Page 99 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

Elena’s mouth tightens. “Until you call me?”

I lean down, bracing both hands on the table, close enough that she has to tip her chin up. “Until I make sure the room you want to walk into doesn’t become a grave.”

She stares, unblinking. “Then hurry.”

I almost smile, but I only press her hand once before I walk my men to the control room.

The room smells of coffee, warm wires, and men who haven’t slept enough to be polite. Screens cover one wall, estate cameras, route feeds, traffic maps, gate logs, and marked faces pulled from Karpov’s chain.

Dima stands by the central screen. Ilya has a street map spread across the table. Abramov is sorting names into columns.

Trusted.

Watched.

Pulled.

Missing.

That last column matters most.

I stop beside Abramov. “How many?”

“Four from west wing rotation during the breach. Two drivers. One kitchen runner. One outside guard near the service lane.”

“The west wing failed once,” I say. “It doesn’t get a second chance.”

Abramov nods. “West passage access is reassigned. No one moves through service corridors without paired escort. The east stair remains open with a post on the second landing, per Mrs. Wentworth.”

Ilya taps the map. “Three routes for the meeting. Main convoy through Kutuzovsky is visible, clean, and easy to watch. River road is faster but narrow. Service tunnel under the old rail spur gets us out if the front closes.”

“Use all three.”

Ilya looks up.

“Elena rides in the visible convoy,” I say. “A decoy takes river road. Extraction sits under the rail spur. If Moretti watches one, he misses two. If Karpov tries all three, he exposes men he can’t replace.”

Dima’s face settles. “And Sergei?”

“Sergei expects theater,” I say. “Give him enough to enjoy himself.”

Abramov looks up from the tablet. “Weapons?”

“Armory.”

The armory sits below the east side of the house, behind a steel door set into old stone. I open it myself, and Dima follows, with Ilya right behind him. No one else comes in.

Lights snap on over rifles, handguns, vests, ammunition, blades, radios, and sealed cases that haven’t been opened since the last time a man mistook patience for weakness. The east wall holds the older weapons, oiled and kept out of respect. The west side holds the ones that end conversations now.

I take a pistol, check it, and set it on the table.

“Dima, six men only for the inside team.”

“Already picked.”

“Ilya, outer ring. Keep the cars moving, clear every van near the building, and make sure anything left on the block belongs to us.”

“Done.”