"This was taken outside her workplace," Semyon said quietly. "Around noon. One of our men recognized him—he's associated with Pankratov's organization. Low level, mostly does reconnaissance work."
I stared at the photograph, my blood turning to ice in my veins. "They're watching her."
"It appears so. We followed him after he left. He made two phone calls, then went to a bar in Brighton Beach that we know the Armenians use as a meeting spot."
"Did you grab him?"
"He's in the warehouse on Atlantic Avenue. I thought you'd want to handle the questioning personally."
I was already moving toward the door.
***
The man's name was Grigor Sarkisian. Thirty-four years old, Armenian by birth, a minor foot soldier in Pankratov's organization. He'd been in the country for six years, had a wife and child in Queens, and was currently tied to a chair in a room that smelled like rust and fear.
He'd already been softened up by the time I arrived. His face was swollen, one eye puffed shut, his breathing ragged and wet. But he was conscious, which was what mattered.
I pulled up a chair and sat across from him, close enough that he could see every detail of my expression. I wanted him to understand exactly who he was dealing with.
"Grigor," I said conversationally. "Do you know who I am?"
He nodded, a jerky motion that made him wince.
"Good. Then you know I'm not a patient man, and I'm not a merciful one. You're going to tell me everything I want to know. The only question is how much pain you experience before you do."
"I don't—" He coughed, blood speckling his lips. "I don't know anything important. I just follow orders."
"Then tell me about the orders." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "You were photographing a woman yesterday. Outside an office building in Midtown. Why?"
His swollen eyes widened with something that looked like genuine confusion. "I photograph lots of people. Pankratov has me building files—"
"This woman specifically. Auburn hair. Works in marketing. Lives in the West Village." I kept my voice level despite the rage burning in my chest. "Why is Pankratov interested in her?"
Grigor was quiet for a long moment, calculating. I could see him weighing his options—loyalty to his boss versus the very immediate threat sitting in front of him.
I helped him with the calculation by pulling out my knife.
"She's on a list," he said quickly, his eyes fixed on the blade. "Pankratov has me watching everyone connected to the Chernov family. Girlfriends, relatives, anyone who could be useful."
"And how did this woman end up on that list?"
Grigor swallowed hard. "Someone noticed. Your car—the black SUV—it's been parking on her street every night for weeks. Word got around. Pankratov figured she must be important to you."
The ice in my veins spread, freezing me from the inside out. My own obsession had painted a target on her back. My nightly vigils, my inability to stay away—I'd led the wolves directly to her door.
"What does Pankratov plan to do with this information?"
"I don't know. I swear to God, I don't know. I just take the pictures. Someone else decides what happens with them."
I believed him. Grigor was too low-level to be included in strategic planning. He was a pair of eyes, nothing more—disposable and easily replaced.
Which meant Pankratov already had everything he needed. Photographs of Gabrielle. Her address, her workplace, her routines. All the information required to take her, hurt her, use her against me.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the concrete floor. "Keep him alive for now," I told the guards waiting by the door. "I may have more questions later."
I walked out into the gray afternoon, my mind racing through possibilities. None of them were good.
***
