I sit down on the couch. The tux is tailored, but it still feels like a cage—tight across the shoulders, collar stiff against my neck. I’d rather be in black fatigues with a rifle on my back. But this is the part where we lay it all out.
Boris drops his gear case on the table, opens it, and starts checking frequencies.
“Ray Bishop’s team is in place,” he says. “Four unmarked cars around the block, two plainclothes inside the ballroom posing as casino reps. They’re waiting for the first digital transfer before moving in.”
I cut him off. “And our people?”
Dima answers before Boris can. “Fifteen on standby. Split between the service corridor, loading dock, and both exits. Two snipers across from the ballroom, four drivers ready for extraction. Everyone’s armed and waiting on my signal.” He sets the pistol down, calm as ever. “If Timofey’s men start shooting, we end it fast.”
I nod once. No questions needed. Dima’s word on security is final. Always has been.
“Which means,” I say, sliding my cufflinks into place, “we make sure the data gets through before Caleb’s system cycles the transfers.”
Lev’s already back at the minibar, one hand braced on the counter. He pours himself a second glass, slower this time, likethe burn might take the edge off. He doesn’t look over when he speaks.
“You think Timofey already knows?”
I pick up the glass he left for me—whiskey on the rocks, sweating at the edges—and down it in one go. The ice hits first, then the burn. Sharp. Good. Keeps me focused.
“I think he’s known for a while that we’re protecting her,” I say. “The gala’s Caleb’s show, but Timofey’s hijacked it. He’s using it to draw me out—make it look like I’m part of whatever she’s carrying. He gets proof, he gets an excuse to pull the trigger.”
Boris scrolls the tablet, the live map flickering between feeds.
“And what he doesn’t know,” he says, “is that Ray Bishop’s team is parked outside waiting for Caleb’s transactions to hit. Once those accounts move, Ray gets his evidence—and Timofey’s stage turns into a crime scene.”
He sets the tablet down and flips a switch on the signal hub. Lights blink green across the board.
“I’m patching us in,” he says. “Watch mic’s live. You’ll be able to hear her. And she’ll hear us—once you say the word.”
I nod once. “Do it.”
He taps his earpiece. “Comm check—three, two—”
Static clears.
And then—
“…must be Mary Sullivan.”
That voice.
My spine straightens. Not because I’m surprised—because I recognize it.
Timofey.
Calm. Polished. Snake-oil smooth. Like always.
“I’ve heard so much about you,”he says.“You’re even more beautiful in person.”
A pause, then Mary’s voice, lighter than usual.“Um. I’m sorry, who are you?”
My hand curls around the glass.
“Timofey Volkov.”Smooth. Too smooth. Like he’s introducing himself at a networking event instead of circling prey.“I’m an associate of Mr. Whitfield’s. We’ve been working together on some… investments.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Oh.”Mary’s voice is careful. Polite.“That’s… nice.”
