Page 38

“She may object.”

“Then she can object after she's discharged.”

Kirill gives me a look that suggests he’s already developed an opinion about how that conversation will go. I ignore it and step into the elevator.

Sergei Antonov is waiting in the parking garage when we come down, leaning against the SUV with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He's been my second-in-command for almost fifteen years, long enough to know when I want an explanation and when I want him to get straight to the point. At forty-five, he's a few years older than me, broad-shouldered, with dark hair beginning to gray and a face that rarely gives away what he's thinking. He oversees most of our day-to-day operations and handles the problems I can't afford to leave in less capable hands.

“Tell me you've found the car,” I say as I approach him.

“We found it abandoned in a service lane four miles from the school,” Sergei says, handing me the tablet. “It was stolen yesterday from a private garage in Queens. The plates were changed, and somebody wiped down the interior before leaving it.”

The photograph shows a black sedan parked beside a row of dumpsters. The front passenger side is damaged, the hood dented, and there is a long scrape through the paint.

I look at the damage for a moment before moving to the next image. “Any sign of the driver?”

“Nothing useful yet. We're checking the surrounding cameras, and the forensic team is still working on the car.”

“Whoever did this had somewhere to go after abandoning it. Find the second vehicle, or whoever picked him up.”

Sergei nods and opens another file. “We have the school footage.”

I take the tablet from him.

The camera overlooks the eastern side of the pickup drive. Children in navy uniforms move between waiting cars while teachers stand along the curb. It looks like any other day, and I have to practically remind myself of what’s coming.

Then I see Anya.

She's talking to a woman in a blue delivery jacket.

Elara has her phone in one hand, and Anya is looking up at her with that serious expression she wears when she's trying to understand something. Elara says something that makes her laugh.

I watch the little exchange twice.

“Play the rest,” I tell Sergei.

Elara turns toward the parking area. Anya steps closer to the road, and Kirill looks up from his phone just as the sedan comes around the curve.

The car is moving at a breakneck speed.

Anya freezes.

Kirill starts running, but Elara is closer. She drops her phone and goes straight for Anya, grabbing her around the waist and throwing her away from the vehicle.

The sedan hits Elara along her left side.

I watch her body turn with the impact before she lands on the pavement.

“Again,” I say.

Sergei restarts the footage without comment.

This time I watch the driver.

There is room to turn away from Anya, and more than enough distance to brake before reaching her. Instead, the sedan makes a slight correction toward the curb.

“Stop there.”

Sergei pauses the recording.