Pankratov was many things—brutal, ambitious, ruthless—but he wasn't stupid. He'd survived decades in a business that killed the careless. He'd built his Armenian operation from nothing, had clawed his way to power through cunning as much as violence.
So why was he telegraphing his moves?
The intelligence had been almost too clean. Three sources, all saying the same thing, all pointing to the same timeline. In my experience, real operations were messier than that. There were contradictions, gaps, pieces that didn't quite align. This had been seamless. Perfect.
Too perfect.
I pulled up the security feeds from the island on my tablet. The house looked peaceful—guards at their posts, no movement on the perimeters. I switched to the interior cameras and found Gaby in the library, exactly where I'd left her. She wasreading now, her feet tucked under her, a cup of tea steaming on the table beside her.
Safe. She was safe.
But the wrongness wouldn't leave me.
I called Kirill. "Status report."
"All quiet, boss. No movement on any approach. Mrs. Chernov is in the library. Staff going about their normal routines."
"Any anomalies? Anything that felt off?"
A pause. "Nothing, boss. It's been completely calm."
Completely calm. Just like the intelligence had been completely clean.
I ended the call and sat very still, my mind racing through possibilities I didn't want to consider.
Pankratov knew about the island—Lucas had given him that information before he died. He knew where I'd hidden my wife, knew the location of my most vulnerable asset. If he wanted to hurt me, truly hurt me, that's where he'd strike.
So why was he attacking New York instead?
Unless he wasn't.
Unless New York was the feint—the shiny distraction designed to draw my attention, my forces, my presence away from the real target.
I grabbed my phone and called Semyon.
"What is it?" he answered immediately.
"The intelligence about the New York attacks—I need you to verify it again. Every source, every detail. Something's wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"It's too clean. Too convenient. Pankratov knows I'm on the island with her. If he wants to destroy me, the smart play isn't hitting the docks—it's hitting her."
Silence on the line. Then: "You think the whole thing is a setup? That he wanted to draw you out?"
"I think we need to consider the possibility." I was already moving to the cockpit, my heart hammering against my ribs. "How long would it take for a strike team to reach the island from Athens?"
"Depending on the route... four hours. Maybe less if they had boats staged nearby."
I'd been in the air for two hours. If Pankratov's men had launched at the same time I took off—
"Get me everything you can on Armenian movements in the Aegean over the past forty-eight hours. Charter boats, helicopter rentals, anything."
"I'm on it."
I ended the call and pushed into the cockpit. The pilots looked up, startled.
"Turn the plane around," I said. "Now."
