Page 51 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

Alive.

That’s the only word in the yard that matters.

Dima’s jaw tightens. “One of my men heard Karpov’s name over their comms before they cut the channel.”

I nod. “I know.”

He whistles once, hard and short. “Ilya.”

Ilya breaks from the drive at a run, shotgun slung tight, radio in one hand, breath already rough. He runs road control when movement has to be cut off fast, and tonight, he looks built for blocked exits, bad turns, and men trying to run.

“We’ve got the old road cam at the split,” Ilya says, panting. “Lead SUV took the quarry lane instead of the highway. Tail car followed twenty seconds later. They killed the feed after.”

I look toward the tree line beyond the service wall. Dark road, wet gravel, tight turns, no room to stretch speed unless you know exactly where the shoulders hold and where they don’t. I know that road. My men know it. Karpov knows it well. He didn’t hand them a key. He handed them the whole damn house.

“How many of mine are down?” I ask.

Dima’s face tightens. “Confirmed dead, seven. Wounded, nine. Still counting.”

“Karpov’s men?”

“Some dead. Some gone with the convoy.”

That answer sits in my chest for half a second, then I put it away.

“Put boots on the soil at every outbound point,” I tell him. “North split, quarry bend, river road, old concrete works. I want spikes ready and long guns in place. No lights until contact.”

Ilya is already moving before I finish. “We’ve got this.”

I turn to Dima. “You’re with me. Two more in the rear car. One rifle, one sidearm. I want the road shut behind us and the front boxed if they try to break.”

He nods once. “Done.”

Leonid comes out of the side hall with his laptop in one hand and his coat half on. He belongs behind a desk, not on a recovery road, and his face says he knows better than to argue. He turns the laptop toward me, pulling up the house feeds first, then switching to the road grid they already have access to.

Dima steps in beside him and points at the screen. “The quarry lane rejoins the service road near the old concrete works. If they want a clean transfer, that’s where they’ll do it. Less traffic. No houses. Enough room to move her from one car to another.”

“Send a car to the concrete works. Now.”

Dima lifts his hand to his comm. “Concrete team, move. Now.”

“Get me the blind spots.”

Leonid taps the screen. “Here, here, and here.”

Dima taps the last one. “This one is best for them. It’s also best for us if we get there first.”

I get behind the wheel of the black SUV and start it hard enough to jolt the whole frame. Dima takes the passenger seat with the rifle braced between his knees. In the second vehicle behind us, Ilya rides shotgun, while two men sit in the back, one with a scoped rifle, the other with a carbine. No chatter, and nobody wastes movement. Men check magazines, radios, sight lines.

We hit the west gate fast. Gravel spits from under the tires. The estate drops behind us in stone and broken lights, and the road tightens at once. Branches crowd the edges. Mud sits in the wheel tracks from yesterday’s rain. The first turn comes up blind and mean, and I take it hard. Dima grabs the dash and looks at me once. He says nothing. Good. Nobody in this car needs a speech about driving.

I know exactly what happens to a bound woman in the back of a vehicle when men decide she’s no longer a person but a route. The thought gets a hand on me and tries to drag me somewhere useless. I shove it off and stay with the road. Distance. Turn. Split. Pace.

We clear the first bend, then the second. Then the long narrow stretch where the trees pull back just enough to show old service fencing on the left. Headlights wash over broken wire and wet posts. Nothing ahead yet.

Dima lifts two fingers to his earpiece. “Rear car says no visual. North team in position. River road team in place. Quarry bend covered.”

“Concrete works?”