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Then why does my chest constrict at the thought?

I place the weapon back in its cabinet, hands steadier than they’ve been all morning. I need to reset. Recalibrate. Treat this like any other mission.

Even if nothing about Katarina Lebedev feels like any target I’ve ever encountered before.

3

KATARINA

Irub my temples, staring at the lines of code on my screen. Another late night at the office, but these security protocols won't write themselves. The faint glow of my desk lamp casts shadows across my keyboard as I type, the familiar click-clack almost soothing.

A sound. My head snaps up.

Footsteps in the hallway - too many, too coordinated. My pulse quickens as I grab my phone, but it slips from my trembling fingers as the door bursts open.

Three men enter, and I recognize them instantly—Ivanovs. My stomach drops, but I force myself to stand slowly, keeping my face neutral even as my heart hammers against my ribs. Years of my father's training kick in—assess, analyze, survive.

“Ms. Lebedev. You'll be coming with us.”

Rough hands grab my wrists. I don't resist—that would be foolish. Instead, I catalogue faces, voices, and movements. Information is power, Father always said. Even as a cold sweat breaks out along my spine, I memorize details.

The service elevator descends, and my mind races through scenarios. Father is attacking their warehouses—this is retaliation. I'm leverage. The thought should terrify me, butsomehow, the clinical analysis helps me maintain composure as they usher me into a waiting van.

“Father will kill you all for this,” I say in Russian, lifting my chin. My voice comes out steady despite the fear churning in my gut. Show no weakness. Never let them see you break.

Nikolai's lips twitch. “Your father's too busy burning our warehouses to notice you're gone yet.”

I feel Dmitri's calculating gaze on me, those ice-blue eyes taking in every detail. He sits across from me in the van, his Armani suit pristine despite the late hour. I match his stare, refusing to look away first.

His manicured fingers tap against his knee rhythmically. One-two-three. One-two-three. The motion draws my attention to his Rolex—set five minutes fast, I note automatically. Every detail matters when you're trying to survive.

“Your security protocols are impressive,” he says in perfect English. “The blockchain integration, especially.”

I keep my breathing steady. Of course they've been monitoring my work. “If you wanted a consultation, you could have scheduled one during business hours.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. The van hits a pothole, and I use the movement to test the zip ties around my wrists. Industrial grade. No give.

Four men in the van. Two up front. Dmitri across from me. Nikolai beside me. The route feels familiar—we're heading toward the waterfront. Multiple possible destinations, none of them good.

I catalog escape scenarios, discarding each one. The doors are child-locked. The windows are reinforced. Even if I could break the zip ties, the two Ivanov men would subdue me before I reached an exit. Then there's the question of where I'd run if I managed to escape unscathed from a moving vehicle.

My tech knowledge is useless here. No phone, no computer, no way to send an SOS. Just me, two Ivanovs, and the growing distance between safety and whatever awaits at our destination.

Dmitri's eyes haven't left my face. He's reading me just as I'm reading him. Two predators sizing each other up, except I'm the one in restraints.

The van slows, its tires crunching on the gravel. Through tinted windows, I glimpse dense forest stretching in every direction. The isolation hits me harder than any physical blow—no witnesses, no cameras, no digital footprint to follow.

My captors guide me from the van. Their grips are professional rather than brutal. The house before us is modern, with all clean lines and reinforced glass. Security cameras dot the roofline. Motion sensors nestle in the landscaping. A fortress disguised as a luxury retreat.

The front door opens with a soft click. Inside, blue light bathes the open-concept living space emanating from a wall of screens. Alexi Ivanov hunches before them, his fingers flying across multiple keyboards. He doesn't turn as we enter.

“Perimeter secure,” he mutters, eyes fixed on his screen. “No tails.”

I study his setup while I can. Six monitors. Custom hardware. His workspace alone probably costs more than most people's homes. But it's the programs running across his screens that catch my attention—cutting-edge security protocols, some I recognize, others completely foreign.

The room itself is sparse but expensive. Marble Floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on nothing but trees. A perfect prison wrapped in modern architecture.

My mind catalogs entry points, security measures, and possible weaknesses—but I know it's futile. If Alexi Ivanov has declared this place secure, it is. His reputation in cybersecuritycircles is legendary. He's the ghost in the machine, the hacker other hackers fear.