"Get the fuck out of the way!"
I shoved past a startled businessman, darting through the crowded shopping mall. Two of Petrov's men followed fifteen seconds behind—close enough to be dangerous, far enough that I still had options.
The flash drive burned against my skin, tucked securely in my bra. Dominic's words echoed in my mind. Three hours until rendezvous. Two hours and seventeen minutes remaining.
My reflection flashed across a storefront window—blonde hair in disarray, cheeks flushed, eyes wild. I barely recognized myself, the carefully constructed Elena Petrov nowhere to be found. In her place: Valentina Ricci, survivor, fighter, hunted.
I veered sharply into a department store, weaving through cosmetics counters and clothing racks. Standard evasion techniques: unpredictable movements, crowded areas, multiple exits. Basics that had kept me alive through years of dangerous operations.
"Ma'am, can I help you find something?" A saleswoman approached with practiced cheer.
"Bathroom?" I gasped, adding a convincing tremor to my voice.
She pointed toward the back of the store. "Through housewares, on the left."
"Thank you." I shot her a grateful smile, then headed in that direction until she turned away—before immediately changing course toward the employee exit I'd spotted earlier.
The door had an alarm bar, but the small magnetic security contact was easily disabled with a quick swipe of the magnet I kept in my pocket for exactly this purpose. I slipped through without triggering any alarms, finding myself in a service corridor.
Left would lead to loading docks, right to a maze of mall corridors. I chose right, moving swiftly but not running. Running attracted attention. Walking with purpose didn't.
My watch showed 7:23 AM. The morning rush was beginning, offices opening, streets filling with people heading to work. Perfect camouflage if used correctly, deadly exposure if I made a mistake.
I needed to shed my current appearance. The green coat I'd worn during the bank heist was too distinctive, too easily spotted. I slipped into an employee break room, finding it momentarily empty. A quick scan revealed a row of lockers, most secured with padlocks, but one—labeled "Jen"—secured with only a simple hasp.
"Sorry, Jen," I murmured, opening it to find a black parka with a fur-lined hood. I left cash—far more than the coat was worth—and a note explaining an emergency. Then I exchanged my green coat for the black one, tucking my hair into the hood.
Back in the corridor, I followed signs toward the food court. Morning meant coffee, and coffee meant crowds. As I emerged into the brightly lit atrium, I scanned for threats while keeping my movements casual. No sign of Petrov's men, but that meant little. They could be anywhere, watching, waiting.
I joined the line at a coffee stand, using the moment to consider my options. The mall connected to the city's transit hub, offering buses, taxis, and light rail. Each had advantages and risks. Buses were trackable but offered multiple exit points. Taxis provided direct routes but created records. Light rail was fast but limited in destination.
"Next," the barista called.
I ordered a large coffee, paid cash, and moved to the pickup area. As I waited, my gaze drifted to the television mounted above the counter, showing the local morning news. The sound was muted, but the headline crawl told me everything: "Break-in at First Canada Trust. Police investigating. No suspects identified."
No mention of shots fired or stolen vehicles. They were controlling the narrative, keeping it quiet. Smart—Petrov wouldn't want attention any more than we did.
"Black coffee," the barista called.
I collected my drink and headed toward the transit hub, sipping the scalding liquid as I walked. The pain focused my thoughts, sharpening my mind.
The transit hub bustled with morning commuters—suits and uniforms, backpacks and briefcases, everyone moving with hurried determination. I blended in seamlessly, just another worker starting her day. My watch showed 7:36 AM. Two hours and four minutes until rendezvous.
As I approached the bus terminal, I spotted him—a thick-necked man in a dark coat, eyes methodically scanning the crowd. Not obviously looking for me, but looking for someone with too much intensity to be a regular commuter. One of Petrov's.
I changed direction without breaking stride, heading toward the taxi stand instead. The line was five people deep—too exposed, too stationary. I kept walking past it, mind racing through alternatives.
My phone vibrated in my pocket—the burner we'd acquired after leaving the bank. The message contained a single word: "Compromised."
