“This is a live feed,” Malenkov’s voice says smoothly, distorted just enough to remind me he controls the distance. “There will be no delay.”
My jaw locks.
“Malenkov,” I say into the open channel. “You’re behind.”
A pause.
Then a faint smile in his voice. “Am I?”
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, posture loose. Predatory. Calm.
“You lost Jonah,” I continue. “You lost your tunnels. You lost control of the board.”
The man on the screen coughs. Blood darkens the bandage.
Malenkov ignores it.
“I lost a piece,” he replies. “You lost leverage.”
Wrong.
Aaron shifts beside me. I feel the tension rolling off Delta Five—tight, coiled, ready. No one needs orders. They’re already building the kill box in their heads.
“You think I’m going to rush,” I say quietly. “That I’ll trade position for panic.”
The feed cuts—then returns tighter.
A guard steps into frame.
Raises his baton.
I don’t move.
Because this is where Malenkov always miscalculates.
“Do it,” Malenkov says.
The baton comes down.
Once.
Twice.
The man grunts—but he doesn’t scream.
He lifts his head instead. Swollen eye fixing on the camera like he knows exactly where I am.
Like he wants Malenkov to see it too.
My chest burns.
Lena’s voice is steady now. Cold. “We have eyes on the ravine. Jonah’s moving as predicted.”
Good.
“Delta Five,” I say calmly, never looking away from the screen. “Phase three.”
No hesitation.
