My blood runs cold despite the exhaustion. Or perhaps because of it—the sudden spike of adrenaline cuts through the brain fog in a way that the cold air from the vents never could.
"Nikolai." My voice is too sharp, too loud for the small cabin of the car. "We have company."
He sits up instantly, the blanket I wrapped around him in the warehouse falling to his waist. He turns to look through the rear window, his body still favoring the injured side, but hismovements are quick. I watch his face in the mirror, seeing the exact moment the realization hits—the way his eyes widen, the way his jaw sets in a mirror of my own.
"How many?" he asks.
"One visible. But if they're using the Pincer, there will be a second vehicle ahead. A third on a parallel route for the final interception."
The Pincer. It is Ivan's preferred pursuit formation. Vehicle One brackets from the rear to dictate speed. Vehicle Two blocks the path ahead. Vehicle Three moves on a parallel road to cut off any lateral escape. Efficient. Relentless. I designed the refinements to this specific protocol three years ago for the Baranov security manuals.
I am being hunted by my own ghost.
The absurdity of the situation almost forces a laugh out of me, but laughter requires an expenditure of energy I simply do not possess.
The operatives in those vehicles are following the procedures I wrote. They are anticipating my responses based on the training I helped develop. They know me. They know how I think. They know that the Kennel’s patterns are etched into the very architecture of my nervous system.
I need to do something they don't expect. I need to deviate.
Deviation.The word that started this.
I floor the accelerator. Eighty. Ninety. One hundred. The Civic’s engine screams, a high-pitched metallic protest, but it complies. The sedan shudders, the steering wheel vibrating so hard it makes my palms ache. The SUV behind us matches theacceleration without visible effort; their vehicle is a purpose-built predator. Ours is a gray ghost.
Ahead, a dark shape appears at the edge of the horizon, parked at an intersection that leads to a secondary county road. Vehicle Two. The blocker. It’s waiting for us to try and turn.
"The Pincer," I say, more to myself than to him. "Classic execution. Vehicle Three will be?—"
I see it. Emerging from a farm access road to our right. The interceptor. The timing is perfect. The angle is calculated to intercept us in approximately forty-five seconds if we maintain our current velocity.
Calculate. Adjust. Recalibrate.
Primary route: blocked. Secondary route: blocked. Tertiary... there.
A narrow dirt track branching left, partially obscured by overgrown hawthorn hedges and a rusted gate. It wasn't on the mental map I constructed from the GPS data. It likely leads to an abandoned agricultural property.
A dead end. Probably.
But a dead end offers a chance to fight. The open road offers only a guaranteed collision.
I wrench the wheel left. The sedan fishtails, the rear end swinging wide on the loose gravel. Tires scream, fighting for purchase on the frozen earth. Nikolai braces his hands against the dashboard, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches. The SUV behind us overshoots the turn, its brake lights flaring red against the gray morning.
I’ve bought us thirty seconds.
The dirt road is a nightmare of deep potholes, washouts, and frozen ruts that threaten to snap the Civic’s axle with every impact. The car wasn't designed for this. Neither was I.
"Where does this go?" Nikolai’s voice is tight, the bravado of the Petrenko heir replaced by the raw fear of a man who has seen too much of the dark.
"Unknown."
"That's not?—"
"I know what it's not," I snap. The words are jagged, unpolished. "I am improvising. Improvisation is not my specialty."
Behind us, the first SUV has recovered. It is gaining. The other two vehicles will be repositioning now, their drivers speaking into headsets, coordinating the close of the net. They are calm. They are following the manual.
The road curves sharply. An abandoned farmstead appears ahead—a collapsed barn with a sagging roof, a rusted thresher half-buried in the weeds, and the charred bones of a farmhouse that burned decades ago. A chain-link fence, half-fallen, marks the boundary.
Dead end. My assessment was correct.
