That detail hits fast.
“At gunpoint?” I ask.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Four… maybe five. They moved like they’d done it before.”
“They have,” I say. My voice stays flat, but every second tightens the edge inside me. “Listen to me. Did Ana speak?”
Irina swallows hard. I hear it through the line.
“She said my name once, then she looked at me and shook her head like she was telling me not to do anything.”
That’s Ana.
“Did they hurt her?”
“No,” Irina blurts. “Not that I saw. They covered her face and pushed her into the car. She didn’t fight.”
Because fighting gets someone hurt.
One last thing. “What was so urgent that you needed to text her?” I ask.
Irina falls silent, her breath catching. I hear her swallow before she speaks.
“They said the council had questions,” she says. “Not accusations. Questions. They said if she didn’t show herself willingly, it would look like guilt. They wanted her to hear it.”
“Questions about what?”
“They didn’t say,” Irina whispers. “Only that it involved her future. And that delaying would make things worse.”
“Go home,” I tell Irina. “Turn off your phone. If anyone asks you anything, you know nothing. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she says, barely audible.
The line goes dead. I don’t move for a full second. Then I stand. Everything narrows down to one fact. They waited until she was in the foyer and moved before she hit the street. They didn’t force a breach. They didn’t test me first. That tells me this wasn’t a grab. It was a council-approved transfer.
I pick up my jacket, the Glock, the blade. Muscle memory takes over. I don’t look at the bed. I already know she’s not there. I drive toward the hotel on Leninsky Prospekt.
The lobby is quiet. Too quiet. No broken glass. No shouting staff. No witnesses worth leaning on. I approach the desk.
“What time did Ana Markova leave the hotel this morning?” I ask. “Who was in the foyer?”
The security guard wipes his palms on his pants, eyes tight. “She stepped out at 08:20. No one else checked out, sir.”
“Do you have camera footage from the foyer?” I say. “The moment before she walked out.”
He nods, almost eager. “Yes, sir. Here.”
He brings up a screen across the room, then plays the feed. The last clear frame shows her standing in the foyer, scarf tight around her head, goggles on, looking down for a moment. Then two men enter from a side corridor. Their faces are blurred by shadow. No voices. No sound.
I lean closer. “Can you zoom it?” I say. “Crop to the doorway.”
He works the controls. The image grows grainier. Pixels break. The men look taller, bulkier than average. No logos. No badges. Just movement.
“Can I have a copy of this footage?” I ask.
He hesitates, then nods. “Yes, sir.”
I keep my eyes on the screen even as I walk outside. The pavement is damp from last night’s rain, and tire marks lie long and straight where cars burned out fast. I crouch and run my fingers through the water. No oil. No skid. They didn’t rush.
