None of it draws attention. Nothing announces itself. It just firmly closes doors on an easy exit.
“What now?” the driver asks.
I don’t tell the driver to speed past.
“Signal,” I say. “Then pull right. Like you’re tired and late and don’t want trouble.”
He does and keeps his indicator on. He eases the Lada toward the shoulder before anyone has to wave him down.
I lean closer to Ana without looking at her. “Head down,” I say. “Don’t move unless I tell you. Whatever happens next, you don’t speak.”
She doesn’t argue. She adjusts the blanket, tucks her chin, and disappears into a corner. One of the men breaks off and walks toward us, gravel crunching under his boots. His eyes flick over the windshield, the driver, then land on me.
“Problem?” I ask.
He stops a step short of me, close enough to smell cigarette smoke. “Routine,” he says. “Papers?”
I pull my wallet, flip it open without handing it over, and let him see a name that isn’t mine and an age that makes sense. “We’re late,” I say. “Unless you want to explain to my wife why she’s missing her appointment.”
His eyes flick to the corner, the blanket, the shape underneath it.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
I give him a safehouse address I’ve planned to abandon.
“Road’s closed.”
“Since when?”
“Since now.”
Behind him, another car gets waved through without stopping.
I smile thinly. “Then we’ll turn around.”
He watches me for a long second, then steps back. “Do that.”
The driver pulls out without rushing.
Two blocks later, I say, “Left. Now.”
He turns without signaling, sliding us into a narrow service road that runs behind a line of warehouses.
“That safehouse is burned,” the driver says.
“Yes,” I reply. “And so is the next one.”
I lean forward, voice dropping. “Take us south to the old industrial sectors.”
The driver accelerates, cutting deeper into streets that don’t show up on tourist maps or traffic feeds.
“Where are we going?” Ana asks, voice flat and dry.
“I’ll decide once we clear this area,” is all I say.
I run the backup list in my head, cutting fast. Check distance, access, exposure. I only need one location that will hold for twelve hours without drawing attention. After that, we move again.
The road thins out. Ana falls asleep somewhere past the city line. Her weight settles against me. I don’t wake her. I keep an arm around her to hold her in place when the car shifts.
