Page 95 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

That’s so Kath.

Dmitri’s mouth tightens, and he gives one small nod. “Good.”

My eyes move from Dmitri to the screen and back again. Dmitri gives approval so rarely that I almost want to tell Kathryn to frame it.

He senses it, even though his eyes are on the screen. “She should refuse armed strangers.”

Abramov points to the side line. “Patch her through.”

A phone rings on the console in front of me, and my fingers tremble as I pick it up.

Kathryn answers with no greeting. “Cara?”

My voice almost breaks on her name. “Blue lunchbox, no jokes. Take Mikhail and go with them.”

The door chain rattles again, but it doesn’t come free. “Say it again.”

I close my eyes for half a second. “Blue lunchbox. No jokes. Kath, listen to me. You have to go.”

Mikhail’s voice rises behind her, small and sleepy. “Is that Mama?”

Dmitri’s hand closes around the edge of the table. The men closest to him keep their eyes on their screens.

Kathryn’s breathing breaks through the line. “I hear you, but I need more. Someone can force you to say a phrase. Someone can play your voice back. I’m not handing him to men with guns because of one sentence.”

Dear Kath. She’s doing exactly what I taught her.

God help me, I hate that I was right.

I press the phone hard against my ear. “Red car first because red is the boss one.”

Kathryn makes a sound like pain.

Behind her, Mikhail says, “My red car?”

My eyes are on Dmitri. I grip the phone with both hands. “Yes, baby. Your red car. Kathryn has it, and you’re going to hold it while she takes you downstairs.”

Dmitri stays where he is. His hand tightens on the edge of the table. He hears his son for the first time and doesn’t reach for the phone.

Kathryn opens the door.

The body camera catches her face for one hard second—pale, hair twisted up badly, Mikhail half hidden behind her leg in dinosaur pajamas, one hand wrapped around the strap of his little backpack. The hall behind the lead is clear.

“Miss Walsh, rear stairs now.”

Kathryn pulls Mikhail back. “No one touches him.”

Dmitri’s voice cuts in, controlled. “No one grabs the child. No crowding. Weapons down. Move.” The Boston lead lowers his gun until it points at the floor.

Men shift at once on screen. Mikhail starts crying when one of them reaches for the backpack.

Kathryn slaps the man’s hand away. “Don’t touch his things.”

I lean over the phone. “Kath, let them help carry the bag if you need both hands.”

Mikhail’s crying climbs. “My car. I don’t have my car.”

Memory snaps open in my head. “Front pocket. Small zipper. Kathryn, he keeps his red car in the front pocket.”