Sabrina is awake when we reach the safehouse, wide-eyed, furious, and fighting every second of it. The sedative has worn off enough for her to be fully conscious, but she’s unsteady on her feet, and there’s a thunderous headache written across her features. She tried to fight Viktor when he helped her from the car, nearly landing a solid kick to his ribs before I intervened.
I steady her with a hand on her elbow that she immediately tries to shake off. “Easy.”
The converted boutique hotel rises before us through the trees, all natural stone and elegant lines that suggest wealth rather than the fortress it actually is. It’s designed to look like a wealthy businessman’s weekend retreat, and the deception has served us well over the years. Security measures are built into every inch of the property, from bulletproof glass to motion sensors hidden among the landscaping.
Viktor pulls into the circular driveway, and through the windshield, I see Maksim waiting near the entrance with the expression he reserves for moments when he thinks I’ve made a catastrophically bad decision. His arms are crossed, his posture rigid, and even from this distance, I feel his disapproval.
She doesn’t resist when I help her walk from the SUV, but I can feel the tension coiled in her muscles like a spring under pressure. She lost her shoes in the process of subduing her and bringing her to the SUV back at the club. Her bare feet are already dirty from the ground, and she’s lost one of her earrings somewhere. She’s calculating distance to the tree line, memorizing the layout of the driveway, and looking for anything that might give her an advantage if she decides to run.
Smart woman. Unfortunately for her, I’ve thought of everything she’s thinking of and quite a few things she hasn’t. The property is surrounded by motion sensors, and the nearest road is miles away through dense forest that would be nearly impossible to navigate in the dark.
Maksim approaches us with a controlled fury in his posture. His expression flashes with irritation at the situation I’ve created. “We need to talk.”
I nod toward the building. “After I get her settled.”
He glances to the woman beside me, taking in her disheveled appearance and the way she’s holding herself like she’s ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. “This wasn’t the plan.”
I keep walking toward the entrance. “Plans change.”
He falls into step beside me, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Not like this they don’t.”
She’s clearly listening to every word of our exchange, filing away information for future use. It occurs to me that bringing her here might have been a mistake, but it’s too late for second thoughts now. The decision was made the moment I saw her in that alley, the moment every instinct I’ve developed over thirty-four years of survival screamed she was the key to everything.
“What do you want? Why have you kidnapped me?”
The fury in her voice as she demands answers cuts deeper than any weapon might. She’s not crying or begging like most people would in her situation. Instead, she’s watching everything with calculating intelligence that makes me wonder if I’ve underestimated her completely.
Her voice is hoarse but steady, with an undertone of steel that suggests she’s not going to break easily, asking new questions when I don’t answer the first round. “Where the hell am I? What do you want from me?”
I don’t reply immediately. Not yet. First, I need to get her somewhere secure, where we can have a proper conversation without Maksim’s disapproval and without the risk of other staff members overhearing details they don’t need to know.
The interior of the safehouse maintains the upscale hotel aesthetic that provides perfect cover for our operations. The marble floors were imported from Italy, tasteful artwork adorns the walls and silk wallpaper, and the furniture implies wealth without being overly flashy. The lobby area features a reception desk that’s usually unmanned but equipped with surveillance equipment that would make government facilities jealous.
She takes it all in with the kind of wide-eyed appreciation that suggests she’s not used to this level of luxury, which is another mark in the “not Irina Volkov” column. Irina grew up in wealth and privilege before she chose to throw it all away for ideology and revenge. This woman’s reaction to expensive surroundings feels genuine in a way that would be difficult to fake.
But then again, Irina is tricky. I can’t be too careful.
I lead her down a hallway lined with doors that look identical but serve very different purposes. Some are guest suites designed for extended stays, others are interrogation rooms equipped with soundproofing and restraints, and a few contain equipment that most people would prefer not to think about. The carpeting is thick enough to muffle footsteps, and the lighting is designed to be both elegant and functional.
The suite I’ve chosen for her is on the second floor, far enough from the main operations areas to provide some privacy but close enough that she’ll never be truly alone. The keycard system ensures every entry and exit is logged, and the hallway is monitored by cameras that are invisible unless you know where to look.
I slide the keycard through the electronic lock and push open the door, revealing a space that could easily pass for a high-end hotel room if you don’t notice the reinforced walls or know the bulletproof windows don’t open. The room is decorated in warm neutrals with touches of gold.
