Page 5 of The Enforcer's Vow
I nod and close the folder. The parameters are clear, the objectives defined. Find Zoya Mirova, assess her knowledge and loyalties, use her connection to her brother for family advantage.
"Timeline?"
"Immediate. She's scheduled to work tonight. Track her routine, make contact, begin evaluation." Vadim slides another document across the table. "Personnel file from track management. Address, work schedule, basic background information."
I scan the details. Zoya Mirova, twenty-six years old, employed at Podsolnukh Racetrack for four years. Lives alone in a modest apartment in Sokolniki. No criminal record, no known associations with organized crime beyond her brother's activities.
The photograph attached to her employment file shows a woman with long, dark hair and sharp hazel eyes. High cheekbones, narrow nose—she's stunning to look at, but often the most beautiful specimen creates the most dangerous toxin. And she's a target or an asset. Which one will be open to her choosing, if I'm feeling generous.
"Anything else I should know?"
"She's smart." Rolan's tone carries a note of warning. "Track management rates her as their most reliable employee. Never misses shifts, never makes errors in her counts, never asks questions about irregularities. The kind of person who sees everything and says nothing."
The profile fits someone who's learned to survive in dangerous environments by maintaining invisibility. Which means approaching her will require careful consideration of tactics and timing.
"I'll start tonight."
"Good. Report back tomorrow morning with your initial assessment." Rolan stands, signaling the end of the meeting. "And Maksim—keep this operation quiet for now. No backup or family resources, no official involvement until we have a clearer picture."
I leave headquarters with the folder tucked inside my jacket and a mental list of preparations to complete. Surveillance equipment, background research, route planning for tracking her movements. The kind of detailed preparation that makes the difference between successful intelligence gathering and blown operations.
By evening, I've positioned myself across from Podsolnukh Racetrack with clear sight lines to the employee parking area. The building comes alive with lights and activity as the evening racing schedule begins. Cars arrive carrying patrons eager to risk their money on horses and odds. Among them, employees reporting for their shifts.
Zoya Mirova arrives at six thirty, parking a modest sedan in the section reserved for track personnel. She heads straight inside without dawdling or chatting with the security guard—just out of her car and into the employee entrance like she’s done it a hundred times before.
The evening passes slowly. I monitor radio traffic from track security, watch the flow of patrons and staff, and maintain observation of the employee parking area. Racing nights generate predictable patterns of activity, building to peak energy during the featured races, then gradually declining as events conclude.
At eleven forty, employees begin emerging from the building. Zoya appears among the first wave, walking toward her car with fatigue in her steps. She's staring down at her phone, distracted by something that has her rapt attention. This is the moment of contact, when approach becomes inevitable.
I emerge from my vehicle and intercept her path between the employee entrance and the parking area. The move is calculated to appear casual while preventing easy escape routes.
"Zoya Mirova?"
She stops but doesn't step back. Her eyes assess me quickly, sweeping from my head to my feet and back up to my eyes. The evaluation happens in seconds, revealing the survival instincts I expected from someone connected to Damir Mirov.
"Do I know you?"
"We haven't met." I keep my voice level, non-threatening. "But we have mutual interests to discuss."
"Such as?"
"Your brother."
The words produce a flicker of reaction—tightened jaw, slight shift in posture. But she doesn't deny the relationship or claim ignorance of his activities.
"I don't discuss family business with strangers."
"Smart policy, but circumstances have made your family business relevant to other people's interests." I step closer, maintaining eye contact. "People who don't appreciate being kept in the dark."
"Then they should ask better questions." Her voice carries an edge that tells me she's not going to be pushed easily. "And they should ask them of the right person."
"Maybe." I let the word hang there. "But I'm asking you."
She starts to move past me. I match her step. "Your brother vanished after someone died. That puts you on a list. But honestly, I’m more interested in you."
Her pace slows. I take that as permission. "Four years in a job most people burn out of in two. No errors. No sick days. No gossip. You keep your head down and your count perfect. That kind of discipline doesn’t go unnoticed."
"I’m good at my job. That’s not a crime." She hugs her arms over her stomach in a defensive move, and I know I'll get more flies with honey. If I press her, she'll slip into the wind too, and Rolan won't like that. I might just have to play the long game here.
