"Keep her safe," Nikolai said. "Keep her inside the compound. And Kostya?" He waited until I met his eyes. "Don't tell her about the bounty. Not the details. She's smart—she'll figure outwhat 'intact' means, and that kind of fear . . . it'll break her or make her run. Either way, we lose."
I nodded, though keeping secrets from Maya felt like swallowing acid. But he was right. She'd survived six months of running because she didn't know how valuable she was to them. If she knew they wanted her organs, that her body was worth half a million dollars in parts . . .
"There's more," Maks said, and I wondered how many times someone could say that before I put my fist through Nikolai's expensive desk.
He pulled up new files on his laptop, security footage that looked familiar. Too familiar. The PetSmart parking lot, yesterday morning, Maya in my jacket looking small and happy and alive. My chest tightened watching her on screen, carrying those ridiculous cat beds like they mattered more than anything in the world.
"You were followed," Maks said unnecessarily.
He switched to another angle, this one from a traffic camera across the street. A black sedan, tinted windows, parked with a perfect view of the store entrance. The timestamp showed it arrived five minutes after we did. Stayed until five minutes after we left.
"Professional?" Nikolai asked.
"Very." Maks zoomed in on the sedan, enhancing until we could see a shape in the driver's seat. "Long-lens camera. The kind paparazzi use, or—"
"Bounty hunters," I finished.
More files appeared. Photos, slightly grainy but clear enough. Me and Maya walking into the store. Her laughing at something I'd said. Me pushing the cart while she held up cat toys. Domestic scenes that looked bizarre given who I was, what I did. The Besharov enforcer buying cat supplies with an unknown woman.
"These are already circulating," Maks said. "Private channels for now, but it won't take long. Someone will recognize her. Former colleagues, patients, anyone who knew her before."
I stared at the photos, at Maya's smile caught in digital amber. She looked happy. Unguarded. Nothing like the terrified woman who'd stitched me up in a basement veterinary clinic just days ago.
"How did they find us?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. In our world, everyone watched everyone. One person sees the Besharov enforcer acting unusual, word spreads. Someone makes a connection. Information becomes currency.
"Could be random," Maks said, but his tone suggested otherwise. "Or someone's already connected her to you. To us."
"It gets worse," he continued, because of course it did. "The police have been asking questions in Brighton Beach. Specifically about a 'shadow doctor' operating out of a veterinary clinic."
My blood went cold. "The clinic?"
"They're checking every clinic, every underground medical setup in Brooklyn," Maks added. "Someone tipped them. Probably Brand, using his connections to let the cops do his hunting for him."
I thought about Maya's work at that clinic. How many desperate people she'd helped. Gang members, illegals, anyone who couldn't go to a real hospital. She'd risked everything to help them, and now that kindness might be what got her caught.
"If the cops find her first—" I started.
"She gets arrested," Nikolai finished. "And with Brand's connections, she doesn't make it to trial. She has an accident in custody. Or gets transferred to federal holding and disappears in transit."
"If Brand's people find her first—"
"We already know what happens then."
The photos stared at me from Maks's screen. Maya holding a feather toy, examining it like it contained medical secrets. Me standing behind her, and even in the grainy image, you could see the way I looked at her. Possessive. Protective. Mine.
"These photos," I said slowly. "They don't just show Maya. They show her with me. With a Besharov."
"Which makes her more valuable," Nikolai said. "Or more dangerous, depending on who's looking. Either she's leverage against us, or she's someone we're protecting for a reason."
"Brand will know soon," Maks said. "If he doesn't already. These photos, plus the clinic location, plus her medical background—it's enough to confirm identity."
I stood abruptly, needing to move, to do something besides stare at evidence of how badly I'd fucked up. One normal morning. One attempt to give her something simple and bright. And I'd exposed her, painted a target on her back in neon.
"I need to get back," I said. "If she wakes up alone—"
"Wait." Nikolai’s voice was heavy with feeling.
Maks looked up from his laptop, read something in Nikolai's expression, and started packing up his electronics. "I'll run those traces," he said, which was code for I'll leave you two to talk. He squeezed my shoulder as he passed, a rare gesture of affection from our brother who preferred keyboards to contact.
