Page 94 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Then the Boston contact line clicks alive.

“Team one is moving,” a man says through the speaker. “Estimated contact in eighteen minutes.”

I look at Cara. “You’ll speak to Kathryn when we make contact.”

Cara wipes her palms over her trousers and nods. “Yes.”

“You’ll tell her what to do,” I say, stepping closer without crowding her. “Keep your voice steady. Make it sound ordinary.”

She lifts her chin. “I know how to talk to the people I love.”

The words do what she wants them to do. I deserve them.

Turning back to the screen saves me from looking at her and from the shock I refuse to acknowledge. Rage can come later. So can the pain. The years I missed, the highs and the lows, birthdays, fevers, first words, first steps. Every piece of fatherhood my absence handed to silence.

For now, Boston is a map. Kathryn is a voice we need to reach. Mikhail is a name to protect. I plant both hands on the table and lean toward the open channel.

“Move,” I say, and every man in the study turns toward Boston.

21

CARA

The control center is behind two steel doors. A glass wall turns black after we enter so no one outside can see in.

I’ve never been this far inside the estate.

Abramov’s man gives me a chair near the side console. I can see the main screens, but I’m nowhere near a keyboard.

I sit with my hands in my lap and don’t touch anything. Clocks hang above the screens. Moscow. Boston. London. Riga. Tokyo. I only look at Boston. It’s just after nine at night there.

In Moscow, it’s almost five in the morning. The men in the control center are drinking coffee, smoking near the vents, checking radios, and working on almost no sleep. Maksim walks in, and everyone makes space for him. Elena comes in a minute later with her hair pulled back and a coat over her shoulders. She stands beside him. Her eyes move over me. She nods once. Then she looks back at the screen.

Dmitri takes his place at the main table.

The screens show Kathryn’s building from three angles—the front steps, the side alley, and the rear service exit. On a fourth screen, a body-cam feed jumps between brick walls, stair rails, gloved hands, and Kathryn’s black apartment door. A paper turkey is still taped beside it from Thanksgiving.

My throat closes. That turkey has Mikhail’s crayon lines on it.

Abramov lifts two fingers, and the audio comes up.

A man’s voice speaks from Boston. “Team at the door.”

Dmitri leans toward the console. “No breach unless contact fails.”

The Boston lead knocks.

Kathryn’s voice comes through the door, thin with fear and fury. “Who are you?”

My hands close over the arms of the chair.

The lead lowers his hand from the camera frame. “Kathryn Walsh, we’re here on Cara O’Connell’s behalf.”

A chain rattles from the inside. “Then Cara can call me.”

The lead glances toward the body camera. “She will.”

Kathryn doesn’t open the door. “I’m calling the police.”