Page 55 of Tattooed Heart

“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.

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