“I want to bring Hope home,” I begin, my voice tough as steel. “You saidlater.I can’t accept that. Not anymore.”
Luka’s focus moves to me, down to the box, then back to my face. “We have been planning while you slept,” he answers, his tone even. “Transport is already in motion. Denver to Aspen Ridge. Two vehicles. One scout and one primary.”
Misha cuts his eyes to the rearview. “The scout does not stop,” he reports. “He runs point and flag. The primary carries your sister and two medics. I am inserting two of ours beside them.”
Kolya twists in his seat just enough to study me over his shoulder. “I chose the route,” he adds. “I’m not fond of surprises.”
I grip the box harder, pulling it to my chest. “When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Luka answers. “By then, the night watchers will be gone, and their replacements won’t be fully alert. It’s the best window, when vigilance fades and men start to relax.”
My heart stutters, then surges. “Tell me the rest.”
He studies me for a moment that feels like a test. “No straight highways,” he continues. “Too easy to set up a kill box. No long tunnels. I prefer mountain roads with more exits than entries.”
Kolya nods. “They can bottleneck a tunnel with two trucks and a cigarette. Open curves punish them.”
“Two decoy ambulances on standby,” Misha adds. “One will roll half an hour ahead. One will leave Denver the opposite direction.”
“And if they try anyway?” I press, my heart pounding. “If they come?”
“Then they meet us,” Luka replies, final as a closing door. He glances down at Vega, then back at me. “We will be with her. Or near enough to arrive before anyone can pull a trigger.”
I lower my eyes to the recipe box and nod once. The plan is set, and the clock is already moving. Tomorrow, I will get my sister back.
16
LUKA
The office feels smaller at night, the walls closing in around the walnut desk and the shelves lined with ledgers. The lamps throw a warm circle over the maps spread out before us. Misha stands braced at the corner, his jaw locked, and one hand on the table as if he intends to steady the entire house through force alone. Kolya paces by the windows, his eyes cutting between the driveway gates on the monitor and the satellite view of our route from Denver to Aspen Ridge.
“Again,” I say. I prefer repetition. It rubs falsehood raw and leaves what is true.
Misha nods once, dragging his hand down his face. “The intercept is clean. Two separate channels, one in Russian, one in English. Name is muttered, not shouted, but it is there.Ray. The rest is Sokolov slang. They talk about a welcome-home present for us.”
Kolya stops pacing. “They will not go for the scout,” he adds. “They are not stupid. They want the primary.”
They want Sage broken, but I do not say it. They want the transfer to end with my men bleeding on a mountain road and her sister loaded into a different car.
I pull the map closer and draw my finger along the route Kolya chose this afternoon. He knows the switchbacks like a lover. He prefers the secondary road that looks harmless on paper and turns merciless when the weather changes. It keeps ambushes from stacking cars across a neat straightaway. It forces any attack to take place at a distance, giving my men time to move and time to kill.
“Reinforce both,” I say. “Two extra in the scout, three extra in the primary. Staggered departure. Elevation checks with the comms units every five minutes. I want remote eyes on the hairpins and the turnout before Black Bear Pass.”
Misha’s mouth tightens with approval. “Easy.”
Kolya lifts a brow. “I will need Albert for the second vehicle.”
“He is yours,” I answer.
No one suggests we wait. I set the clock, and now I live by it. If I hesitate, Ray will smell fear. He’ll turn delay into momentum and grind it over everything I care for until there’s nothing left but a road glittering with glass.
“We stay with the schedule,” I instruct.
Misha doesn’t answer right away. His silence isn’t defiance. It’s calculation, the sound he makes when he’s measuring what he hates against what he can live with. His focus moves from my face to the empty chair across from the desk. He doesn’t speak her name. He doesn’t have to.
“You put your hand on a stove, you expect a burn,” he says. “You put your heart near a war, you expect trouble that bleeds through places strategy cannot reach.”
Kolya exhales a low sound. “He is not wrong.”
