Page 38 of Porcelain Lies

Vasya shares his screen, revealing a web of redacted documents and classified files. “See these signatures? Deputy Director level. Someone wanted him hidden badly enough to bypass normal channels.”

I lean forward, studying the patterns of bureaucratic breadcrumbs. A decade of searching, of following false leads while thismudakhid behind American badges and paperwork.

“Who?” The word comes out as a growl.

“Working on that.” Vasya’s fingers fly across his keyboard. “The trail leads through three different agencies. CIA involvement early on, then homeland security, finally some black ops budget I can’t trace yet.”

I look down at my black ink-stained fingers. Like blood, but wrong. Not enough.

“They knew.” The rage builds, cold and familiar. “They knew what he did to my son, and they helped him anyway.”

“Da.” Vasya’s face hardens. “Found some interesting notes in the case file. They were monitoring our search efforts.” He heaves a sigh. “Some men have friends in high places. You’ve made enemies there.”

My jaw sets. It’s an occupational hazard, I guess. My life isn’t exactly above board. But I would never have imaginedthis. While I hunted this bastard across continents, my own government contacts were helping hide him. Playing me for a fool.

“Every name.” My voice sounds foreign, dangerous. “Every official who touched this. Every piece of paper they signed. I want it all.”

The documents blur as my mind races through implications, possibilities. Los Angeles. Close enough to touch. All these years searching Europe, Asia, South America — and the fucker was practically in my backyard.

“We have him where we want him, brother,” Vasya says. “We’ve got everything. Work schedule, social patterns, security measures. He works four days a week at the clinic. Lives in a gated community in Beverly Hills. No personal security beyond standard neighborhood patrols.”

Soft. Comfortable.

Vulnerable.

“What about the government protection?”

“Minimal active surveillance.” Vasya’s voice carries a hint of satisfaction. “They think the trail’s gone cold after ten years. Monthly check-ins, occasional drive-bys. Nothing we can’t work around.”

I study the satellite view of Larkin’s — no,Fermont’s— neighborhood. Wide streets, manicured lawns, security cameras that our tech can easily bypass. A prison of luxury, but one with plenty of blind spots.

“The clinic?”

“Private practice, third floor.” More images appear. “Corner office, private elevator access. He takes lunch alone in his office most days. Arrives by 8 AM, leaves between 6 and 7 PM.”

Regular patterns. Predictable habits. The arrogance of a man who thinks he’s safe.

“Financial trails?”

“Complex.” Vasya pulls up banking records. “Multiple accounts, property holdings through shell companies. But there’s a pattern — large cash deposits every quarter. Consistent amounts.”

“Bribes.” The word tastes bitter. “Still paying for his protection. How soon can you have a complete infiltration plan?”

“Already done.” Vasya’s voice smacks of satisfaction. He’s as invested in this as I am.

Bobik’s face flashes in my mind once again — his bright eyes lighting up over the new wheelchair controls, masking the pain beneath. The way his thin arms strain to reach buttons normal kids wouldn’t think twice about. How he compensates with that brilliant mind, always finding workarounds for what his body won’t do.

I close my eyes, and a different image forms. Bobik on a football field, strong legs pumping as he races down the sideline. His shoulders broad and straight, not hunched from hours in that chair. The sound of his laughter, free and wild, not carefully measured to hide discomfort.

My hands clench. He should be out there playing, getting scraped knees and grass stains. Learning to throw a properpunch. Instead, he’s trapped in that fucking attic, watching other kids through windows, reading about the life he should have had.

The fantasy shifts. Bobik standing tall at my side during Bratva meetings, carrying himself with the natural authority that’s his birthright. Not hidden away like some shameful secret, but proud and strong. The son I should have been able to acknowledge openly.

All stolen by one drunk doctor who couldn’t stay sober for one fucking delivery.

“Time for fantasy is over. We have the bastard’s location now. His schedule, his habits, his weaknesses.”

The rage settles into something colder, more focused. More useful. Ten years I’ve waited for this.

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