Facial recognition was tricky with this kind of footage—the resolution was poor, the angle was bad, and the passenger had been careful to keep his face turned away from our cameras. But careful wasn't the same as perfect. There was one frame, maybe two, where he'd shifted position and given me a partial profile.
I ran it through my databases. Cross-referenced against known associates of every family that might have reason to watch us. The algorithm churned for several minutes while my brothers waited in tense silence.
The match came back at 73% confidence.
Yevgeni Smironov. Former SVR—Russian foreign intelligence, the heir to the KGB. Now private contractor, which was a polite term for "available to the highest bidder." Known associate of the Deshnev family. The kind of professional who didn't work cheap and didn't work sloppy.
"They've been watching," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. "They know our movements. Our patterns. Our vulnerabilities."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Vulnerabilities.
Three nights ago. After I'd discovered Auralia was Ptichka. After I'd kissed her and pulled away and told her to forget me. I'd driven back to the compound alone, taking the most direct route because I couldn't think clearly enough for tradecraft.
If they'd been watching the compound three days ago, they might still have been watching three nights ago.
My hands weren't quite steady as I accessed the traffic camera network. It took favors—different favors, ones I'd been saving—but I had access to most of the city's surveillance infrastructure. Not officially, of course. Nothing about my work was official.
I found my car on the Brooklyn Bridge at 9:47 PM. Tracked it through DUMBO. Watched myself park on Plymouth Street, outside a converted rope factory with industrial windows and north-facing light.
The footage showed me going inside.
Showed me leaving two hours later, walking like a man who'd just had something vital removed.
"Maks?" Nikolai's voice came from somewhere far away. "What is it?"
I couldn't answer. I was still staring at the screen, at the timestamp, at the irrefutable evidence of my own stupidity.
If Smironov's people had been surveilling me—and why wouldn't they be surveilling the Besharov intelligence officer?—they would have seen everything. Would have noted the address. Would have run it through their own databases and discovered that the property was registered to a woman named Auralia Hart.
Would have started digging.
Would have found what I'd found. Or worse—would have found things I hadn't. Connections I'd missed. Details I'd overlooked because I was too busy falling in love to notice the danger I was creating.
They know about Auralia.
The thought was ice in my veins. Cold and clear and absolutely certain.
I'd led them straight to her. I'd been so focused on protecting her from myself that I'd forgotten to protect her from them.
"I need to make a call," I said. My voice came out steady, which was a miracle. "Give me ten minutes."
Nikolai opened his mouth to argue—we were in the middle of a crisis, there wasn't time for personal calls—but something in my face must have stopped him. He nodded once, sharply, and turned back to Konstantin.
I was already moving toward the door.
Ten minutes. Maybe less.
I just had to hope it wasn't already too late.
Icalledherfromthecar.
The compound gates were still closing behind me as I pulled up her contact—not saved under her name, not saved under any name, just a string of numbers I'd memorized the moment I'd found her file. The engine hummed. The Brooklyn streets blurred past. My hands were steady on the wheel because I'd trained them to be steady, even when everything inside me was screaming.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
Answer. Please answer. Please be alive, please be safe, please—
