"My only demand is that Anton Kozlov doesn't walk away Sunday night." I meet her eyes. "You get him alive for federal prosecution? Good. He dies trying to hurt her?" I gesture toward Sonya across the room. "Also good. The outcome matters, not who gets credit."
Mariana extends her hand. "Then we understand each other, Mr. Petrov."
I shake it. "Call me Maksim. We're going to war together—formality wastes time."
She grips my hand firmly. "Let's end this bastard."
She makes a few more notes, then heads out to coordinate with her teams, promising to return if anything develops.
At 5:00 PM, just me, Sonya, and Sergei remain in the conference room, reviewing final details, when Sergei's phone buzzes.
He checks it, and his expression goes cold. "Pakhan. You need to see this."
He pulls up video on the large screen. Security camera footage, grainy but clear enough.
A young woman—early twenties, dark hair, dancer's build—bound to a chair in what looks like a dance studio. Afternoon light streams through windows. She's gagged, terrified, but alive.
Anton's voice, off-camera, theatrical and pleased: "Maksim Petrov. Sonya, my little ballerina. I know you're planning something tedious for my performance night. So predictable. So boring."
The camera pans to show him—finally, after fifteen years, I see the face that goes with the voice that haunted Elena's death. He's thirty-eight now, still projecting cultured sophistication like a mask, still moving with dancer's controlled precision.
"So here's a new choreography," Anton continues, smiling at the camera. "Bring Sonya to Juilliard's main stage at Lincoln Center, ten-thirty PM sharp. Come alone—just you, Sonya, and me. The performance requires an intimate audience. If you bring your armies, if I see one federal agent, one Bratva soldier—" He touches the young woman's shoulder. She flinches violently. "—I start cutting pieces off this one."
He crouches beside her, speaking directly to the camera now. "Every hour you're late, she loses something. Toes first—you know how important those are for dancers. Then feet, ankles, legs. By midnight, there won't be much left to save. But you'll arrive on time, won't you? Because Sonya's too soft to let another dancer suffer for her."
He stands, brushing invisible dust off his clothes. "Ten-thirty PM, Halloween night, Juilliard Theater main stage. Don't be late. Oh, and Sonya—" His smile widens. "Wear white. You know the costume. Be my Giselle one last time."
The video ends.
Silence in the conference room.
Sonya is white, then red with rage. "That's Natasha. My friend from Mariinsky. She moved to New York three years ago, we've been meeting for coffee—she has nothing to do with this—"
"It's a trap," Sergei states. "Designed to isolate you, force you onto that stage alone."
Sonya's already analyzing the video, rewinding, studying the footage. "Look at the lighting. Afternoon sun through a window—that's ground-level space, not deep underground. And the window faces—" She pauses, concentrates. "East. Morning light would be direct, afternoon is indirect. This is an east-facing ground-level studio."
She pulls out her phone, texting rapidly. "Sending this to Mila. She can analyze the footage, narrow down location, and find exactly where he's keeping her."
Mariana returns at 5:15 PM—Sergei must have called her while we were processing. She reviews the video with professional assessment.
"He's escalating. The hostage divides your focus, forces you to choose between confronting him and saving her." She looks at us. "But if we know where she is—"
"We run two operations simultaneously," I finish. "Sunday night, Sonya and I will go to the main stage, and give him his performance. The moment we're on that stage, your tactical team breaches wherever he's holding Natasha. He'll be focused on Sonya—won't know we're extracting his leverage until it's too late."
Sergei nods slowly. "Dual operation. Team A engages Anton at the main theater. Team B rescues the hostage from the secondary location."
"Risky," Mariana says. "If he has surveillance on the hostage location, he'll know the moment we breach."
"Then we break fast. Clean extraction, minimal time between entry and exit." I meet her eyes. "Your people can do that."
"FBI Hostage Rescue Team can do it in under three minutes if we have the exact location." She pulls out her tablet. "But we need perfect intelligence. Building layout, entry points, hostage position, any guards or surveillance."
Sonya's phone buzzes. She checks it, and relief flashes across her face. "Mila's got preliminary results. Seven possible locations based on the video—all former dance studios within the Lincoln Center complex. She's accessing building security systems and city surveillance cameras to narrow it further."
"How long?" Mariana asks.
"She says two hours for initial narrowing, another twelve hours for final confirmation. By Friday morning, we'll know exactly where Natasha is."
