Page 69 of The Mafia King's Baby

“And if she panics?”

“You walk away. Don’t try to convince her, and don’t stay to argue. Get back to the van, and we leave immediately.” I mean we leave the country and head for Morocco. New identities await in the jet, should we need them. If this goes sideways, I don’t want to linger and make it easy for them to catch me for a murder I didn’t commit.

The dance studio occupies the ground floor of a modern office complex, with a huge wall of windows revealing parents watching their children practice. It’s a normal suburban scene featuring the kind of domestic routine I never experienced but somehow find comforting. Hendricks’ daughter is building memories that won’t involve violence or fear, at least not yet.

Leonid parks the van three spots away from Hendricks’ sedan, positioning us with clear sight lines to both her vehicle and the studio entrance. The parabolic microphone he sets up will capture conversation from a reasonable distance, allowing us to monitor the interaction without direct involvement.

“She just arrived.” I track Hendricks through binoculars as she exits her car and walks toward the building. She’s mid-forties, with a professional bearing, and moves with the confidence of someone accustomed to authority. Her daughter skips beside her, maybe eight years old, carrying a ballet bag and chattering about something that makes her mother smile.

The domesticity of the scene startles me, making me briefly imagine taking my own daughter to classes someday. It’s a bit surreal to see a federal law enforcement officer, dedicated to protecting society, taking her daughter to dance class like millions of other parents. She has no idea her own colleagues are planning to murder her, or that a Russian criminal she’s never met is currently her best hope for survival.

“Class is starting.” Celia checks her watch and adjusts the small recording device concealed in her jacket. “I should position myself near the exit.”

“Remember the approach we discussed as a non-threatening, concerned citizen with information about threats to her safety.” I test the parabolic microphone, confirming clear audio reception. “Don’t mention my name unless she specifically asks.”

Celia nods and exits the van, walking casually toward the building entrance. She’s dressed appropriately for the suburban environment, looking like any other parent or family member picking up a child from activities. She’s the kind of person who wouldn’t attract security attention or trigger defensive responses though I can’t take my gaze off her—both because I’m worried about her and because she’s stunning to me.

The next hour passes slowly. I watch parents come and go, children visible through the studio windows practicing routinesthat seem impossibly complicated for their age. It’s all normal life, and the kind Celia and I are fighting to build for our own child. The irony isn’t lost on me that we’re using violence and deception to secure a peaceful future.

“Movement.” Leonid alerts me to activity near the studio entrance. “Class is ending.”

Through the binoculars, I watch children filing out with their parents. Hendricks appears with her daughter, both of them once again smiling about something. The girl demonstrates a ballet position while they walk, and her mother applauds encouragingly. It’s another moment of domestic routine that feels both foreign and appealing, and I long for the same experience with mine and Celia’s children in the future. Realizing I’m thinking of more than one brings a small smile to my mouth, but it disappears a moment later.

Celia approaches from the side, timing her movement to intersect with Hendricks near the parking garage entrance. It has all the appearance of a casual encounter, the kind that happens naturally in public spaces, with nothing to suggest planned contact or surveillance.

“Excuse me, Assistant Director Hendricks?” Celia’s voice comes through clearly on the parabolic microphone. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have information about threats to your safety.”

Hendricks stops walking and positions herself slightly in front of her daughter, protective instincts clearly overriding professional curiosity. “Who are you?”

“My name is Celia Bourn. I know this sounds crazy, but there’s a plot within the Bureau to murder you and frame someone else for the crime.”

She sounds skeptical. “Are you recording this conversation?”

Celia avoids answering. “I have evidence that I think you need to see.”

Hendricks studies Celia’s face, clearly looking for signs of deception or mental instability. Whatever she sees must pass initial scrutiny because she doesn’t immediately walk away or call for security. “What kind of evidence?”

Celia produces copies of the forged warrant and several financial documents from the folder. “These show planned operations against you, including fabricated evidence that would be used to justify lethal force against the man they plan to frame for your murder”

I watch Hendricks examine the papers, her expression shifting from skepticism to concern as she recognizes official letterheads and formatting. The warrant with my name typed across the top seems to particularly capture her attention. “Where did you get these?”

“From someone inside the Bureau who died trying to expose the corruption.” Celia keeps her voice low, conscious of the child standing nearby. “Agent David Kim tried to kill me yesterday when we met with the source.”

The mention of Kim’s name triggers visible recognition. Hendricks knows the name, which confirms his identity and adds credibility to Celia’s story. Sometimes, the truth is more convincing than any lie we could construct.

“This warrant...” Hendricks studies the document more closely. “This is signed by Director Frayne himself.”

“Yes, ma’am. The corruption reaches the highest levels of Bureau leadership.”

Hendricks is quiet for several minutes, processing implications that must be staggering for someone dedicated to federal law enforcement. Learning that her own director has authorized her murder has to go beyond simple corruption into systematic betrayal of everything she’s sworn to protect. “I need to verify this information through my own channels.”

“Ma’am, with respect, you can’t trust official channels. The people trying to kill you are using those same channels to plan your murder.”

The daughter tugs on her mother’s sleeve, clearly bored with adult conversation and ready to leave. Hendricks glances around the parking garage, seemingly suddenly aware of how exposed their position is. “If what you’re saying is true, then meeting here isn’t safe for any of us.”

“No, ma’am, it isn’t.”

Hendricks reaches into her purse and produces a business card, writing something on the back before handing it to Celia. “This address. One hour. Come alone and bring everything you have.”

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