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“I adjusted my position.”
“You did it badly.”
Maksim taps the tablet dark. “Listen to the doctor.”
I look across at him. “You’ve become very supportive of medical authority.”
“She isn’t ordering me around.”
“Give her time.”
Vera presses two fingers against the side of my neck, checks my pulse again, then turns toward Maksim. “How long until we stop?”
“Three minutes,” he says, glancing through the armored glass.
“He needs antibiotics ready.”
Maksim takes out his phone. “Done.”
“I need blood cultures drawn before the first dose, fresh dressings, sterile supplies, and his operative notes from both procedures.”
He sends the instructions without questioning her. “Anything else?”
“A patient who follows basic directions.”
Maksim slips his phone away. “I can't guarantee that.”
The second gate opens, and the SUV moves forward. A narrow service road breaks away to the left behind a retractable barrier, while another curves toward the secured west-side service entrance used for supplies, staff vehicles, and emergency access. Beyond the third checkpoint, the dashboard signal dies, wiped out by the estate’s security field.
Misha leans toward the window. Patrol lights move between the trees, disappearing and returning behind the trunks.
“Where are we going?” he asks, rubbing one thumb over the roof of the toy car.
Vera rests her hand on his knee. “Somewhere safe for tonight.”
Maksim watches him for a second before looking back at the road. “No one enters here without permission.”
Misha studies the gates behind us. “We entered.”
“You had permission,” Maksim says.
“From who?”
Maksim’s gaze moves toward me. “From him.”
The west entrance opens into a narrow vestibule built to slow anyone who reaches it. Two guards hold the outer threshold, another stands beyond the inner doors, and camera domes sit where normal people might hang paintings. The corridor past them is quiet, carpeted, and divided by heavy doors that require both card access and a code.
I refuse the wheelchair at the entrance, so Abramov keeps one hand beneath my arm as we cross the central hall. Maksim walks on my other side, close enough to catch me if my leg gives again.
Leonid waits at the west-wing entrance with a black folder. “Everything Kirill has so far.”
He hands it to Maksim, who tucks it beneath his arm without opening it.
I designed this wing after an attack reached the central hall six years ago. Every turn breaks a firing line, each door can seal, and the office stair gives me a route to the lower command level.
Vera reads the same choices in seconds. Her attention pauses on the second guard point, the reinforced frames, and the narrow section where an intruder would have to slow down.
I wonder how long she’s lived this way.
