Page 56 of Tattooed Heart

“In my position, Mr. Popov, it's rarely beneficial to ask questions. I assumed it was related to some business matter. Until yesterday, when I overheard a phone conversation mentioning your name, and something about a pregnant woman.”

I keep my expression neutral, but rage simmers beneath the surface. “So, you just continued with the arrangement? Knowing what might be planned?”

“Self-preservation is a powerful motivator,” Reznick replies. “But I'm not a complete monster. I made some inquiries. Learned enough to realize I was being positioned as some kind of... bait.”

“For me,” I conclude.

“Indeed. Though I suspect I wasn't meant to be aware of that fact.”

Before I can respond, my earpiece crackles with Viktor's urgent voice. “Multiple vehicles approaching from east and west. Black SUVs, moving fast. This looks like?—”

The transmission cuts off with a burst of static.

“We need to move,” I say sharply to Ivan. “Now.”

The doctor rises from his chair, suddenly less composed. “If Morozov's men are coming?—”

“Shut up,” I hiss, activating my comm again. “Yuri, Viktor, report.”

Silence.

“Yuri, Viktor?”

Nothing.

“Jammed,” Ivan confirms, checking his own device.

I move to the window, standing to the side of the frame as I look down at the street below. Three black SUVs pull up infront, and men in tactical gear emerge with military precision. Not Morozov's usual thugs. These men move with professional coordination.

“Russo,” I whisper.

Ivan joins me at the window, cursing at the sight. “How many?”

“At least six visible. Probably more covering the exits.”

“Your men outside are likely already neutralized,” Reznick offers, his voice tight with fear. “Morozov's associate was very confident in his plan.”

I turn to the doctor. “This associate—did you get a name?”

“Russo,” Reznick confirms. “Detective Louis Russo.”

“The others are here for a distraction,” I mutter, racing through options. “Russo wants me. The doctor is just the lure.”

The sound of the clinic's front doors being breached reaches us, followed by the methodical movement of men sweeping the premises.

“Is there another way out of this office?” I demand, turning to Reznick.

The doctor nods quickly. “Private elevator, behind that bookcase. Key card access only.” He reaches for his wallet, hands trembling slightly as he extracts a plastic card. “It leads to the parking garage.”

I take the card but keep my focus on the doctor. “What exactly did Morozov want you to do to my child?”

Reznick pales. “I never agreed to?—”

“What. Was. The. Plan.” Each word comes like the strike of a hammer.

“A compound,” the doctor admits. “Untraceable in standard toxicology. Administered through a seemingly routine prenatal vitamin injection. It would appear as a tragic but natural miscarriage.”

The rage I have contained threatens to explode, but years of discipline keep it channeled. “And how were you planning to get close enough to administer this?”

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