchbox first’, he knows to listen. It means something changed.”

I look at Abramov. “That doesn’t get typed anywhere. Boston line only.”

Abramov nods. “Understood.”

“Describe the rear exit,” I say.

“The back door sticks in cold weather,” Cara says. “You have to lift the handle and push with your shoulder. A stranger might lose seconds.”

Ilya answers at once. “Rear team gets that note.”

“Spare key,” I say.

Cara closes her eyes. “Under the ugly planter near the fire stairs. It has a crack shaped like a moon.”

Dima mutters in Russian.

I cut him a look.

Dima straightens by the door. “No comment,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back.

Cara gives a small, broken laugh. “Yes, it’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. We live normal lives. Normal people put keys under ugly planters and worry about rent and preschool snacks. We don’t plan for Russian men on secure channels asking whether our children hide under tables.”

I don’t stop her.

“You were supposed to have normal,” I say, and I hear how useless it is.

Cara looks at me. For one dangerous second, the study disappears down to the space between us.