Page 98 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Dmitri nods once. “Walsh sits facing the entrance. No one takes his shoes, backpack, or toy. No questions until he eats or sleeps.”

The safehouse feed shows men stepping out of view. A plate appears on a low table near the couch.

Dmitri turns back to me. “He can’t stay in Boston.”

My hands close around the edge of the table. “You learned his name ten minutes ago. You’re not moving his whole life because you decided it.”

“Patrick sent men to him, and the place is no longer safe,” Dmitri says. “Boston is burned. He moves before sunrise.”

I stand so fast that my chair knocks against the console behind me. “You don’t get to make yourself his father by giving orders.”

Dmitri doesn’t look away. “No. I make sure he gets to see you tomorrow.”

Elena steps between us before I can answer. “Cara.”

I turn on her, ready to hate anyone.

Elena doesn’t flinch. “If he comes here, or to any place under Volkov protection, prepare him with the truth he can carry. No fairy tales. Don’t call armed men friends. Tell him he’s safe, tell him grown-ups are handling trouble, and save the rest until he can sleep.”

My hand shakes around the phone. On the screen, Mikhail leans into Kathryn, red car clenched in one fist, pancakes untouched on the table.

Dmitri turns away from me and starts moving men across Boston.

Bring in new vehicles. Switch the plates. Use a medical cover. Put a female handler with them. No names over comms. Patrick’s known contacts watched, not grabbed.

Operators answer through the speakers. Routes change on the screens. Dots start moving across Boston.

I watch my son’s life turn into a map.

22

DMITRI

“Looking harder won’t land it faster,” Maksim says from behind me, one hand around a coffee cup.

I stand in Maksim’s control center with both hands on the edge of the table, watching an aircraft icon move across a black map. The line between Massachusetts and Russia glows in cold blue. Every few minutes, Ilya updates the route.

Updates keep coming, and each one makes it worse.

Kathryn and the boy are aboard. The flight plan has changed twice. The pilot is using a clean aviation broker and three layers of private-security cover. Patrick’s hired men lost the first vehicle near Brookline and the second near a service road before they understood which car held Kathryn and the child.

By every measure I trust, the operation worked. Mikhail isn’t just a name in a file anymore. He isn’t a threat, a problem, or Cara’s shaking voice in the delivery yard. For four years, my son lived where I couldn’t reach him. Now he is in the sky, flying toward me with a red toy car, and he has a mother who has every reason to hate me.

Now Maksim tells me to loosen up.

I don’t turn. “Then find me a faster plane.”

Maksim gives a short laugh. “You already took mine.”

Abramov makes a sound that might be a cough if anyone in this room feels generous, then looks back down at the estate feeds.

I push away from the table. “North wing changes?”

Abramov straightens. “I’ve already made them,” he says, patient in a way that grates. “Visible guard count reduced. Patrols moved back from the family corridor. Long guns pulled from sight. Side access covered from farther points. No gaps.”

“Keep the coverage,” I say, crossing toward the side screen. “Lose the wall of men by the receiving area.”

Abramov types. “Already moving them.”