I can't tell if it's an accusation or a compliment.
I wipe my hands on a cloth that will never be clean again.
"We go," I say.
He pushes himself upright. Tests his leg. Pain flashes across his face—quick, ugly—and then the mask settles.
He nods toward the window.
"The truck?"
"The truck."
We move out the back door. The pickup is where it was. Keys fit. The engine coughs, sputters, then catches.
I get Maksim into the passenger seat. He bites down on whatever sound tries to escape.
I drive.
Not the highway. Not the main roads. The kind of routes that wind through small towns where nobody looks up.
The truck smells like old cigarettes and wet dog.
Maksim leans his head back and closes his eyes.
The world outside slides past in muted colors. My mind doesn't move.
The lake house is ash. The recorder is ash.
Boris's men are dead, but Boris is breathing and comfortable.
We need leverage again. Something not digital.
I'm turning options over when the thought hits like a hook under the ribs:
The cabin was meant to be invisible. Shell companies. Cash. No one knew where it was.
Boris found it within hours.
Enough time to assemble a team, move them, surround the property.
That speed isn't luck. It's tracking.
I pull onto a gravel shoulder and cut the engine.
Maksim's eyes snap open, hand shifting toward his weapon.
"What?"
"Checking."
I step out into the cold air, go to the back seat, and yank the go-bag out.
I dump it onto the gravel: cash, documents, ammo.
I run my hands along seams, lining, straps.
And there it is.
