Page 74 of Break For Me
"We recovered eleven bodies," Alessandro continues. "Russian operatives. Rory's team catalogued the site." Hepauses. The Don's timing. The strategic silence he uses to frame information that changes the entire landscape. "Dmitri Volkov is not among the dead."
The room physically contracts. I feel it in my chest. The sudden, violent narrowing of the space between safety and an active threat.
Dmitri is alive. The handler. The man with the pliers. He survived the headbutt. He survived the explosive breach. He walked out of a burning terminal and disappeared.
"A single vehicle left the terminal's south access road during the breach," Alessandro says, bringing up a video file. "Black sedan, no plates. It was gone before our team secured the exits."
"He ran," Killian says from the wheelchair. His voice is a wet rasp, but the contempt in it is full-strength. "The rat ran."
"He ran with something." Alessandro turns the tablet. A grainy security still. Dmitri in the driver's seat. An open laptop glowing in the passenger seat.
"Rory believes the laptop contains operational data. Contact lists. Financial records. Safe house locations." Alessandro looks directly at Adrian. The gaze is precise. "Including the file he kept on you, Dr. Sterling. Your sister's name. Her location. The details of the security arrangement."
Adrian's arms uncross. His hands drop to his sides.
"Elena," he breathes.
"Rory extracted her during the terminal operation. She's at a secure property in Connecticut. She's safe." Alessandro pauses. The hesitation is worse than anything he's said. "She was safe."
He removes a plain white envelope from the desk drawer.
"This was left at the compound gate forty minutes ago. No vehicle on camera. No visual on the delivery."
I tear the envelope open with my right hand. Inside: a photograph and a small note card. The photo is a long-lens surveillance shot. A young woman walking across an asphaltparking lot, a white paper coffee cup in her hand. She's smiling at something off-camera. Behind her, through the glass doors of a brick building:Westerly Music Academy — Faculty & Practice Rooms.
I hold the note card out to Adrian. He takes it. His pale eyes dart across the Cyrillic script. His face doesn't change—the clinical wall holds firm. But his hand trembles. The fine, high-frequency vibration that signals the collapse of every coping mechanism he's built over three years.
"What does it say?"
His voice is flat. Dead. "'I know where she studies now. I know her new schedule. Return what you stole, or I'll take what you love. You have seventy-two hours.'"
The room goes silent.
Dmitri isn't fighting for Kazimir anymore. This is personal. The rage of a man who was beaten in a steel box by the asset he thought he owned, who watched his empire burn, and who is now running on the only fuel left: revenge.
The compound gymis in the basement. Heavy bags. Speed bags. A boxing ring with new ropes. Rubber mats. The air is cool, still.
Adrian is already there when I arrive. He's dragged a folding table to the center of the mat. The unloaded Glock sits on it beside a basin of warm water and a set of therapy putty in graduated colors.
He picks up the Glock. Right hand on the grip, left on the slide. He racks it. Clean, mechanical. Then he ejects the magazine, clears the chamber, and sets the gun down.
"Your left hand isn't your only hand," he says. "It's your support hand. Your right is your dominant."
"I can't reload."
"You can't reload the way you used to." He picks up the Glock again. Holds it in his right hand—grip firm, finger along the frame. He hooks the rear sight on the edge of the table and pushes forward with his right arm. The slide racks against the furniture. One-handed. No left hand required.
"Combat shooters train single-hand manipulations for exactly this scenario," he says. "Wounded support hand. You rack on a belt, a boot heel, a table edge. You reload with the magazine between your knees. The technique exists because the injury exists."
I stare at the gun. I stare at the table edge where he hooked the sight. Something behind my eyes shifts. The enforcer's brain engaging with a tactical problem instead of drowning in the emotional one.
"Show me again."
He does. I do it after him. Right hand, sight hooked on the table edge, push forward. The slide racks. Clean. Efficient.
He hands me the yellow therapy putty—the softest resistance. "Squeeze. Your hand works. The wiring is good. The insulation around the wiring is gummed up. We're going to ungum it."
I squeeze. The first three fingers do most of the work. The fourth contributes. The fifth is along for the ride. But the palm contracts. The flexor tendons engage. The hand closes around something and holds it.
