Page 26

DIMITRI

The gun's grip feels like an extension of my hand as I check the magazine a third time out of habit, not necessity.

I already know the bullet count, and I can feel it in my bones the way a pianist knows every key by heart.

Around me, my men move with precision, checking equipment, strapping on tactical gear, and speaking in the clipped, low cadence that always precedes action.

“Coordinates confirmed,” Ivan says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “The doctor is still at the clinic. Working late. Just like we thought.”

I give a single nod. “Security?”

“Minimal. Two guards at the entrance. Standard alarm system. Nothing we can't handle.”

The private medical clinic is located on the top two floors of a glass building on the Upper East Side.

It is exclusive and designed to cater to clients who value privacy and discretion.

The perfect place for someone like Dr. Reznick to practice without drawing attention to his more questionable services.

“Remember,” I order, sweeping my gaze across the men in the unmarked van, “this is an extraction. Not a hit. We need him alive.”

The men nod. They understand the stakes. This isn’t about territory or business. This is a personal matter and concerns protecting the family.

“Let's move.”

Cool air hits my face as we step out of the van, the silence of the street broken only by the soft crunch of our boots. Two blocks out, we split. Yuri’s group circles the rear entrance, and Viktor establishes surveillance positions across the street. Ivan and I head straight for the front.

“It’s too quiet,” Ivan mutters beside me as we move beneath the weak spill of streetlights.

He isn’t wrong. For an upscale medical facility, security seems unusually light. There is no visible patrol around the perimeter and no evident surveillance beyond the standard cameras. Either our intelligence was wrong, or something else is happening.

“Stay sharp,” I reply. My instincts are on edge. Years of similar operations taught me to trust the prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

We circle the building once, confirming positions with each other through earpieces.

Everything appears as expected on the surface.

The clinic’s windows glow on the upper floors, while the lower levels remain dark after business hours.

According to our intelligence, Dr. Reznick will be alone in his office on the top floor, reviewing files after his last appointment.

“Rear entrance secured,” Yuri’s voice crackles in my ear. “Ready when you are.”

I give the signal. The service door opens without a sound, and the alarm system is bypassed in under a minute. Inside, the service corridor is dimly lit by emergency lighting. We move silently, avoiding the elevator in favor of the stairs. Six flights up, we pause at the door to the clinic level.

“Viktor, perimeter report,” I whisper into my comm.

“All clear outside,” comes his response. “No movement, no new vehicles.”

I exchange a quick glance with Ivan. The ease of our entry only heightens my suspicion. The lack of protection makes little sense for a doctor allegedly involved with someone like Morozov.

We proceed through the door and into the clinic. The interior exudes wealth and exclusivity, with marble floors, abstract art on the walls, and furniture that prioritizes aesthetics over comfort. The reception desk sits empty, and the computer screens are dark.

“Check the examination rooms,” I instruct.

We move through the clinic methodically, clearing each room as we go. Nothing seems out of place, yet the uneasiness in my gut intensifies. Where is the night security? Even high-end medical facilities maintained some presence after hours.

A strip of light spills from beneath a door at the end of the main hallway. The nameplate beside it reads “Dr. Emerson Reznick, M.D.” I position myself on one side, Ivan on the other. With a nod, Ivan turns the handle and pushes the door open smoothly.

The office beyond is spacious and meticulously organized. Behind a large walnut desk sits a man in his fifties, silver-haired and wearing an expensive suit rather than a doctor's coat. He looks up from his computer without surprise or fear, as though he is expecting us.

“Dr. Reznick,” I state, keeping my weapon lowered but ready.

“Mr. Popov,” the doctor replies with unsettling calm. “I was wondering when you would come.”

I move further into the room, signaling Ivan to secure the door behind us. The lack of alarm in the doctor's demeanor only confirms my suspicions that something is very wrong.

“You know why I'm here?” I study the man carefully, questioning him.

Reznick leans back in his chair, his expression indecipherable. “I can guess. But I suspect we've both been misled about tonight's arrangements.”

“Explain.”

The doctor sighs, folding his hands on the desk. “Three days ago, I was approached by an associate of Andrei Morozov. He offered me an extraordinary sum to maintain a predictable schedule this week. Come to the office early, leave late. That's all.”