Dominic. Meaning our planned rendezvous point was no longer safe. We had contingencies for this—alphabetical fallbacks based on the initial message. "Compromised" meant location C—the public library downtown.
I deleted the message and continued walking, exiting the transit hub onto the street. Thunder Bay in winter meant brutal cold, the kind that stung exposed skin and froze breath into crystalline clouds. I pulled the hood tighter, grateful for Jen's warm parka.
Two blocks east, then north toward the harbor. Not directly to the library—never directly to any destination when being hunted. Zigzag patterns, unpredictable turns, constant awareness.
I passed a electronics store with TVs in the window, all tuned to the same news channel. Now the bank story had expanded: "Armed suspects fled First Canada Trust. Police urging public to report suspicious activity."
So much for keeping it quiet. Someone had talked—a witness, a police officer who couldn't be bought. It meant more eyes looking for us, but also more chaos, more noise in the system. Workable.
At the corner of Bay and Algoma, I stopped at a street vendor selling coffee and pastries, buying another cup I didn't need. The transaction gave me ninety seconds to survey my surroundings, spotting another of Petrov's men half a block behind. He wasn't obvious about it, but the deliberate casualness of his pace marked him as clearly as a neon sign.
Fuck. They were tracking me somehow.
I mentally reviewed everything I was wearing, everything I was carrying. The flash drive was secure, the burner phone clean. My clothes were either what I'd been wearing before the bank or newly acquired.
Then it hit me—the earpiece. The small communication device we'd used during the heist was still in my pocket. Standard hardware, but what if it had been compromised? What if Mikhail or his team had activated some tracking feature?
I dropped it into my fresh coffee cup, watched it sink to the bottom, then discarded the cup in a trash can. Not ideal—they could potentially recover it—but better than keeping it on me.
I continued north, angling toward the waterfront where crowds of early tourists offered additional cover. My watch showed 8:02 AM. One hour and thirty-eight minutes until rendezvous.
The temperature had dropped further, wind coming off the lake in icy gusts that cut through even the heavy parka. Most pedestrians kept their heads down, faces buried in scarves or collars, making identification harder. Advantage: me.
I ducked into a public restroom in a waterfront park, claiming a stall to gather my thoughts. The flash drive remained secure, but its contents were unknown. Whatever Petrov had documented in that ledger was valuable enough to kill for, to deploy teams of operatives across an international city.
Would it be encrypted? Almost certainly. Did I have the skills to crack it? Possibly, with time and resources I didn't currently have. Did Dominic have the physical ledger? I had to assume yes, had to believe he'd escaped as successfully as I had.
I splashed cold water on my face, studying my reflection in the scratched metal mirror. The woman looking back at me wasn't Elena Petrov, Russian immigrant building a new life. She wasn't even Valentina Ricci, daughter of Alessandro, driven by vengeance. She was something forged between those identities—harder, sharper, more focused.
"One hour at a time," I whispered to myself. "Just stay alive one hour at a time."
Back outside, I continued along the waterfront before cutting inland toward the downtown core. The library wouldn't open until 9:00 AM, which meant I had time to make sure I wasn't being followed before approaching the rendezvous.
I entered a small diner, taking a seat by the window that offered views in multiple directions. Ordered eggs and toast I didn't want, nursing a third cup of coffee I didn't need, watching the street with practiced casualness.
No sign of Petrov's men, but their absence worried me more than their presence. They were adaptive, professional. If I couldn't see them, it meant they'd changed tactics.
My phone vibrated again. Another message, another single word: "Northeast."
Dominic had spotted trouble near the library's northeast entrance. Good to know. Also good: he was alive, free, and close enough to survey our rendezvous point. The knot in my chest loosened slightly.
I paid my bill and left, heading west away from the library before looping back through a series of retail shops, using their connected storefronts to change direction without exposing myself on open streets. Standard counter-surveillance. Effective, but time-consuming.
My watch showed 8:47 AM. Fifty-three minutes until rendezvous.
