Page 13 of Vicious Doll

I absorb this, recalibrating everything I thought I knew. Personal vendettas masked as professional missions. Old wounds disguised as tactical objectives. The lines between handler and asset, predator and prey, ally and enemy blurring until they're meaningless.

"If your wife is there—if she's alive—what's your plan?" I ask.

Volkov's expression hardens. "Extract her if possible. Kill her if necessary."

"Jesus."

"Vahnya would rather die than be used this way." Something flickers across his face—a ghost of what might have been tenderness in another life. "But first, we document everything. The program. Harlow's involvement. Every dark corner of this operation."

"Why? So you can sell it to the highest bidder?"

"So no one can hide from what they've done," he corrects. "Including Killion."

"We're going to the Black Sea," I state rather than ask.

"Is possible.” Volkov's answer is uncertain, his brow furrowing. “Need confirmation before we leave safehouse.”

“What kind of confirmation?"

He points to another intercepted communication, this one featuring details that make my blood run cold. "Black Sea facility," Volkov says, tapping the screen. "According to this, Harlow has accelerated timeline. Moving all evidence tonight."

My world tilts sideways, reality reshuffling itself like a deck of cards in the hands of a rigged-game dealer.

"They're consolidating," I realize aloud, scanning the encrypted message. "Cleaning house before anyone else can follow Vahnya's trail."

"Or preparing to sell entire operation," Volkov adds, ever the optimist. "Private military contractors pay premium for programmable assets with no oversight."

I stare at the screen, at the clinical language discussing human beings like they're software to be patched or hardware to be upgraded. People whose minds have been hollowed out and refilled with whatever the fuck Harlow decided they should be.

People like me.

"I need a gun," I say, voice steady despite the storm raging behind my ribs. "And a plan."

Volkov raises an eyebrow. "Does this plan involve calling Killion? Because would be mistake."

"Who said anything about Killion?" I meet his gaze, something cold and focused crystallizing in my chest where panic should be. "We handle this ourselves."

Volkov snorts, loading a fresh magazine into his weapon with practiced efficiency. "You trust me now? After everything?"

"Trust is a luxury we can't afford," I shoot back. "But right now, the enemy of my enemy is the closest thing to an ally I've got."

Because here's the thing about being underestimated your whole life, about being the pretty face no one takes seriously, about being written off as the expendable asset: people never see you coming until you're already at their throat.

And I've been sharpening my teeth for years.

The safehouse smells like gunpowder, cheap vodka, and male sweat. Three days since the shootout with Killion's team, and we're holed up in some Soviet-era concrete shitbox that makes my first Dollhouse cell look like the fucking Four Seasons.

The walls sweat dampness, pipes clank like they're having seizures, and the radiator hisses with the rhythmic persistence of a dying man's last breaths.

Sharing space with Mikhail, the Serbian brick shithouse with hands like Christmas hams and a vocabulary limited to grunts and the occasional "da” and Volkov is a mixed bag.

My reality is nothing short of a crazy, whirligig of confusing intel. Most of which doesn’t even make sense when I try to untangle the threads.

Why did Killion say that Volkov was working with Harlow when Volkov seems dead-set on putting a bullet in Harlow’s head?

And what the hell happened in Budapest between Killion, Volkov and this mystery woman, Vahyna?

Look, I get that the spy game is built on a foundation of lies but c’mon, give me a break, this shit is excessive. I can’t tell who’s lying, if I’m making the right choice sticking with Volkov, or if I’m ultimately putting my trust in the hands of my killer.

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