“Anyone follow him?”
“Nothing on the feeds,” he says. “They studied our angles first.”
I inhale, long and controlled, then hit the intercom for the inner team.
“Garage,” I say. “We’re going down. I want one of ours at the lobby to lift the parcel. Gloves. Bring it through the service elevator and meet me under the camera grid. Keep the bomb kit ready. Clear?”
“Clear,” Kirill’s voice answers, sharper than usual. Sleep is gone from all of us now.
I quickly dress in black pants and a T-shirt, then throw a long wool jacket over it. Boots. Gloves stuffed into one pocket. Pistol into the other. Raina catches my sleeve as I head for the elevator.
“Don’t let him see you on the lobby cameras,” she says. “If he’s watching, your showing up tells him everyone he wants is here.”
“I don’t intend to give him that pleasure,” I answer.
The private elevator hums as it drops. Two of my men ride with me, backs to the walls, shoulders squared. One carries a black case.
“Power level in the garage?” I ask.
“Full,” the taller one says. “All cameras live. No loops detected.”
The doors slide open to concrete and fluorescent light. The garage smells of oil and old snow that melts into dirty puddles and never fully leaves. Cameras perch in every corner, their red eyes blinking steadily. We don’t wait long.
The service elevator at the far end opens, and Kirill steps out, parcel in hand. He holds it at arm’s length, gloved fingers tight.
“From the concierge,” he says, crossing to the table we pulled under the brightest light. I nod at the bomb tech. He opens his case. We step back while he works, checking for wires, residue, anything that wants to end the morning early.
“Nothing active,” he says after a minute. “No obvious triggers. No mass. If there’s a surprise, it’s small. Safe enough to open if we control the space.”
It’s still a risk. But the Courier isn’t interested in blowing us up yet. He wants us awake.
“Do it,” I say.
He slits the tape on the underside with a thin blade, lifts the lid carefully.
Inside, nestled in white tissue, rests a child’s music box. Old-fashioned, painted pale blue, edges chipped, a little brass key on one side. On top of it sits a folded note the size of two fingers.
The tech scans again, then nods. “Clean.”
I pick up the note between thumb and forefinger. The paper is cheap, stiff. Neat black letters run across it. “Play me for her.”
I fold the note into a hard little knot and set it back inside. The music box weighs almost nothing. A child’s keepsake, twisted into a threat. I turn the key twice. It catches. A moment later, the melody begins, thin and sweet in the concrete space. Raina stiffens.
“Spi, moya malen’kaya zvezda…” the tiny mechanism sings. Sleep, my little star.
Raina makes a small sound behind me. Something in her splits. Her hand lifts to her mouth like she’s trying to hold it in. I cross to her in two steps. Her eyes are too bright, almost fevered.
“It’s my song.” Her voice breaks. Her face is flushed. Not with fear. Rage. The Courier touched something he had no right to touch.
Raina is right. The message isn’t for the child. It’s for her. I let it play for exactly four lines, then close the lid with a click. The last notes cut off, hanging in the air.
“Bag it,” I tell the tech. “Radiation, prints, trace. Then lock it in the case. No one else touches it.”
Kirill clears his throat. “The tag,” he says. “I saw it before we wrapped it. It had her whole name. Nadia Raina Mirova. Age four. In neat handwriting.”
My hand curls into a fist.
“We change that paperwork,” I say. “Soon.”
