Page 67 of Sin Wager
"Will that change his decision about helping us?"
"It changes everything." His arm tightens around me, protective instinct overriding strategic calculation. "Family protects family, especially when blood carries forward to the next generation."
The words should comfort me, but I hear the unspoken complications underneath. Pregnancy makes me valuable in new ways, but also vulnerable in new ways. A tool for ensuring loyalty, a target for ensuring compliance.
"Should I be afraid?" I ask, but I already know the answer. Misha won't want me to fear, but in his world, that is the lifeblood of anyone who hopes to stay alive.
He considers the question seriously, weighing truth against comfort. "Yes," he says finally. "But not of Rolan. He's family,and family protects its own. Be afraid of what happens if we fail to convince him this war can be won."
My throat constricts, and I press a kiss to his sweaty neck as I strengthen my arms around his shoulders. "I can help… With Sonya. I know the drop locations, the other jockeys she uses. I can probably convince one of them to get more information too." Getting into this means seeing it through, and that means getting my hands dirty.
"Good," he says, and his tone has changed, but he doesn't push me away yet. "We'll need all of that information.”
"But Misha…" I say, straightening so I can look him in the eye.
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to do any killing. I'm not like you." My pulse hammers, but he cups my cheek.
"Of course,Milaya, I know." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "I don't want that for you either."
Misha calls this a war we're fighting. If only he knew the war raging inside my heart. When Batya finds all of this out, I don't even know what he will say.
26
MISHA
Dawn bleeds gray light across the industrial district, the shadows retreating from concrete and rusted steel. I park my car two blocks from the warehouse complex, engine ticking as it cools. Beside me, Vera adjusts the binoculars, scanning loading docks and access roads. We were awake late, mapping out exactly where Sonya would be, or at least where we believe she will be based on information we got from a few very honest, very frightened jockey friends of Vera's.
"I see something," she whispers. "Near that corner over there."
Through the windshield, I watch Sonya's familiar vehicle navigate between potholes and construction barriers. She doesn't appear to know we're here, which is good for us. She feels safe and at home on her own turf, and we can use that to our advantage.
"Do you think this will work?" Vera asks, lowering the binoculars and frowning at me. She's too afraid, but there's no talking her out of this.
"It has to, and quickly." I take the binoculars from her hand and lift them to my eyes. I know Vera feels every emotion, butI have to deaden my heart for now or I’ll get paralyzed by the risk we're taking. I can't lose Vera and she is foolishly rushing headfirst into danger.
The car disappears behind the warehouse's bulk, hidden by concrete walls and industrial equipment. We wait, counting minutes, watching for patterns that reveal operational security.
At six forty-five, a white panel van emerges from the opposite direction, license plates too dirty to read from our distance. The vehicle moves very slowly, its driver scanning surroundings before committing to the approach.
"What is he doing?" I say more to myself than anything. They're doing some sort of deal and I get the feeling we're interrupting it.
Through magnified lenses, I study the van's profile, memorizing details that might prove useful later. The driver wears a baseball cap and sunglasses despite overcast skies. Passenger seat remains empty, but the cargo area could hold anything from cash to bodies.
"There." Vera points toward the warehouse's eastern loading dock. "Sonya."
She rounds the corner carrying a leather briefcase. She's moving quickly, like a scared mouse skittering. The woman I remember as controlled and calculating now shows stress fractures, the kind that appear when operations spiral beyond comfortable parameters. Our little conversation with lead in the parking garage last night has spooked her.
The van parks and the driver emerges—mid-thirties, athletic build, wearing coveralls that could hide multiple weapons. I recognize him from surveillance photos Rolan shared weeks ago.
"Igor Sokolov," I tell Vera. "Radich crew member, specializes in cash transport and document forgery." My eyes never leave the sight, but I know she's listening to me.
They meet between the vehicles. Their conversation is brief and businesslike. Sonya hands over the briefcase. Igor produces a manila envelope from his coveralls. The exchange takes less than thirty seconds. But as Igor returns to his van, a second car appears from behind the warehouse—black sedan with tinted windows, two occupants clearly visible through the windshield.
The sedan positions itself for overwatch, occupants scanning approaches while Igor starts his engine. They're here to keep things moving smoothly, but they don't know the storm coming for them.
Through the binoculars, I identify the driver of the security car—Timur Kadyrov, one of Radich's enforcers, known for explosive violence and poor impulse control. The passenger speaks into a cell phone, probably coordinating with other units.