I step aside so she can enter. “This is where you’ll be staying.”
She moves into the room cautiously, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. The space is larger than most apartments, with a sitting area that includes a leather sofa and matching armchair, a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, and an ornate bathroom. Fresh flowers sit on the side table, and there’s a basket of expensive toiletries waiting in the bathroom.
Her voice carries bitter resignation mixed with growing anger. “Staying? You mean this is where you’ll be keeping me prisoner.”
I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, studying her reaction to the surroundings. “I prefer to think of it as protective custody.”
She whirls around to face me, and there’s fire in her expression that reminds me of why I was drawn to her in the first place. “Protective custody? You kidnapped me from behind the club and drugged me unconscious.”
She’s not wrong, and we both know it. There’s no point in pretending this was anything other than what it was, an impulsive decision made in a moment when instinct overrode everything else, and the possibility that she might be Irina Volkov became more important than protocol or common sense.
I keep my voice level and controlled. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Her laugh is harsh and bitter. “Wrong place? I was taking a break from work. In an alley behind the club where I’ve worked for three years.”
“Wrong time,” I repeat, studying her face carefully for any micro-expression that might give her away.
She backs toward the window, putting distance between us. “Wrong time for what? What exactly do you think I am?”
I reach into my jacket and pull out a photograph I’ve been carrying for the past week. It’s grainy and ten years old, but the resemblance is unmistakable. “I think you might be someone who’s been missing for a very long time.”
The woman in the photograph has the same honey-blonde hair, similar enough bone structure that the differences can be explained with plastic surgery, and the same full lips that beg for kisses. Yet there’s something harder in her expression, something calculated, that’s completely absent from the woman standing in front of me.
I hold out the photo and watch her face carefully as she takes it. “This woman’s name is Irina Volkov. She disappeared ten years ago with information that got my brother killed.”
Sabrina stares at the photograph for a long moment, her face going pale as she processes what I’m telling her. Then she looks up at me with an expression that’s equal parts confusion and horror. “You think I’m her?”
I keep my voice steady. “The resemblance is remarkable.”
She hands the photograph back to me with hands that are trembling slightly. “ I’m not her. I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.”
I take the photo and slip it back into my jacket. “Are you sure about that?”
Her voice rises with stress and disbelief. “Of course, I’m sure. I would remember if I’d lived another life under a different name, or met someone who looks so much like me.”
I arch a brow. “Memory can be unreliable.”
She backs against the window, pressing her shoulders to the glass. “Not that unreliable. This is insane. You kidnapped me because I look like someone you’re looking for?”
I move closer, stopping just outside arm’s reach. “Among other reasons.”
Her voice gets sharper. “What other reasons?”
“You work in a place that attracts a certain type of clientele. The kind of people who might have information about dangerous things. You could still be useful.”
She shakes her head rapidly. “I serve drinks and make small talk. I don’t interrogate customers about their criminal enterprises.”
I tilt my head. “But you listen and observe. You’re in a position to overhear things that most people never would.”
She looks around the room as if searching for an escape route. “This is crazy. You’re crazy if you think I’m some kind of spy or informant.”
I settle into the chair across from the bed, making it clear this conversation is going to continue whether she likes it or not. “Then prove it.”
Her voice cracks slightly. “How exactly am I supposed to prove I’m not someone else?”
“Start by answering my questions honestly.”
For the next hour, I probe for inconsistencies while she answers every question with the kind of detail that suggests she’s either telling the truth, or she’s had years to perfect her cover story. She tells me about surface details about her childhood in Modesto, her mother’s death from cancer, her father’s abandonment, and her struggles to pay off medical debt that isn’t legally hers. It’s clear she’s keeping details to herself, but it feels like she’s trying to protect herself, not lie to me.
I ask about her first job at a coffee shop near campus, the manager who stole tips, and her time at Olive Garden before she started working at the club. She provides names, dates, and specific details about coworkers, customers, and daily routines that would be nearly impossible to fabricate convincingly.
Each answer builds on the last, creating a web of small details that feels authentic in a way professional cover stories rarely do. Either Sabrina Clyde is exactly who she claims to be, or she’s the most thoroughly prepared operative I’ve ever encountered.
