Then I find it.
Buried in the notations—small and nearly invisible unless you're looking for it—is a string of characters that tightens my stomach.
An authentication cipher.
Boris's.
I recognize it because I spent a week delving into his operations—three raids, three laptops, ledgers, transfers, and memo fields that followed a consistent pattern. Boris had a habit of leaving his signature in places he thought Sergei would never check. A private mark for off-the-books shipments, those that fueled the second empire he built within the first.
The log next to the cipher is dated three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago.
Long after Boris was supposed to be "finished." Long after Sergei was meant to have cut him out and cauterized the wound.
I stare at the screen until the edges of my vision pulse.
There are only a few possibilities, and none of them are good.
Either Boris is still moving product, which means custody isn't what Ivan believed?—
Or someone else is using Boris's cipher to move product in his name, exploiting a key that still opens doors in the right places.
Either way, it means the network that tried to kill Ivan isn't dead.
It's just quieter.
And if it's quieter, it's because it's waiting.
The fog that has weighed on my chest for three months lifts in one violent sweep.
I can feel my blood moving again.
Ivan.
If this is happening and Ivan believes the threat is neutralized, he is exposed in ways he won't recognize until it's too late. He will be rebuilding his position, proving himself to Sergei, trying to earn back the right to come for me.
And someone—whether it's Boris or a shadow using his cipher—is moving beneath that work like a blade under cloth.
I can't ignore it.
But I can't report it, either.
Official channels here aren't channels; they're arteries. Anything that flows through them can be traced back to the source. Any alert I file will reach someone, and those hands may belong to the same person allowing Warehouse Seven to receive unregistered deliveries without triggering alarms.
If Sergei discovers I'm digging into areas I'm not assigned to watch, he won't exile me again.
He'll erase me.
Mercy is not a renewable resource.
But if I do nothing, Ivan might die.
That makes the decision easy.
I wait for Dmitri to take his break.
He slips into the back room with a thermos he pretends isn't vodka and a cigarette he claims he won't smoke inside. The rules of the building exist like all rules in this world: mere suggestions until someone with the right authority decides otherwise.
