Goal: Extract Natasha before Anton realizes, remove his leverage, then take him down
"He thinks the hostage gives him control," Sonya says, studying the operational timeline. "He thinks I'll be paralyzed by fear for her, that I'll do whatever he wants to keep her safe."
"Instead, she'll be in federal protection while he's still monologuing," Mariana says with grim satisfaction.
"He's been so focused on his artistic vision, his perfect performance," Sonya continues. "He didn't account for us being three steps ahead."
"He's been operating alone for fifteen years," I add. "Solo killer, solo planner. He doesn't understand coordinated operations, military precision, the resources we can bring to bear."
Sergei pulls up the Lincoln Center campus map, marking the main theater and the seven possible hostage locations. "Once Mila confirms which building, we'll have sixty hours to prepare the extraction. That's sufficient time for a clean operation."
"What if he moves her?" Sonya asks. "Between now and Sunday?"
"We'll have surveillance on the confirmed location starting Friday," Mariana answers. "Thermal imaging, exterior cameras. If he moves her, we'll know immediately and adapt."
"And if he kills her before Sunday?" The question costs Sonya, but she asks it anyway.
"He won't." Mariana's voice is certain. "She's his leverage. He needs her alive to control you. The moment she's dead, you have no reason to cooperate. He's too smart to throw away his only card. Besides, that would break his pattern, ruin his performance, since she is not related to Bratva."
Sonya squeezes my hand, then releases it. Turns to face the operational map, the timeline, the tactical details. "Then let's make sure every second is accounted for. I'm not losing Natasha because we missed something."
By 7:00 PM, Mariana and her team have left with assignments. Sergei is coordinating with the Chicago team's arrival Sunday morning. Sonya and I are alone in the conference room, staring at Natasha's frozen face on the screen.
"Tell me about her," I say.
"Natasha Volkova. We trained together at Vaganova Academy, danced together at the Mariinsky for three years before I was promoted to principal. She was good—not principal level, but solid corps dancer." Sonya's voice softens with memory. "After my injury, after Anton destroyed me, she visited me in the hospital in St. Petersburg. Brought me books, refused to let me disappear into isolation."
She traces Natasha's face on the screen with one finger. "I came to New York a year after the accident. Started grad school atNYU. Began rebuilding. A year after I arrived, Natasha followed. Three years ago now. She got a teaching position at a small studio in Brooklyn, trying to make it work. We'd meet for coffee once a month, talk about dancing, about Russia, about building new lives in America. She has nothing to do with Bratva, nothing to do with Anton's vendetta. She's just—" Her voice breaks. "She's just my friend."
"We're going to get her back. You've been training for two weeks to be deadly. Now you train for three days to be vulnerable. To be his broken ballerina one last time."
"I can do it." Her smile is bitter. "I've had five years of practice."
"Sunday night," I promise, "you walk off that stage with Natasha safe and Anton in custody or dead. That's how this ends."
She nods, but I see the weight she's carrying. The guilt, the fear, the responsibility for Natasha's terror.
I pull her against my chest, and she allows herself to break for just a moment. Silent tears, shaking shoulders, five years of isolation and three days of countdown all crashing down at once.
Doesn’t matter. It just gives us another reason to destroy him.
Chapter thirteen
The Trap
Sonya
Friday morning, I wake at 7:00 AM to my phone buzzing. Mila's name on the screen.
I answer before the second ring. "Tell me you found her."
"Good morning to you too." Mila's voice is calm, professional. "I found her. Exact location confirmed."
I'm out of bed immediately, pulling on clothes, not caring that Maksim is still half-asleep beside me. "Where?"