“And you didn't question why?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

“In my position, Mr. Popov, it's rarely beneficial to ask questions. I assumed it was related to some business matter. Until yesterday, when I overheard a phone conversation mentioning your name, and something about a pregnant woman.”

I keep my expression neutral, but rage simmers beneath the surface. “So, you just continued with the arrangement? Knowing what might be planned?”

“Self-preservation is a powerful motivator,” Reznick replies. “But I'm not a complete monster. I made some inquiries. Learned enough to realize I was being positioned as some kind of... bait.”

“For me,” I conclude.

“Indeed. Though I suspect I wasn't meant to be aware of that fact.”

Before I can respond, my earpiece crackles with Viktor's urgent voice. “Multiple vehicles approaching from east and west. Black SUVs, moving fast. This looks like?—”

The transmission cuts off with a burst of static.

“We need to move,” I say sharply to Ivan. “Now.”

The doctor rises from his chair, suddenly less composed. “If Morozov's men are coming?—”

“Shut up,” I hiss, activating my comm again. “Yuri, Viktor, report.”

Silence.

“Yuri, Viktor?”

Nothing.

“Jammed,” Ivan confirms, checking his own device.

I move to the window, standing to the side of the frame as I look down at the street below. Three black SUVs pull up in front, and men in tactical gear emerge with military precision. Not Morozov's usual thugs. These men move with professional coordination.

“Russo,” I whisper.

Ivan joins me at the window, cursing at the sight. “How many?”

“At least six visible. Probably more covering the exits.”

“Your men outside are likely already neutralized,” Reznick offers, his voice tight with fear. “Morozov's associate was very confident in his plan.”

I turn to the doctor. “This associate—did you get a name?”

“Russo,” Reznick confirms. “Detective Louis Russo.”

“The others are here for a distraction,” I mutter, racing through options. “Russo wants me. The doctor is just the lure.”

The sound of the clinic's front doors being breached reaches us, followed by the methodical movement of men sweeping the premises.

“Is there another way out of this office?” I demand, turning to Reznick.

The doctor nods quickly. “Private elevator, behind that bookcase. Key card access only.” He reaches for his wallet, hands trembling slightly as he extracts a plastic card. “It leads to the parking garage.”

I take the card but keep my focus on the doctor. “What exactly did Morozov want you to do to my child?”

Reznick pales. “I never agreed to?—”

“What. Was. The. Plan.” Each word comes like the strike of a hammer.

“A compound,” the doctor admits. “Untraceable in standard toxicology. Administered through a seemingly routine prenatal vitamin injection. It would appear as a tragic but natural miscarriage.”

The rage I have contained threatens to explode, but years of discipline keep it channeled. “And how were you planning to get close enough to administer this?”

“One of your household staff has been compromised. A maid, I believe. Her role was to feign concern, claim the woman was bleeding, that the baby needed urgent, specialized care. Then she was supposed to recommend me as the specialist for high-risk pregnancies.”

Ivan steps closer to the door, listening intently. “They're getting closer.”

I make a snap decision. “You're coming with us,” I tell Reznick. “Anything happens to me and Ivan and we’ll ensure you don’t live to practice medicine again.”

The doctor nods quickly.

“Access the elevator,” I order. “Quietly.”

As Reznick moves toward the bookcase, the first gunshots echo from somewhere in the clinic. Not the controlled bursts of professional operators but chaotic return fire that suggests my men have regained their position.

The bookcase slides aside to reveal a small private elevator. We enter quickly, and I position myself to cover the exit while Ivan keeps his weapon trained on the doctor.

“This leads directly to my reserved space,” Reznick explains as we descend. “Level P2.”

The elevator hums quietly, the only sounds being the doctor's rapid breathing and the distant, muffled gunfire above us. My mind works furiously, calculating angles and assessing the likely situation we will face when the doors open.

“When we exit,” I instruct, “doctor in the middle. Move to the nearest cover. No heroics.”

The elevator slows, then stops. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the doors slide open to reveal the concrete expanse of the parking garage and four armed men waiting in strategic positions around a black Escalade.

Instantly, I react, shoving the doctor back and firing twice in the same motion. One of the gunmen drops immediately but return fire forces us back into the elevator as bullets ping off the metal doors.

“Another way out?” I demand, pressing the button to close the doors.