CHAPTER 35
VLAD
“Say it again.”
“Elevator footage shows a stretcher. She looked pale. The guards said chest pain.”
I grip the arm of the door until the leather cracks. We’re three minutes from the building. My mouth opens to speak, but Nika isn’t finished yet.
“One more thing,” she adds, her voice cracking. “Immediately after that ambulance left, another one pulled up. Dispatch says they were the first call on record.”
The words hit harder than a bullet.
The first ambulance was a fake.
“I’m almost there,” I say, and kill the line.
Dmitri doesn’t speak. He threads us through traffic with small, decisive moves, the way he always does when he knows we need to be somewhere in a hurry. The tires hiss over slush.
We jackknife into the underground garage, sliding into the private bay. I swipe my passkey, the elevator waking with a shudder. The doors gasp open into the foyer, and before anyone speaks, I already feel the loss of her presence.
Nika’s at the console with a tablet, her jaw tight. Kostya and Mikhail hover near the entryway, wearing identical expressions that say they’d prefer a firing squad to a conversation with me.
“Talk,” I demand.
“Thirty minutes ago,” Nika begins, “Teresa told Kostya she felt dizzy. Tight in her chest. First, they suggested calling in the doctor, but she nearly passed out. So they called EMS. Two paramedics arrived within five minutes—caps low. They seemed legit. Lobby team checked their badges, everything looked right.”
Nika flips the tablet to show me the elevator feed. Teresa on a stretcher, blanket tucked up to her chin. Her eyes are open, not panicked, but distant. Shock or perhaps resolve. The taller medic’s face is shadowed beneath the cap. The angle of the cheekbones needles something familiar but can’t grab.
“Two minutes later,” Nika continues, “FDNY’s actual unit rolled up on a call they received from this address. The rig we saw headed south on Fifth without lights. Camera coverage is garbage in this snow.”
I move to the sofa. There’s a glass of water sweating on the table, a blanket tossed over the back, a book face down. I turn toward the bedroom and stop in the doorway. The bag she’d packed in case of an emergency is gone. The drawer where she keeps her passport is ajar. This was planned.
The first heat of fury burns clean through me. I go back to the foyer because if I stay in the bedroom I will tear the room apart.
Kostya swallows. “Boss, she said she felt faint. She was sweating, looked like she was going to pass out. We thought we did the right?—”
“You did,” I cut him off. “A pregnant woman says her chest hurts and nearly passes out, you call for help.” I look at Mikhail. “Who verified the unit number?”
“Dispatch,” he says. “We called as they wheeled her out. The number came back as a private transport outfit. Tri-State. Ten minutes later Tri-State called back, said none of their rigs were within a mile of Midtown. By then the vehicle was gone.”
“Footage?” I ask Nika.
She swipes. We watch the stretcher leave. The camera stutters right as the rear doors close. The rig then moves down the ramp and is swallowed by white.
“Phones?”
“Her personal was found under the couch,” Nika reports. “Work phone is still in her office. No calls out from the landline. Last call in was forty-nine minutes before the ambulance showed. Caller ID… Trina Volkov.”
The name drops heavily.
Dmitri exhales. “It was definitely planned.”
“She wouldn’t risk this unless she already had a place to take Teresa,” Nika adds.
“Her place?” Dmitri suggests.
“Too obvious,” I say. “Trina’s smart enough to know we’d check there first. She’ll want somewhere she can control.”
