Sergei turns slightly. “You sure?”
I settle back against the leather seat and let my gaze drift to the window. The city rushes by in streaks of light. My reflection stares back at me, jaw set, eyes narrowed. I can feel her lingering in my thoughts, that quiet presence behind the dumpster, the way she slipped out of the alley as soon as she sensed the chance.
“She wasn’t armed,” I say. “No comms. No partner in sight.”
“She still saw everything.”
“I know.”
He waits for my verdict, elbows braced on his knees.
I think about the way she crouched there, silent but attentive. I think about the small tilt of her head, the way she reacted more to me than to the gunshot. She noticed hierarchy. She noticed control. She noticedme.
That isn’t something I can ignore.
“Find out who she is,” I say. “Find her address, her schedule, her contacts. Quietly.”
Sergei nods. Another man in the front passenger seat leans back to hear better.
“Do we take her in?” he asks.
“No.”
They wait for the rest.
I tap a finger against my knee, picturing the alley again. Her breath was shallow but steady. Her eyes moved fast,cataloging details. If she were planning to run to the police, she’d have stayed close enough to collect evidence. She wouldn’t have slipped out and blended into foot traffic like someone trained to survive. She made herself invisible the second she got distance.
Someone who hides like that isn’t planning to talk.
Someone who watches like that? She’ll think about what she saw. She’ll replay the moment. She’ll obsess over the parts she didn’t understand. And I want to see how she handles that.
“Keep eyes on her movements,” I say. “I want to know where she goes, who she calls, what she does when she thinks no one is watching.”
“What if she talks?” Sergei asks.
“She won’t. She’s too scared.”
He waits, then prompts, “Orders?”
My attention shifts to the windshield, where the streetlights flicker across the glass. She’s out there somewhere, probably convincing herself that she imagined the weight of my stare. She’ll tell herself it was shock. Fear. An adrenaline spike. She’ll come up with logical explanations for the way her skin crawled.
But she’ll still look over her shoulder tonight. And tomorrow. And every time she steps into a crowded street. She’ll feel me even when she doesn’t see me.
“Don’t approach her,” I say, voice low but firm. “Don’t speak to her. Don’t touch her.”
The men nod.
“Just report.”
The engine hums as we melt back into traffic. My men talk quietly in the front. I stay silent in the back seat, watching the city blur by, the pulse of neon lights flickering against the glass.
***
The drive back to the warehouse is quiet except for the low rumble of engines on the expressway. My men talk in short bursts, updating each other on routes and assignments, but their voices fade into the background. My focus stays locked on the image in my head—the small figure slipping out of the alley, shoulders tense, steps quick but controlled.
When we arrive, the doors slide shut behind us with a metallic groan. The security room is dim, lit only by the glow of monitors. I step inside and the tech on duty straightens immediately. He knows better than to speak unless spoken to.
“Pull footage from the alley and surrounding blocks,” I say. “Last thirty minutes.”
