“Ksenia!” Zoya gasped, fighting for breath, her gaze locking onto her boss. “It’s a setup! Pavel’s personal car was just spotted leaving Morozov’s territory!” Ksenia lowered the cup to the saucer, her motion slow and deliberate. The surface rippled, splashing dark amber against porcelain. Her gaze sharpened onto the open doorway. Pavel’s dossier had seemed clean, perhaps too clean. Morozov's summons had looked like an ambush engineered against her, but if Pavel was running the board, the maneuver had been staged to mask his own departure. “Zoya, what did you see?” Ksenia asked, her tone even. Luka stepped back, retreating behind the broad leaves of a dracaena near the glass perimeter. “I was watching the distribution alleys off the Volkov district,” Zoya said, catching her breath against the frame. “Spotted three of Morozov's rigs pushing toward the old Krylov industrial zone. Then Pavel’s black sedan pulled out from an alley behind the defunct textile mill and slotted right into their column. No mistaking the plate.” “The Krylov zone,” Ksenia murmured, tracking the crimson streak across Zoya's sleeve. “You shadowed them.” Zoya nodded, leaning slightly against the glass frame. “Tried to close the gap. A tail scout boxed me into the rail curb. But the column didn't stop. They're making for the river wharves.” Ksenia moved past her toward the exit. “Prep the lead cruiser. Full munitions. Muster six guards from the inner gate—code Raven's Roost. Five minutes.” “Ksenia, your hand,” Luka called softly from the foliage. She looked down at the linen dressing binding her palm, then back toward him. “Later, Luka. We have matters at the docks.” Zoya cracked a lopsided smile. “Lead the way.” She hurried down the slate path toward the motor pool. Outside, the Chevona chill carried the tang of wet asphalt and diesel. Ksenia took the wheel of the matte-black cruiser before Zoya reached the door. “Your shoulder is torn. You run the targeting deck.” Zoya slid into the passenger seat, already keying the console. “Just keep the trim off the masonry. If Pavel stayed behind Morozov's line, they'll skirt the canal toward the docks to bypass our checkpoints.” Ksenia engaged the ignition, the twin-turbo engine vibrating through the floorboards. “We cut them off at the canal sluice.” The perimeter gates parted, and the car accelerated onto the rain-slicked avenue, flanked by two black utility trucks. Neon blurs streaked across the wet windshield. Ksenia held the throttle flat down the tramline corridors. Zoya’s fingers tapped rapidly across the navigation grid. “Signal locked. Three chassis ahead. Heavy carrier in the pocket, two escorts. And Pavel’s saloon sitting right on their rear bumper.” “Box the escorts,” Ksenia said. “Leave the carrier functional.” Zoya keyed the auxiliary radio, directing the flank units. Pneumatic mounts clicked as roof-mounted rifles engaged. Suppressed gunfire tore into the front escort's rear axle; rubber shredded, and the chassis spun sideways into a concrete divider with a harsh screech. The trailing utility truck drove the second flanker into an embankment. Only the carrier and Pavel’s saloon stayed ahead. Ksenia closed the gap along the dockside tram tracks, holding the drift against slick rails. Pulling alongside the carrier's flank, Zoya lowered the reinforced glass and shattered the carrier's steering hub with three high-caliber rounds. The heavy van fishtailed, tires shrieking until its rim caught the curb. “Pavel’s breaking off!” Zoya warned, pointing toward a diverging ramp. “He took the Lykov ramp!” “Let him run,” Ksenia answered, braking hard beside the carrier. “He has nowhere to hide in this city.” Ksenia brought the cruiser to an angled halt, cutting off the cargo doors. The squad poured from the utility trucks, tearing the carrier's side panels open and hauling out the surviving passengers. Zoya limped forward, shining a high-beam torch across a broad man with a scarred temple. “Chernov. Morozov’s lieutenant.” Ksenia caught the man by his lapels, shoving him against the damp brickwork of a nearby freight shelter. The enclosure smelled of stagnant riverwater and iron slag. He slumped against the wall, chest heaving, his gaze darting between Ksenia and the armed circle around him. “Where is Morozov?” Ksenia asked, her grip firm against his throat. “He isn't here,” the man wheezed, hands raised. “I swear it, Lady Voronova. He wasn't scheduled on this run.” “Then why was Pavel Orlov escorting your cargo?” she demanded. He swallowed roughly, rain dripping down his brow. “Orlov came to arrange an exchange. Not an assault. Morozov wanted to send word to you.” Ksenia paused, her grip loosening slightly. This was unexpected. “Warn me? About what?” “About the venom,” the lieutenant gasped, catching his balance as her grip slackened. “The extract that took the old boss down. Morozov found out it was taken from your own compound. The repository beneath the archives.” Silence hung in the alley. The Voronova toxin cellar had been sealed since her grandmother's tenure, accessible only through mechanical tumbler locks beneath the south foundations. “Impossible,” Ksenia said, her knuckles tightening. “Only three brass seals exist for that chamber.” “That's the message!” he rasped. “Morozov traced the lot number. The seals belonged to three people: your predecessor, you... and Pavel Orlov.” The dockside wind rattled the rusted metal awnings overhead. Three seals. One in her father’s pocket at his death, one locked in her private desk, and the third entrusted to Pavel fifteen years ago. The conspirator had never been across the river. He had walked through her front hall every morning.

Neon and Gunpowder