The public library was a modern three-story building with glass facades and multiple entrances. If the northeast was compromised, I'd approach from the southwest, through the adjacent public square. The morning sun had begun to melt last night's snow, creating treacherous patches of ice on the walkways. I moved carefully, balancing speed with caution.
I spotted the library ahead, its windows reflecting the brightening sky. No obvious surveillance, no suspicious vehicles. But something felt wrong—an instinct honed through years of dangerous situations. Something I couldn't quite identify.
Then I saw it. Third floor, west corner window. A brief flash of light—sun reflecting off a lens or scope. Sniper position, with perfect sightlines to all library entrances.
I diverted immediately, ducking into a coffee shop across the street. From here I could see the library's main entrance while remaining hidden from the sniper's position. I pulled out my phone, typing quickly: "Sniper. 3rd floor west."
The response came almost instantly: "Confirmed. Change to F."
Location F—the hockey arena at the edge of downtown. Smart choice. Large venue, multiple entrances, crowds for the morning public skating session. Difficult to cover effectively, even with a full surveillance team.
I deleted the messages and left the coffee shop through its back door, emerging into an alley that ran behind several downtown businesses. Location F meant another fifteen minutes of walking, skirting the more populated areas Petrov's men would be watching.
As I navigated the maze of service alleys and side streets, my mind kept returning to Dominic's words in the parking garage. "I love you." Three simple words we'd never explicitly exchanged before. That he chose that moment—separation, danger, uncertainty—spoke volumes.
I'd said it back without hesitation, the words feeling natural despite the extraordinary circumstances. But what happened after this? If we survived—when we survived—what kind of future could we build with Petrov hunting us, with the ledger as both protection and target?
Questions for later. Survival first.
The arena came into view—a sprawling complex with its main entrance facing the street and several secondary entrances around the perimeter. A banner announced "Public Skate: 9-11 AM" with cartoon figures of children gliding on ice.
My watch showed 9:12 AM. Twenty-eight minutes until rendezvous.
I purchased admission from a bored teenage attendant, declining to rent skates, explaining I was meeting my boyfriend who already had mine. The lie slipped out easily, part of the endless cascade of false identities and stories that had become second nature.
Inside, the arena was surprisingly busy. A school group occupied half the ice, children in bright jackets wobbling on rented skates while instructors demonstrated basic techniques. The other half held a mix of retirees, mothers with young children, and a few solo skaters practicing more advanced moves.
I scanned the bleachers, looking for Dominic without being obvious about it. No sign of him. The facility had multiple levels, with viewing areas above the ice and a concession area below. He could be anywhere, watching, waiting for the right moment.
I chose a spot on the upper level bleachers with good sightlines to all entrances, settling in as if watching the skaters below. My muscles ached from tension and exertion, the morning's adrenaline beginning to take its toll. I couldn't afford fatigue, not yet.
Twenty-two minutes until rendezvous.
A group of elderly men and women entered the upper viewing area, laughing and chatting as they claimed spots along the rail. "Hockey parents" watching their grandchildren, based on their conversation. Perfect cover—they drew attention away from me while creating enough ambient noise to mask any conversation.
Eighteen minutes.
A man entered from the far side, baseball cap pulled low, shoulders hunched against the cold. Not Dominic—wrong build, wrong movement patterns. One of Petrov's? Possibly. I kept him in my peripheral vision, noting which way he was looking, who he might be communicating with.
Fourteen minutes.
My phone vibrated. "South concession. Now."
I deleted the message and stood, stretching casually before making my way down the stairs toward the lower level. No hurrying, no obvious urgency. Just another spectator heading for refreshments.
The south concession stand served the secondary rink, less crowded than the main arena. As I approached, I spotted him—back to the wall, perfect sightlines to all approaches, coffee cup in hand. The beard was gone, hair different, but the eyes were unmistakable.
Dominic.
Our gazes locked across the space, a moment of pure recognition amid chaos. I maintained my casual pace, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. No running into each other's arms, no dramatic reunion. We were professionals. We were still being hunted.
