My security team fans out, weapons ready, clearing the corridors as we advance.
Mariana's voice in my earpiece: "Team B positioned at Starr Theater entrance. Chicago has perimeter secured. All teams ready. Awaiting your signal for breach."
We reach the theater entrance at 10:38 PM.
The doors stand open. Light spills from inside. And music—Adolphe Adam's Giselle score, Act II, playing from hidden speakers. The Wilis' theme.
Anton's masterpiece.
The stage has been transformed. Elaborate Giselle set—fake gravestones arranged in romantic tableau, fog rolling across the stage floor, lighting that creates moonlight effect. Professional-grade production design.
And center stage, mounted on a stand: a large video monitor, at least six feet across.
On the screen: live feed of Natasha.
She's in the Starr Theater studio, bound to a chair, unconscious. The camera angle shows the entire space—east-facing windows, rehearsal barres, the chair positioned in the center. Real-time footage, timestamp running in the corner.
My blood goes cold.
Anton can see that feed, meaning that the moment we breach Starr Theater, the moment our team enters that studio, he'll see it on this screen.
And stage right, positioned like he owns the space: Anton Kozlov.
Full period costume—white tights, embroidered tunic, exactly what Prince Albrecht would wear in Act II. His costume is pristine, expensive, custom-made. His hair is styled, his makeup stage-perfect.
Complete delusion wearing a theatrical mask.
He smiles when he sees Sonya descending the aisle in her white costume, gestures to the video monitor.
"Sonya. My Giselle. Finally." He touches the screen showing Natasha. "And here's your Myrtha—Queen of the Wilis. Watching our performance from her own stage. If you dance beautifully, I might let her live."
My security team positions throughout the theater—wings, orchestra pit, back rows. Weapons trained on Anton but held. We need him focused on Sonya.
But that video feed changes everything.
I key my mic, voice barely a whisper. "Team B, hold position. Repeat, hold breach. Live video feed on stage. He'll see you coming. Stand by for a revised signal."
"Copy," Mariana responds immediately. "Holding."
Sonya stops at the front row, and I can see her processing the same thing I am. The monitor. The live feed. The changed tactical situation.
"Let Natasha go first," she says, voice steady.
"She stays where she is. She's part of the performance." Anton gestures to the screen. "I have cameras positioned. The moment anyone enters that studio, I'll know. And she dies. So your FBIfriends, your Bratva soldiers—they stay away. This performance is just for us."
He steps to the edge of the stage, looking down at her with theatrical intensity. "Shall we begin?"
Sonya climbs the stage stairs at 11:00 PM.
She moves with dancer's grace despite everything hidden beneath the white tulle. She looks like a ghost ascending to her rightful place.
Anton extends his hand. "Shall we?"
She takes it.
The performance begins.
And I need to figure out how to signal Team B without Anton seeing the breach on his monitor.
