Page 91 of Enforcer Daddy
"I'm pulling traffic cameras now." Keyboard clicks came through the phone, rapid-fire. "Twelve minutes in Manhattan traffic—they could be anywhere in a three-mile radius. Maybe five if they hit the FDR or West Side Highway."
Three miles. Five miles. Eight million people and infinite places to disappear. She'd been gone twelve minutes, and in a city this big, twelve minutes might as well be twelve hours.
"They'll have a handoff point," Ivan continued, that computer brain of his running scenarios. "Switch vehicles, maybe multiple times. The fire alarm would have been called in to give them a window. This was planned, Dmitry. Extensively planned."
Planned while I'd sat in Alexei's office discussing territory disputes. Planned while I'd promised Eva she'd be safe. Planned while I'd foolishly believed that being Volkov was enough protection.
Anton and Mikhail stood nearby, awaiting orders with the patience of good soldiers who knew their commander was barely holding it together. The fire trucks were already packing up,the non-emergency confirmed, residents beginning to filter back inside. Normal life resuming while Eva was somewhere in a van with people who wanted her dead or worse.
"Get Alexei," I told Ivan. "Call everyone. I want every contact, every informant, every dirty cop we own looking for that van. Someone saw something. Someone knows something."
"Dmitry—"
"Just find her." I hung up before he could insert logic into my panic.
The math was simple and brutal. Every minute that passed decreased our chances. Every block they traveled expanded the search grid exponentially. And somewhere in those expanding circles of possibility, Eva was learning that my protection was worth less than the paper our contract was written on.
Thewarroom'sconcretewalls felt like they were closing in as I wore a path in the floor, each step counting out seconds Eva had been gone. Two hours now.
Ivan worked his screens like a concert pianist, fingers flying across keyboards while data cascaded down six monitors. Traffic cameras, cell tower pings, facial recognition software that cost more than most people's houses—all of it hunting for one white van in an ocean of white vans.
Alexei stood at the tactical map, absolutely still in that way that meant violence was building behind his control. He hadn't moved in thirty minutes, just stared at the warehouse district in Red Hook where the cameras went conveniently dark. Morozov territory, where the NYPD suddenly developed blind spots and witnesses developed amnesia.
"Got them crossing the Manhattan Bridge," Ivan said, pulling up grainy footage. The van moved steady through traffic, norush, no indication of the precious cargo it carried. "They take the first Brooklyn exit, then—" He switched cameras, tracking their route. "Then nothing. They enter the dead zone at 12:03 PM."
The dead zone. Six blocks of warehouse district where every camera was mysteriously broken, under repair, or pointed the wrong way. The Morozovs had paid good money for that blindness.
I forced my hands to unclench, blood returning to fingers I'd been squeezing white. Two hours meant Chenkov had her. Two hours meant he'd had time to set up, to prepare whatever theatrical violence he had planned. The man who'd once kept a DEA informant alive for three weeks while removing pieces so small the human body could adapt, survive, continue feeling everything.
My phone buzzed against the table—unknown number, video attachment.
The air in the room shifted, all three of us recognizing what this was. The opening move. The terms. The proof of life that might also be proof of death.
My hand shook as I connected the phone to the main screen. Ivan's fingers paused over his keyboards. Alexei finally moved, turning from his map to face what we all knew was coming.
The video opened on a warehouse interior, all concrete and fluorescent lights that turned everything corpse-gray. Eva sat zip-tied to a metal chair that had seen better decades, industrial and awful. But she was alive. Breathing. Glaring at the camera with those impossible eyes that still held fight.
Her face was unmarked—so far. Bear whimpered from a dog crate behind her, the sound tinny through the phone's speakers but enough to make my chest tighten. Our dog. Our girl. Both caged while I stood here useless.
Then Chenkov entered the frame, and every muscle in my body went rigid.
He looked exactly like his photographs—mid-forties, professionally groomed, wearing a suit that belonged in a boardroom while he prepared for violence. The kind of man who'd quote poetry while breaking fingers, who saw brutality as an art form requiring proper appreciation.
"Mr. Volkov," he said, accent turning my name into something that tasted like threat. "I believe you have something that belongs to my employers. And now, I have something that belongs to you."
Without warning, without telegraphing, he backhanded Eva hard enough to snap her head sideways.
The crack of impact echoed through our war room. I lunged toward the screen like I could reach through it, catch her, stop what had already happened. Alexei's hand caught my shoulder, holding me back from useless violence against technology.
Eva's head rolled back up slowly. Blood ran from her split lip, bright against pale skin, but she didn't cry out. Just spat blood onto the warehouse floor and looked back at the camera with pure defiance. My fierce girl, refusing to break even zip-tied to a chair.
"She's spirited," Chenkov observed, like he was commenting on wine. "I can see why you keep her. Though honestly, the eyes alone make her valuable. Such a distinctive genetic anomaly. I've had three separate collectors inquire about purchasing them. The eyes, I mean. Not the whole girl."
My vision went red at the edges. The suggestion of it, casual and commercial, like Eva's eyes were something to be harvested and sold.
"But business before pleasure," Chenkov continued, walking behind Eva's chair. His hand settled on her shoulder, possessive and wrong, and I watched her try not to flinch. "The terms aresimple. The original USB drive—I know you have copies, but I want the original. Plus five million dollars for my inconvenience, for the disruption to our operations."
His fingers moved to Eva's hair, running through it with mock gentleness that made bile rise in my throat.