I took the seat across from him, as if joining a casual acquaintance. Under the table, his knee pressed against mine—the briefest physical contact, electric even through layers of denim.
"You're early," he said, voice low.
"So are you." I kept my voice equally quiet, eyes continually scanning our surroundings.
"Any problems?"
"Two tails, possibly more. Lost them at the transit hub. You?"
"Three that I identified. Lost two, had to eliminate the third."
I nodded, unsurprised. "The ledger?"
"Secure." His gaze flicked briefly to his midsection—he'd secured it against his body, same as I had with the flash drive. "The drive?"
"Secure," I confirmed.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction. "The library was compromised before I got there. They're coordinating better than expected."
"They're motivated." I accepted the coffee he slid toward me, grateful for both the warmth and the normalcy of the gesture. "Now what?"
"We need transportation and a secure location to examine what we have."
"The cabin in Quebec is still viable?"
He nodded. "But getting there is the challenge. They'll be watching bus stations, rental agencies, the border."
"What about Andrei? Could he help again?"
Dominic considered this. "Possibly. But contacting him creates exposure."
"We need options, Dominic."
He was quiet for a moment, eyes continually moving, scanning for threats. "There's a marina on the northern shore. Small, private. Caters to wealthy summer residents. This time of year, it's nearly deserted."
"You have a contact there?"
"Better. I have a boat registered under a shell corporation. Purchased six months ago as another contingency."
Of course he did. Dominic's forward planning continued to amaze me, even after all this time.
"We can take it up the coast, then cross into Quebec by land where surveillance is minimal," he continued. "Two days of travel, but safer than alternatives."
I nodded. "Timeline?"
"Leave within the hour. The longer we stay in Thunder Bay, the greater the risk."
He was right. Petrov's net was tightening, resources being deployed across the city. Every minute increased the danger.
"Any sign of Sophia?" I asked.
His expression hardened. "No. And I haven't looked."
I hesitated. "I gave her the university location."
"I know." No judgment in his tone, just acknowledgment. "Your call."
"She might be useful."
"She might be dangerous." He leaned forward slightly. "We have what we need. She's a complication we can't afford."
Again, he was right. Pragmatic. Focused. Yet I couldn't help wondering what had happened to Sophia after we separated. Had she reached the university? Had Petrov's men found her? Did I care?
Yes, I realized. Despite everything, I did care. Not out of affection or trust, but from understanding. Sophia was a survivor, like me. Different methods, different moral compass, but the same fundamental drive to endure.
"The marina," I said, returning to the immediate problem. "How do we get there?"
"There's a delivery service that runs between downtown and the northern shore communities. Grocery delivery, packages, etc. Driver's name is Kyle. Former Navy, owes me a favor."
"And he's trustworthy?"
"As much as anyone. He doesn't ask questions."
It wasn't perfect, but nothing about our situation was. "Timeline?"
"He makes his run at 10:30. We meet him behind the liquor store on Harbor Street. Low visibility, quick access to his van."
I nodded. "And until then?"
"We stay mobile. Different locations, regular check-ins. No pattern they can track."
Standard procedure for high-risk situations. Split up, stay unpredictable, maintain minimal contact. I hated it—hated the idea of separating again so soon—but emotion couldn't override tactical necessity.
"I'll take the east side of downtown," I said. "You take west. Thirty-minute check-ins."
He nodded, reaching under the table to squeeze my hand briefly. "Be careful, Val."
"You too." I met his eyes, allowing myself one moment of connection before we returned to operational mode. "I meant what I said. Earlier."
A slight softening around his eyes. "So did I."
We stood simultaneously, leaving in opposite directions. No lingering glances, no emotional goodbyes. Professionals executing a plan.
The next hour passed in a blur of calculated movements. Coffee shop to bookstore to pharmacy, never staying in one place more than ten minutes, constantly watching for surveillance. Dominic's check-in messages came precisely on schedule—location codes that told me he was still free, still mobile.
At 10:24, I positioned myself near the delivery service meeting point, observing from across the street. The loading area behind the liquor store was partially obscured by dumpsters, offering decent cover while maintaining escape routes in three directions.
