Whether she truly intended to leave or not, I don’t know, but the distinction has ceased to matter.
Two days ago, Alexei’s network produced a lead: a hotel in the southern district, one of Dushku’s peripheral properties. I mobilized every man I could spare and drove there myself, the speedometer buried past one-twenty, my knuckles bone-white against the steering wheel.
We arrived forty minutes too late.
The room was immaculate, completely stripped, sanitized,every surface wiped clean of evidence. But the staff confirmed what the emptiness denied: a dark-haired woman matching Elizabeth’s description had been there for approximately two days. She departed in the company of two men flanked by additional figures who carried themselves with the unmistakable posture of private security.
I commandeered the surveillance recordings. The footage rendered in grainy monochrome: Elizabeth walking through a corridor between two of Dushku’s operatives, her chin lowered, her arms pressed against her sides. Moving under her own power. No visible injuries. No visible surrender either. The set of her shoulders, the placement of each step, communicated a resistance that the camera could capture but not quantify.
Calm down, moya koroleva. I’m coming for you.
The fifth hotel yields nothing.
The fury I’ve been sustaining for the past few days — the hot, propulsive variety that carried me through raids and interrogations and sleepless hours bent over surveillance maps — curdles into a colder and substantially less productive feeling.
I could incinerate every remaining property Dushku controls in this city. I’ve been compiling them systematically: addresses, structural vulnerabilities, accelerant requirements.
The logistics are simple. But the thought of Dushku receiving a phone call about burning buildings and turning his frustration toward Elizabeth extinguishes the fantasy before it fully forms.
I despise the vulnerability. The sensation of being tethered to another person’s safety in a manner that constrains every tactical impulse I possess. A person other than my daughter.
I’ve spent fifteen years ensuring that no one else could be used as leverage against me. I severed connections and maintained distance, constructing an empire predicated on the principle that attachment is a liability.
Until a woman with dark hair and steady hands dismantledevery wall I built, and I let her. Now her absence is an open wound I can’t cauterize.
Enough.
I extract my phone from my pocket. The number I dial is one I have had stored for three years and utilized twice. The first occasion was a warning. The second resolved a territorial dispute that would have otherwise escalated into an expensive and public problem. I never anticipated a third call.
It rings four times.
“Rolan.” Dushku’s voice carries the warmth of satisfaction. “I was wondering how long you’d take.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s fine. Comfortable, even. Don’t worry. Your girl has spirit, I’ll give you that.”
The insinuation sends a spike of undiluted rage through me.
“Cut the shit, Dushku. Leave her out of this. What do you want?”
“Let’s meet.” His tone shifts from pleasantries to commerce. “Discuss the terms of your surrender. Then you can have your precious Elizabeth returned to you.” A calculated pause. “I can understand the appeal, Rolan. She’s fierce. Quite... memorable.”
My jaw locks so tightly the pressure radiates into my temples. “If you’ve touched her, if a single mark exists on her body that wasn’t there when she entered your custody, I will rip your hands off. Not metaphorically.”
“Let’s not discuss ripping things, Rolan. You’re giving me ideas.” His amusement is genuine. “East warehouse. Two hours. Come alone. Your girl will be there as well. Consider her an incentive for your good behavior.”
The line dies before I can respond. The silence that follows is absolute, and into that silence I feed every ounce of restraint I’ve been rationing for days.
I dial Alexei.
“Dushku. East warehouse,” I spit. “Two hours. Position teams on all four perimeter approaches. South and east entries are the breach points. No one moves until I give the signal.”
“That’s an ambush,” Alexei states the obvious. “You understand that, right?”
“I understand it perfectly.”
“Rolan—”
