A folded piece of paper sits beneath the hair. I open it with shaking hands.
Time is running out, malen'kaya ptichka.
A wave of nausea climbs my throat as I stare at the note. My mother's voice echoes from years ago, the same nickname she used when she tucked me in at night.Little bird.
My body gives out, and I sink to the floor. The note trembles in my grip, the letters blurring as tears spill down my cheeks. Beneath it, two small objects wait in the bottom of the box: a USB drive and a slip of paper with Luka’s laptop password written neatly across it. A second line indicates the type of files Ray wants.
I stare until the letters swim and every muscle in my body locks. Vega nudges closer, pressing his body against me. A sob claws at my throat. I press my hand against my mouth until the sound dies there.
My fingers curl around the USB, the metal digging hard into my palm. I could destroy it. I could throw it into the fire. But the hair, the ribbon, and the blood are all proof that Hope is stillalive, and if I don’t move fast enough, she won’t be for much longer.
I press the drive to my chest, hot tears blurring the room. Vega rests his head on my knee, silent and watchful.
“I’ll do it,” I whisper. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
The note lies open beside me, the words sinking deeper with every heartbeat. Time is running out. I close my eyes and draw in a shaky breath. All that’s left now is taking the step I can never undo.
5
LUKA
“Talk,” I order.
My hand clamps around the back of the man's skull, my fingers buried deep in his hair as I force his face toward the dirt floor. His breath strikes the ground in uneven bursts, small clouds rising from his lips as he trembles under the cold. Dust clings to the blood smeared across his cheek, dark streaks mixing with the grime already coating his skin. The barn groans under the pressure of the wind sliding across the ridge, the boards creaking as if they want no part of the truth about to be dragged out of him.
Vega stands to my right with his shoulders stiff and his ears pinned forward, the low growl in his throat vibrating through the air until the man beneath my grip freezes again. The sound reverberates off the wooden walls, filling the space with a warning that needs no translation.
His wrists are bound behind him with zip ties that bite into his skin. His knees sink deeper into the cold dirt with each shallow breath. Fear works through him in small spasms, twisting his muscles into tiny shudders he tries to hide. I watch the tremortravel up his spine and see the way his shoulders hunch inward as if he could fold himself into nothing. The smell of old hay mixes with sweat, creating stale, heavy air that drags along the walls.
I lean my weight into my grip, forcing his face closer to the ground. His cheekbone presses into the dirt, and I hear the small hitch in his breathing when he realizes he cannot move. “You understand what happened on that road. You understand men died because of you, and you understand what I am asking.” My voice stays low, stripped of anything that might sound like hope or mercy.
“I didn’t know,” he mutters, his words tumbling out, muffled by the dirt pressing against his mouth. “I didn’t know it would be like that. We were told to block the road. Nothing more.”
His voice shakes on the last two words, desperation bleeding through despite his attempt to sound convincing. I study the way his fingers curl behind his back, his nails scraping uselessly against the plastic binding his wrists. He wants me to believe his ignorance absolves him. It does not.
“Who told you?” I demand.
His jaw tightens. The muscles in his neck cord as he tries to twist his face away, but Vega steps closer with a rumble that vibrates in the earth beneath us. The dog moves with slow and sure steps, guided by instinctive caution, each paw placed with intention. The man stiffens instantly, his entire body going rigid under the threat. His breathing grows ragged, each inhale dragging through his teeth louder than the last.
I jerk his head upward by his hair and press the barrel of my gun to the side of his skull. The metal touches his skin with asoft click as I thumb back the hammer. His breathing changes immediately, transforming from ragged gasps into harsh, panicked wheezes. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple despite the freezing air filling the barn.
“You will answer correctly this time,” I tell him.
He tries to wet his lips. They tremble too much for him to finish the motion. His tongue darts out once, then retreats. “Sokolov,” he mutters finally, the name breaking on his exhale. “They told us to light one truck. Enough for smoke and attention.”
The confession spills out of him in broken pieces, like a man pushing words past the edge of panic. His voice rises slightly on the last syllable, a question hidden inside the statement as if he hopes giving me this much will buy him time.
“And payment?” I continue, adjusting my grip on his hair. “Who funneled it to you?”
“Courier. Rail yard. No names. Unmarked envelopes.” The words come faster now, tumbling over each other in his rush to comply.
A weak attempt at a clean trail. Sokolov operations always rely on half-truths and cowards who think anonymity will save them. They build their networks on layers of separation, believing distance protects them from consequences. It never does.
I ease the gun behind his skull instead of his temple. The slight adjustment is small, but his entire body locks at the movement. His spine goes ramrod straight, and I feel the tremor intensify where my fingers still grip his hair.
“Please,” he breathes, the word cracking down the middle. “I told you everything I know.”
“No.” I lower my voice until it reaches the space between us. “You told me scraps. The men you helped murder deserved more than scraps.”
