Chapter 8 - THE COURTHOUSE STEPS
Foley Square was bathed in the harsh, afternoon sunlight when the bulletproof suburban pulled up to the curb opposite the Daniel Patrick Moynihan Federal Courthouse.
The square was busy—pedestrians, news crews, court officers, and city buses creating a chaotic backdrop of urban noise.
Inside the rear of the suburban, Roman checked the digital drive one last time before sliding it into his inner pocket.
"Federal Marshals are stationed at the top of the steps," Roman said, pointing through the tinted glass toward four heavy-set men in tactical vests standing near the bronze doors. "Once I cross that plaza, Volkov can't touch me."
"He’s already here," I said quietly, my eyes scanning the crowd with the methodical precision I had learned over years of watching human and animal behavior.
Roman froze. "Where?"
"Two o'clock," I pointed subtly. "The man in the high-visibility construction vest near the fountain. He’s been standing there for ten minutes without looking at his phone or working on the pavement. Six o'clock—the food cart vendor who hasn't served a single customer since we pulled up. Their body language is completely wrong. They’re waiting for a signal."
Roman followed my gaze, his dark eyes narrowing as he recognized the tactical positioning of Volkov’s remaining cell.
"They're going to create a crush," Roman deduced. "A distraction in the crowd to separate me from the Marshals, then close in with silenced pieces."
"Not if we change the entry vector," I said, turning to look at Luna, who was sitting between us, her ears alert, her nose working the air conditioning vents. "Luna, speak."
Luna let out a deep, booming bark that rattled the windows of the SUV.
"What are you doing?" Roman asked.
"Creating our own distraction," I said, opening the door on the street side of the vehicle, away from the plaza. "Volkov expects you to walk straight up the central steps like a target. We’re going through the lower service entrance near the holding bays—the entrance only court staff and working dogs use."
Roman stared at me, a sudden, brilliant smile breaking across his severe face—a smile of pure admiration.
"You really are remarkable, Odessa," he said.
"Move!" I barked.
We stepped out into the bright afternoon air. I held Luna’s leather lead in my left hand, while Roman walked beside me, his right hand buried in his coat, his presence an iron shield between me and the square.
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The man in the construction vest noticed the shift immediately. He reached into his belt, pulling out a heavy automatic weapon, and let out a whistle that echoed across the plaza.
"Contact!" Roman yelled, shoving me behind a heavy concrete planter as the first suppressed rounds shattered the glass of the nearby bus shelter.