The conversation reveals a woman who’s been fighting to survive on her own since she was eighteen, who dropped out of college to care for a dying mother, and who’s been carrying debt that destroyed her family long before she was old enough to understand what medical bills could do to a person’s life.
A soft knock at the door interrupts us. Maksim enters without waiting for permission, his expression grim. He looks between us before addressing me. “We need to talk.” He says it more firmly this time.
I look at Sabrina, who’s watching our exchange with attention that suggests she’s trying to piece together information from context clues. Her exhaustion is finally showing as the adrenaline that’s been carrying her through the night starts to fade.
“We’ll continue this later,” I say.
She moves to sit on the edge of the bed, her shoulders sagging with fatigue. “Lucky me.”
I follow Maksim out into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind me. The electronic keycard system means she’s secure but not uncomfortable, which is exactly the balance I’m trying to strike.
Maksim crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “So, what’s your assessment?”
I ponder a moment before answering. “She’s either innocent little Sabrina, or she’s damn good at telling lies.”
“Which do you think is more likely?”
That’s the question I’ve been avoiding for the past hour because I don’t like the answer, but I grit my teeth and respond anyway. “I think we took the wrong woman.”
“We?” he asks pointedly. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s concern in his posture. “If that’s true, we have a civilian who can identify all of us and knows the location of this facility.”
I flinch. In our world, witnesses are loose ends, and loose ends get people killed. “She’s not a threat, and she slept for most of the drive up here. She doesn’t know anything about where we are or even really who we are.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “She’s seen your face, Nikandr. She knows you kidnapped her. She can place you at the club on at least two occasions. How is that not a threat?”
I turn away from him and look back toward the door, where she’s probably listening to every word we’re saying. “Because she still doesn’t know anything about us. We don’t have to be seen by her again.”
“Yet, but how long do you think it will take her to figure it out once she gets back to her normal life? She’ll report all of this to the police, and they certainly know who we are.”
The smart thing would be to eliminate the problem before it becomes a bigger problem. The safe thing would be to make sure she never has the chance to tell anyone what happened tonight, but the thought of harming her makes something cold and violent coil in my chest, and not in the way that usually motivates me to action. “We’re not killing an innocent woman.”
He lets out a harsh sigh. “Then what exactly are you proposing we do with her?”
“I need more time to determine if she really is innocent.”
Maksim pushes away from the wall and moves closer, lowering his voice. “How much more time?”
I toss out a number before I can overthink it, which isn’t like me at all. “Forty-eight hours. If I can’t determine her true identity by then, we’ll discuss other options.”
He studies my face with the expression of someone who’s known me long enough to read between the lines. “Forty-eight hours, huh? What if she turns out to be exactly who she claims to be?”
I hesitate. “We’ll figure out how to handle the situation without anyone getting hurt.”
“And if she’s Irina Volkov?”
This time, I reply immediately. “Then we proceed as planned.”
Maksim studies my face for a moment longer, then turns and walks back toward the elevator. “Forty-eight hours, Nikandr. After that, this becomes a business decision instead of a personal one.”
After he’s gone, I return to my own suite and spread the Irina Volkov files across the desk, staring at the photographs, surveillance reports, and intelligence gathered from a dozen different sources over the past ten years. Everything I have on the woman who helped orchestrate my brother’s murder is spread before me.
The resemblance between Irina and Sabrina is undeniable, but resemblance isn’t evidence. The more time I spend with Sabrina, the more I’m convinced that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I got a little too hasty and emotional.
But doubt is a luxury I can’t afford, especially when the stakes are this high. Tomorrow, I’ll begin the process of verifying every detail of her story. I’ll call in favors, access databases, and trace her life back to the day she was born if necessary. If she’s innocent, I’ll find a way to let her go without compromising our security or putting her in danger.
If she’s not innocent, if she really is Irina Volkov living under an assumed identity, everything changes.
I look at the photograph of Irina one more time, studying the face that has haunted my dreams for a decade. Somewhere out there, the real Irina is probably living under another identity, safe from the consequences of her choices while my brother’s killer remains free, but maybe not. I have a woman who might be her locked in a room down the hall, and I have forty-eight hours to determine if Sabrina is also Irina.
I pour myself a glass of vodka and settle in for what promises to be a very long forty-eight hours.
