“He already knows,” I cut in. “Which means we stop pretending this is just about leverage.” I straighten. “This is a war now.”
The room goes quiet.
“And I don’t lose wars.”
Silence stretches—tight, electric—then Lev exhales slowly and drags a chair back.
“Alright,” he says, all sharp edges and focus now. “If this is war, then we stop reacting.”
Roman’s fingers move across the console, pulling up satellite feeds and financial dashboards. “Markov never strikes twice from the same angle. The bullet wasn’t the attack; it was the announcement.”
Dimitri nods. “He’s testing response time. Mapping Konstantin’s perimeter. Seeing how fast we flood the house.”
“He wanted to see you,” Lev adds, eyes flicking to me. “How far you’d go.”
I don’t deny it.
Roman zooms in on a financial graph. “Look at this. Three shell accounts lit up within twelve hours of the breach. Baltic routing. Old Markov signature.”
Dimitri leans in. “He’s moving liquidity. That means logistics. Safe houses. Transport.”
Lev snaps his fingers. “Pressure points. We don’t hit him directly; we make him uncomfortable.”
I pace once, then stop. “I want eyes on every port he’s used in the last five years. Every airstrip. Every fixer.”
Roman types rapidly. “Already pulling. There’s a warehouse in Varna he’s kept dormant. It just came back online.”
Dimitri’s mouth curves slightly. “Dormant assets waking up means he’s preparing for loss.”
Lev looks at me. “Good. Then we make him bleed early.”
“How?” Roman asks.
I turn back to the table. “We cut his access. Freeze his accounts through proxies. Leak just enough intel to make his allies nervous.”
“And the men?” Dimitri asks.
“I want his lieutenants paranoid,” I say. “I want them wondering which of them is next.”
Lev’s eyes gleam. “Psychological pressure. Sleepless nights.”
Roman adds, “We can bait him. Feed him false movement near the estate. Let him think she’s being transferred.”
I shake my head. “Not her.”
A beat.
“Anyone else,” I finish. “But Raelyn doesn’t become bait.”
Lev studies me, then nods. “Understood.”
Dimitri straightens. “Then we go hunting.”
Roman glances at the monitors again. “If Markov pushed this far, he’s expecting retaliation.”
“Good,” I say quietly. “I want him expecting it.”
The room hums with intent now—plans forming, strategies locking into place, men moving pieces on a board only we can see.