His finger moves to the second mark. “Construction site on Randolph. Smaller team, different approach. They tried sabotage first, then force when the sabotage failed. We’d already reinforced the perimeter based on your repositioning orders. They didn’t breach the inner fence.”
“And Halsted?”
Mikhail’s jaw tightens. A micro-movement, barely perceptible, but I’ve known him long enough to read the alphabet of his tension.
“The bar,” he says. “Dushku’s men hit a civilian target, Rolan. The outer circle uses that location for meetings, but it’s a public establishment. Families go there. He knew that.”
“I know he knew that.”
“It tells us how he intends to fight this war. No boundaries. No distinction between operational and civilian. He’s sending a message that nothing connected to you is safe. It won’t take much more before the governor starts messing with our business.”
I lean back in my chair. The leather creaks. Outside the window, the perimeter guards walk their routes with weapons visible, shadows moving in practiced patterns beneath the floodlights.
“How should we respond?” Mikhail asks.
Rage bubbles beneath my icy veneer.
“Dushku runs a network of hotels across the city,” I point out, leaning forward over the map. “Twelve properties, maybe fifteen. They’re his primary laundering pipeline, and he rotates them as operational bases. Strategy meetings, personnel staging, cash processing. It all flows through those buildings.”
A sneer twists my lips.
“I want them gone. All of them. Every single one. Hit simultaneously. We take out his revenue stream and his command infrastructure in one night.”
Mikhail stares at me. The silence that follows stretches just long enough for me to register the expression on his face, then he nods.
I pour two glasses of vodka and push one across the desk. He takes it. We drink without ceremony.
“He moved too fast,” I tell him. “His first move was two days after that night. That’s not enough time to consolidate personnel. He had this planned before the dinner. He was waiting for an excuse.”
“Agreed. The partnership had a shelf life. A year, maybe two. His ambition wouldn’t have tolerated coexistence much longer.”
“The war was always coming.”
“Yes.” Mikhail pauses. He’s choosing his next words carefully. “You just accelerated the timeline.”
I set the glass down and stare at the maps. The red marks where we lost men. The blue marks where we held ground. The geometry of a conflict I set into motion because a man at my dinner table said the wrong thing about?—
About what? About whom?
My daughter’s tutor. The woman who has stolen sleep from me every night for a month. The person whose presence in my house has rearranged what I believed was permanent.
Every word I reach for —employee, tutor, woman, her— is either too small or too dangerous.
“What about Dushku himself?” I ask, trying to temporarily rid her from my head.
“Gone underground. He’s rotating between safe houses. We’ve identified three, possibly a fourth. He’s not staying anywhere longer than forty-eight hours.”
“Keep tracking. I want patterns. Schedules. The name of every person who enters and exits those locations.”
“Already in progress.” Mikhail drains his glass and stands, collecting the folder. At the door, he pauses. “Rolan.”
“What.”
“The fourteen men. They knew the risks. Every one of them. This is what they signed up for.”
My heart tightens into a fist. Does he think I’ve become weak enough to care?
“I know. Find more.”