A white van with "Northern Shore Delivery" emblazoned on the side pulled in at exactly 10:30. The driver—Kyle, presumably—began loading cases of liquor into the back. Average height, solid build, movements suggesting military training despite the civilian context.
I waited, watching for any sign of surveillance or ambush. Nothing obvious, but caution had kept me alive this long.
Dominic appeared from the east side of the building, approaching Kyle with casual familiarity. They spoke briefly, Kyle nodding at whatever Dominic was saying. Then Dominic turned slightly, eyes finding mine across the street with uncanny precision.
One nod. Clear.
I crossed quickly, staying aware of sightlines and exposure. Kyle gave me a quick once-over as I approached—professional assessment rather than leering—before returning to his loading.
"You're the plus-one," he said simply.
"Yes."
"Get in the back. Behind the partition. Don't make noise until we're clear of the city."
Direct. Efficient. I liked him already.
The van's cargo area was divided by a metal partition, creating a small concealed space behind the legitimate deliveries. Dominic and I squeezed into this space, pressed close in the darkness as Kyle secured the doors.
"Cozy," I whispered as the engine started.
"Beats the alternative." His arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me against his chest.
For the first time since the bank heist, I allowed myself to relax fractionally, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear more reassuring than any words could be. We weren't safe—wouldn't be safe for a long time—but we were together, with a plan, with the leverage we needed.
The van moved through the city streets, each turn and stop a moment of tension as we waited for sirens, for shouts, for discovery. But none came. Kyle drove with the unhurried confidence of someone with nothing to hide, stopping for deliveries, making small talk with customers, maintaining perfect cover.
Gradually, the stops became less frequent, the roads rougher. We were leaving the city, heading north along the lakeshore toward more remote areas. I felt Dominic relax slightly beside me, his breathing deeper, more regular.
"I killed two of them," he said suddenly, voice barely audible over the van's engine. "After we separated. They were closer than I thought."
I nodded against his chest. "Necessary."
"Yes." His hand found mine in the darkness. "But it means they know approximately where I went after the garage. They'll be searching that sector heavily."
"Kyle's route takes us well clear of that area," I reminded him. "And they can't watch every road out of the city."
"No, but they can watch the obvious ones. And they'll have people at the marina."
He was right. Petrov's resources weren't infinite, but they were substantial. And the ledger was valuable enough to justify deploying everything available.
"So we don't use the obvious entrance," I said. "We approach by land, through the woods."
"Two miles of rough terrain in winter conditions."
"We've done worse." Much worse, in fact. The swim across the freezing lake during our escape from Michigan came to mind.
He squeezed my hand. "Yes, we have."
The van slowed, then turned onto what felt like a private road—bumpier, narrower based on how we were jostled in the back. After several minutes, we stopped completely. The engine shut off, and seconds later, the back doors opened.
Kyle stood there, expression neutral. "End of the line for the main road. Private property from here."
We climbed out, muscles stiff from the confined space. We were in a small clearing surrounded by dense pine forest. No buildings visible, no other vehicles.
"Marina's two miles that way," Kyle pointed north. "Follow the blue trail markers. Road's watched at the main entrance, but the service path isn't. Combination to the gate is 5283."
Dominic handed him a thick envelope. "As agreed."
Kyle pocketed it without counting. "Need anything else?"
"We were never here."
"Never saw you." Kyle climbed back into his van. "Good luck with whatever you're doing."
"Thanks for the ride," I said.
He nodded once, then drove away, leaving us alone in the silent forest.
Dominic and I looked at each other, a moment of shared understanding passing between us. We were closer to safety, but still vulnerable. The flash drive pressed against my skin, a constant reminder of what we carried and why we were hunted.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Always."
We set off into the trees, following the blue markers, moving as quickly as the terrain allowed. The forest was beautiful in winter—pristine snow, sunlight filtering through bare branches, air so cold it burned the lungs. Under different circumstances, it might have been peaceful.
But we weren't here for peace. We were here to survive, to leverage what we'd stolen, to end Petrov's threat permanently.
