“Well, well,” he says in accented English. “The little rabbit returns.”
Anton doesn’t react to the nickname, which means either he approves, or this guy is too dangerous to correct. Neither option comforts me.
“Lev,” Anton says by way of introduction. “Boris.” His chin tips toward the driver. “Dima.”
I glance back at the silent man standing by the elevator like a shadow. The one who’s been watching me. A name now attached to the ghost.
“So,” Boris says, closing the laptop. “How’d it go with the helpful officer?”
“Rodriguez is handled,” Anton replies.
“Permanently handled?” Lev asks, still grinning.
“Permanently.”
They’re talking about murder like it’s a business transaction. Rodriguez is dead, and they’re discussing it the way normal people discuss the weather.
I sink onto the couch, my legs giving out.
“She looks pale,” Lev observes. “Maybe some vodka?”
“She doesn’t need vodka,” Anton says. “She needs information.”
All eyes turn to me. Three killers and Anton, all waiting for me to say something useful.
“I don’t know anything else,” I whisper.
“You know more than you think,” Boris says, settling into the chair across from me. “Dave Thornton told you about other players. People above him in the food chain.”
My stomach clenches. “I told you already—”
“Tell us again,” Anton says. It’s not a request.
So I do. I recount Dave’s confession word for word, watching their faces for reactions. When I mention corporate connections, Boris and Anton exchange a look. When I talk about federal contacts, Lev’s grin disappears.
“How high does this go?” I ask when I’m finished.
“Higher than you want to know,” Anton says.
Dima speaks for the first time, his voice a gruff rumble. “She’ll need new credentials for tomorrow.”
“Already handled,” Boris says, pulling something from his jacket. “Medical leave paperwork, signed by Dr. Sarah Tate at University Medical. Stress-related absence following a traumatic robbery incident.”
He hands me a manila envelope. Inside are a letterhead, official stamps, and a doctor’s signature that looks completely real.
“How did you—?”
“Dr. Tate owed a favor,” Anton says. “Now she doesn’t.”
The casual way he says it chills me. How many people owe him favors? How many doctors, cops, judges have been bought or blackmailed or worse?
“You go back to work tomorrow,” Anton continues. “Act normal. Grieve your boss. Help train his replacement. And keep your eyes open for anything unusual.”
“I don’t want to—”
“What you want stopped mattering yesterday,” he cuts me off. “You’re in this now. The only question is whether you help us or become a liability.”
The word “liability” hangs in the air like a threat.
