Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 63

63

I pull into the parking lot of The Bandyleg, a diner that looks like it got stuck in 1975 and nobody bothered to unstick it. Orange vinyl booths, wood paneling, a neon sign missing half its letters. The kind of place nobody in my world would ever think to look.

Which is exactly why Taras picked it.

He’s already inside, hunched in a corner booth next to a jukebox that’s playing some disco bullshit. The whole scene is wrong: Taras drinking a chocolate milkshake through a red-striped straw, bobbing his head to the music.

“You pick the weirdest fucking places,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him.

“Weird places don’t have ears.” He doesn’t look up from his milkshake. His fingers tap against the glass—index, middle, ring, pinky, repeat. Yet another new nervous habit. I don’t like that.

“Talk.”

“Devon wasn’t working alone.”

“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.”

“That’s a bad coincidence.”

“The safe house that got raided? She arranged the lease.”

“She arranges all our leases.”

“The meeting with the Italians that went sideways? She set the location.”

I want to argue, to defend her, but the pattern is too clear now that he’s laying it out. “Why?” I ask finally. “Why would she flip?”

“Money? Threats? Who knows?” Taras drains his milkshake and sets the glass down hard. “Maybe she’s been Zakharov’s from the start. Eight years is a long time to play the long game, but…”

But it would explain so much. How our enemies always seem to be one step ahead lately. How every move we make gets countered before we can execute it.

And it would make sense. The way her face fell when I rejected her… the coldness when she saw me with Olivia instead…

Taras sees my stricken gaze and nods grimly. “That’s why I called the way I did. If Mikayla’s turned, then Olivia’s not safe. None of us are.”

I stand abruptly, coffee untouched. “We need to⁠—”

“Stefan.” Taras grabs my wrist. “We can’t just confront her. If she knows we know, she’ll run. Or worse.”

He’s right. Mikayla’s too smart, too dangerous to approach directly. But every second she’s out there is another second she could be feeding information to our enemies. Another second Olivia could be in danger.

My phone vibrates. Then Taras’s phone does, too.

We both look at our screens at the same time.

“Fuck,” Taras breathes.

The security alert is simple: Dr. Aster – Safonov Holdings – Executive Floor.

Olivia’s at my office…

… where Mikayla is.

“Stefan…”

But I’m already moving.

We burst out of the diner into the harsh afternoon sun. My mind races through possibilities, none of them good. Why is Olivia there? I told her I’d be back for dinner. She was supposed to be at her clinic or with Babushka, somewhere safe, not walking into a nightmare.

If Mikayla’s really working with Zakharov, if she’s been feeding him information this whole time, then she knows exactly how to hurt me.

And Olivia just handed herself over on a silver platter.

I jump into the driver’s seat of my Maybach. Taras barely gets his door closed before I’m peeling out of the lot.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” he says, but his white knuckles gripping the door handle say otherwise. “Could be that Olivia just wanted to surprise you with lunch or⁠—”

“When has anything in our life ever been nothing?”

The streets blur past. I take corners too fast, run yellows that are definitely reds by the time I clear them.

“What’s our play?” Taras asks.

“We get Olivia out. Then we deal with Mikayla.”

“And if Mikayla’s already⁠—”

“She hasn’t.” I cut him off because I can’t let myself think about the alternative. Can’t picture Mikayla’s hands on Olivia, can’t imagine what someone with Mikayla’s training could do in the time it takes us to get there.

My phone rings. Mikayla’s name flashes on the screen.

“Don’t answer it,” Taras warns.

I answer anyway. “Mikayla.”

“Stefan.” Her voice is calm, professional. The same tone she’s used for eight years. “Dr. Aster is here to see you. Should I tell her you’re unavailable?”

Every word sounds normal. Routine. But there’s something underneath: a thread of repressed laughter that makes my skin crawl.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Of course. We’ll be waiting.”

She hangs up. I floor the accelerator, weaving through traffic like the devil himself is chasing us.

“She knows we know,” Taras mutters. “This is a trap. It’s gotta be.”

We screech into the underground garage. I’m out of the car before it fully stops, Taras right behind me. The elevator seems to take forever, each floor counting up like a countdown to hell.

Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.

My hand moves to the gun inside my jacket. If Mikayla’s hurt Olivia, if she’s so much as touched her…

There’s no telling what I’ll do next.