The marina came into view through the trees after forty minutes of hiking—a small, private facility with perhaps twenty slips, most empty in the winter season. A few boats remained, shrouded in protective covers, their owners wealthy enough to maintain them year-round but not currently using them.
Dominic led me to the service entrance, a simple gate with a keypad. The combination worked, granting us access to the deserted facility. No security guards, no cameras—just the implied protection of isolation and exclusivity.
"Which one is yours?" I asked, scanning the covered vessels.
"Third from the end. Thirty-two footer. Bought it from a Canadian businessman relocating to Florida."
We approached cautiously, checking for any sign of surveillance or tampering. Nothing obvious, but Dominic insisted on a thorough inspection before we boarded. The yacht was modest by luxury standards but perfectly functional—cabin with sleeping quarters, small galley, navigation equipment. Most importantly, it was fueled and ready.
"How soon can we leave?" I asked, watching him check the engine.
"Twenty minutes. Need to warm the engines gradually in these temperatures."
I nodded, moving to the cabin to survey our supplies. Emergency rations, first aid kit, spare clothing—all the essentials for a quick escape. Dominic had prepared well, as always.
The flash drive seemed to burn hotter against my skin as I inventoried our resources. Soon we'd have time to examine it, to understand exactly what we'd risked our lives to obtain. Would it be worth it? Would it provide the leverage we needed against Petrov?
It had to. The alternative was unthinkable.
Dominic joined me in the cabin, closing the door against the biting wind. "Engines are warming. No sign of pursuit yet."
"Yet," I echoed. The word hung between us, heavy with implication.
He moved closer, hands coming to rest on my shoulders. "We've come this far, Val. We'll make it the rest of the way."
I leaned into his touch, allowing myself this brief moment of comfort. "I know."
His arms encircled me fully, pulling me against his chest. I felt the subtle bulk of the ledger beneath his jacket, pressed between us like a physical manifestation of all we'd endured to reach this point.
"I need to tell you something," he said, voice rumbling in his chest against my ear.
I pulled back slightly to see his face. "What is it?"
"When we were separated, after the garage..." He hesitated, an unusual uncertainty in his expression. "I realized something."
"What?"
"That I've never been afraid of dying. Not really." His eyes held mine, intense and focused. "But the thought of losing you—of you being caught or killed while we were apart—that terrified me in a way nothing ever has before."
My throat tightened with unexpected emotion. "Dominic—"
"Let me finish." His hands framed my face. "I've spent my entire life preparing for every contingency, planning for every scenario. But there's no contingency plan for losing you. No way to prepare for that reality."
The raw honesty in his voice struck me with physical force. This was Dominic Castellano—criminal mastermind, tactical genius, man who had contingency plans for his contingency plans—admitting there was something he couldn't strategize around, couldn't prepare for.
"You won't lose me," I promised, the words inadequate but all I had to offer.
"You can't guarantee that. Neither of us can." His thumbs brushed my cheekbones. "But I needed you to know what you mean to me. Not just that I love you, but that you've become essential. Fundamental."
I covered his hands with mine, holding them against my face. "I know. Because it's the same for me."
We stayed like that for a long moment, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air, existing in perfect understanding. Then reality reasserted itself—the engines had warmed, time was passing, pursuit was inevitable.
"We should go," I said reluctantly.
He nodded, pressing a quick, fierce kiss to my lips before releasing me. "Take the helm. I'll handle the lines."
We moved with practiced efficiency, falling into the seamless coordination that had developed between us over months of shared danger and shared purpose. Within minutes, we were pulling away from the dock, the quiet electric motors barely disturbing the winter stillness.
As we cleared the marina and entered the open water of Thunder Bay, I glanced back at the receding shoreline. Somewhere back there, Petrov's men were searching for us, closing in on the marina perhaps, finding nothing but our vanishing wake.
The flash drive remained secure against my skin, the ledger safe with Dominic. We had what we came for—the leverage, the protection, the key to our future.
Now we just had to survive long enough to use it.