Page 176 of Nine Months to Bear
“We knew that.”
“No, I mean…” He finally looks at me, and his eyes are bloodshot. “Stefan, I’ve been digging. Really digging. Every mole we’ve found in the last six months? They all have something in common.”
A waitress approaches—sixty if she’s a day, pink uniform, name tag that says Dolores. “What can I get you, hon?” she asks me.
“Coffee,” I tell her. “Black.”
She shuffles off. Taras waits until she’s gone, then leans forward and whispers, “They all talked to Mikayla.”
The words float there between us like a bad joke.
I say the only thing I can say, the only reasonable response: “Bullshit.”
“I know how it sounds?—”
“It sounds like you’re accusing my head of security of being a traitor.” I keep my voice level, but my hand tightens on the table edge. “Mikayla’s been with us for a long time. She’s saved my life more times than I can count.”
“I know.”
“She’s the one who located Devon in the first place.”
“I know.”
“Then what the fuck are you saying?”
Taras reaches into his jacket and pulls out a tablet. “I’m saying to look at this.”
He slides it across the table. It’s security footage, grainy but clear enough. Some upscale bar—I recognize it. The Velvet Room, a speakeasy where the city’s elite go to pretend they’re interesting.
“This is from three weeks ago,” Taras says. “Two days before the warehouse hit.”
On screen, Mikayla sits at the bar. She’s not in her usual black—instead, she’s wearing a red dress that makes her look like someone else entirely.
A man approaches. They talk. She laughs—actually laughs, which I’ve maybe seen her do twice in eight years.
“So? She’s allowed to have a drink.”
“Keep watching.”
The man leans closer. Mikayla doesn’t pull back. He passes something across the bar—an envelope, maybe, or a phone. She palms it smooth as silk and tucks it in her purse.
“Could be anything,” I argue.
“Could be.” Taras swipes to another video. “This is from last month. Different bar, same guy.”
I watch Mikayla meet the same man again. Another exchange. Another envelope.
“Who is he?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” Taras pulls up a photo. The man from the video, but cleaner. Professional headshot quality. “Aleksandr Petrov. Works for Zakharov.”
My blood goes cold. “You’re sure?”
“Dead sure. He’s Iakov’s numbers guy. Does all his books.”
Dolores returns with my coffee. It smells burned and looks like motor oil. Perfect match for how this conversation is going.
“There’s more,” Taras says after she leaves. “Remember that shipment that got seized last month? Mikayla was the only one who knew the route besides you and me.”
