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“You were shot after choosing subtle.”

“I chose the shorter route.”

“You chose a coffin with good suspension.”

The nurse stops beside the vehicle. “You can’t leave with the line in.”

“Take it out.”

“You still need antibiotics.”

“I’ll survive the drive.”

She looks at Maksim.

“Remove it,” he says.

She pulls the cannula from my arm, presses gauze over the spot, and tapes it down with more force than necessary.

Abramov helps me into the rear seat before I can object. The movement pulls through my chest and abdomen, hot enough to cloud my sight for several seconds. I keep my face still until the pain settles into something manageable.

Maksim gets in beside me. “You can remain in the vehicle while Abramov extracts her.”

“No.”

“You keep denying your surgery.”

“She may respond poorly to armed strangers entering her home,” I say. Then under my breath, “She’ll respond poorly to me.”

“Yes, but you appear to find that appealing.”

I look at Vera’s hospital photograph on the screen. Green eyes. Dark hair. A familiar mouth. Painkillers and sedatives blur the memory, and I have too much else to think about.

“She restarted my heart. I owe her the courtesy of irritating her personally.”

Each turn pulls at the stitches, and every pothole feels determined to finish what the bullets started. I focus on the report on my screen and ignore the pain.

Vera’s father paid the debt seven years ago, but someone reopened the dormant company that owned his warehouse near Yaroslavl and added a false claim against Vera. The papers look real enough to pass a quick check, and if she disappears, they’ll make it seem as though she ran because of the debt and the medical case.

A black sedan passes us twice near her district.

Yuri monitors our route from the estate communications room, tracking the vehicles and their camera feeds through my earpiece.

“Possible tail peeled off three blocks back,” he says. “False rear plate.”

“Keep it moving. Don’t stop it yet.”

“Understood.”

We turn onto Vera’s street. A man beneath a no-smoking sign drops his cigarette and walks away before our first vehicle reaches the building.

“Get his face,” I say.

“The lead camera already has it,” Yuri answers.

Abramov’s men secure the entrance. One checks the stairwell, another takes the service access, and two move toward the rear courtyard. Maksim stays in the car. A Pakhan arriving at a surgeon’s apartment would turn protection into a declaration of war before we know which captains stand with Belov.

I step onto the pavement.