Page 117 of Sexting the Pakhan

Tonight.

For one long second, all the pieces stay separate because the mind refuses what it does not want.

The woman from the number has twin girls starting kindergarten. A kindergarten program is happening inside thekindergarten where Lenkov buried my stolen cases. The picture she sent me was taken at this same event.

I don’t know her name. I don’t know her face. I have spent years keeping her separate from the life I live in blood and ledgers and men who die for smaller mistakes than this.

Now she’s somewhere inside the building. With her children.

While Lenkov is in the garden digging near a playhouse.

My grip tightens around the phone until the edges bite into my palm.

Stepan notices. “Ruslan?”

I look up at the kindergarten windows. There are too many people inside. Too many children. Too many parents standing with bags and coats and cupcakes, believing the evening is safe because the lights are warm and the teachers are smiling.

My phone vibrates a third time.

Unknown Number:Please delete it.

I read the words once. Then I close the message without replying.

Pavel says, “Lenkov is lifting something.”

The car seems to go quiet around me. I put the phone in my pocket and look at the painted wall beyond the fence. “What’s the status on Lenkov?”

“Malik can’t see him anymore, he has lost eyes,” Pavel says.

“How’s that possible?” I ask. Goddamnit, I can’t let him escape.

Pavel keeps his hand to his earpiece. His face has tightened in the last three seconds. “He went behind the shed.”

“He was already near the shed.”

“Yes, but there’s a blind side. Malik says he crossed behind it and didn’t come out.”

Stepan looks toward the kindergarten fence. “Then there’s another exit.”

“There shouldn’t be,” Pavel says.

I look at the painted wall, the garden area beyond it, the small playhouse, the warm windows full of families.

Pavel listens again, then says, “Malik is moving closer.”

“No,” I say.

Pavel repeats quickly, “Do not move closer.”

Stepan already has his hand near his weapon. “If Lenkov has a tunnel, a gap in the fence, anything behind that shed, he can leave with the cases before we see him.”

“He can’t carry six cases alone,” I say.

“No,” Stepan says. “But he can open the way for whoever is waiting.”

That’s the part that bothers me.

The van by the service gate is too obvious now. It has no plates, two men nearby, exactly the kind of bait my people would watch first. Lenkov is nervous, yes, but he’s not stupid enough to plan a move with only one visible escape.