Timofey confirmed the arrangements earlier—controlled extraction, no unnecessary theatrics. Just federal agents doing their job.
Still, the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
A knock sounds.
Two agents stand outside when the door opens, their expressions professional, watchful.
“Ellie Carver?” one of them asks.
“It’s Rusnak,” Mike snaps. “Ellie Rusnak.”
The men nod. “Are you ready?” one asks.
“I’m ready.”
Mike’s hand tightens briefly at my back.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then I step forward.
The cool evening air brushes my face as I walk toward the vehicles. Gravel crunches softly under my shoes, every step deliberate.
No one stops me.
No one rushes me.
An agent opens the back door of one of the SUVs.
I pause for half a second before getting in.
And I glance back.
Mike is still standing near the entrance of the safe house.
His posture is rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
His face is controlled.
Carefully restrained.
But I know him well enough now to see the truth beneath it.
The tension in his jaw.
The storm barely contained in his eyes.
For the first time since I met Mike Rusnak, he looks like a man being forced to let go of the one thing he cannot protect.
The door closes, and the vehicle pulls away.
For several minutes, no one speaks.
The inside of the SUV is quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the muted crackle of a radio somewhere near the driver’s seat. The windows are tinted so dark that the world outside becomes little more than shifting shadows.
I sit with my hands folded in my lap, forcing my breathing to stay steady.
This was the plan.
