Pyotr slides in beside me, and Boris pulls onto a two-lane road that cuts through dense forest on both sides. No other cars or buildings, just trees and mud and the occasional logging road branching off into nothing.
I press my forehead against the window and watch the pines blur past. My mind keeps looping through the same two scenarios.
If this works, Bogdan is gone. Not hiding, running, or lurking in a foreign country with a new passport and a grudge. Gone. And if Bogdan is gone, Kira comes home. The custody filing dies on the vine because there’s nobody left to pursue it. The safe houses and fake names and three years of sleeping with one eye open become a story I tell a therapist someday instead of a life I’m still living.
Kira starts first grade in September. I’ve already missed her preschool graduation because we were on the run, and I swore I’d never miss another milestone. If this works, I won’t have to. I can walk her to school in the mornings and pick her up in the afternoons and make dinner in peace, without jumping every time my phone rings.
If this doesn’t work, Kira grows up without a mother.
That thought should paralyze me. Three months ago, it would have. I would have begged Pyotr to turn the car around, called Alexei, and asked him to hide me somewhere. I would have done what I always did when the stakes got too high: make myself small and pray the danger passed.
I’m not that woman anymore. The woman who called Bogdan this morning and told him to run wouldn’t turn this car around. She’d ride it straight into the fire if that’s what it took.
“You’re quiet,” Pyotr says beside me.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“Kira’s first day of school. Whether I’ll be there for it.”
He doesn’t offer reassurance. Pyotr has never been the kind of man who makes promises he can’t guarantee, and I love him for it. Instead, he reaches over and takes my hand. His palm is rough and warm, and I lace my fingers through his and hold on.
“I called her before we left,” I tell him. “She told me Sofia taught her how to braid friendship bracelets and that Mila let her have ice cream for breakfast.”
“Mila spoils her.”
“Mila adores her.” I smile despite everything. “Kira asked when I’m coming to get her. I told her soon.”
“That’s the truth.”
“It had better be.”
Boris glances at us through the mirror but says nothing. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since the helicopter, which means he’s either focused or furious. Probably both. I know he didn’t want me on this trip. He made that clear before we left, listing every tactical reason I should stay behind while Pyotr loaded the duffel bags into the car. He wasn’t wrong.
But here I am.
The road narrows as we push farther north. Pavement gives way to gravel, and gravel gives way to packed dirt with ruts deep enough to swallow a tire. Boris handles the SUV like he’s driven this kind of terrain a thousand times. The man spent a decade in military service before joining the Kozlovs, and I’ve heard enough stories from Pyotr to know that Boris has operated in worse conditions than a muddy logging road in February.
My phone dings with a text from Tony.
Target stationary. Same coordinates. Two vehicles confirmed on site. ETA to intercept zone: forty minutes.
I read it aloud, and Boris nods. “Good. He hasn’t moved. Looks like he’s set up for the night.”
“What’s the plan when we get there?” I ask.
Boris meets my eyes in the mirror. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I’m not worried. I’m asking.”
Pyotr answers instead. “Eduard and Marat’s teams surround the property from the tree line. Boris and I approach from the front. We cut off the road so he can’t bolt in one of those vehicles.”
“And me?”
“You stay in the car with the doors locked and the engine running.”
I don’t argue. I promised I wouldn’t, and I meant it.
