The extraction

The next hour was a slow-motion demolition of forty years of history. I stood in the center of the small, cramped living room, acting as the arbiter of what survived and what was left to the dust. The smell of old paper and woodwax filled the air as Viktor and Ludmilla moved with the frantic, disjointed energy of the shell-shocked.

Ludmilla emerged from the kitchen clutching a stack of stained, handwritten notebooks. Her knuckles were white. "These are my mother’s," she said, her voice trembling. "The recipes are the only things I have left of her."

I looked at the thick, heavy binders and then into her pleading eyes. I didn't let my expression soften. "We are packing for survival, Ludmilla, not for a kitchen. Those are too heavy and too distinctive. We're packing as light as possible. They stay."

"But—"

"No," I said, my voice flat. "If a border guard decides to flip through those and sees anything from your past, you’re dead."

She withered, slowly placing the notebooks on the counter as if she were laying a child to rest.

Viktor appeared from the hallway, dragging a heavy metal toolbox that scraped harshly against the floor. He looked at me, a desperate hope in his eyes. "My power tools? I can work anywhere if I have these. I can earn a living."

"The same rule applies, Viktor," I said, not even looking at the box. "Only clothing and personal hygiene. That is all."

"This is my life," he whispered, looking down at the scarred metal of the box.

"Your life is what I’m trying to save," I countered. "Tools can be bought. A new identity cannot be forged twice."

They continued to move through the apartment like ghosts. When Viktor picked up his smartphone from the charging cable, I stepped into his path.

"The phones and the tablets stay here," I commanded.

"But our daughter in Kazan—" Ludmilla started, her voice rising.

"If you call her, you lead the FSB straight to her door," I snapped. "You can never contact anyone you know again. It is for your safety, and more importantly, it is for the safety of those you are leaving behind. To the world, Viktor and Ludmilla Volkov must cease to exist tonight."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the muffled sound of a neighbor's radio through the thin walls. They looked at each other, the reality of the void they were stepping into finally sinking in. They were shocked, their faces pale in the dim light, but they nodded. They understood the price of life.

An hour and fifteen minutes after I had sent the text to Santi, the front door didn't creak; the door simply opened with a clinical precision. Santiago stepped inside, moving with a predatory grace that seemed entirely out of place in the domestic squalor of the apartment. He looked tired, his jaw set in a hard line, but his eyes were sharp.

"Santi, thank fuck," I said, heading towards him and we hugged. I turned to the couple. "Viktor, Ludmilla, this is Santiago."

Santiago didn't offer a handshake. He looked down at the four medium-sized bags sitting by the door. He nudged one with the toe of his boot, testing the weight, then looked at me.

"He is the one who will get you to the border," I explained. "He will take you to whatever country you choose, provided you have no history there. You cannot go where you are known."

Santiago checked his watch, his voice low and raspy. "We’re burning daylight, Marie. If we're doing this, we're doing it now."

Despite the weight of the bags and the weariness in their bones, the Volkovs moved to pick up their luggage. There was a stiff, quiet dignity in the way they shouldered the burden of their new lives. They were proud people, and even as their world crumbled, they refused to be handled like cargo nor let us take their bags for them.

I looked at them one last time in their house. "Once you walk out that door, you don't look back. And once we part ways at the airfield, we never speak again. Do you understand?"

Viktor looked at Ludmilla and back at me. They nodded.

"We understand," he said.

"Good," I said as I stepped aside to let Santi lead the way. "Then let's go."

As we stepped out into the biting night air, I froze, and I felt the Volkovs stiffen beside me. An ambulance sat idling at the curb, its lights off but its engine humming with a low, rhythmic vibration. In this neighborhood, an ambulance usually meant death or a state-sanctioned disappearance.

"An ambulance?" I whispered, looking at Santi.

"Quickest way I could get here and back to the airport without raising suspicion," Santi said, his eyes scanning the empty street. "Sirens open doors that bribes can't always reach. Get in."

He moved to the front and climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door. I ushered the Volkovs toward the rear. We boarded the back of the vehicle, the sterile, metallic smell of the interior a stark contrast to the home they had just abandoned. The doors slammed shut, and we began to move, disappearing into the Moscow night.

It was a grueling ninety-minute ride. Santi had chosen a smaller, secondary airfield on the far outskirts of the city, one that neither of us had used in years. The distance was a gamble, but it was safer than the eyes that watched the major hubs. Inside the swaying back of the ambulance, the silence was deafening.

"Where are we going?" Ludmilla whispered, her eyes fixed on the vibrating floor. "Exactly?"

"To a place where nobody knows your face," I said, reaching into my coat. I pulled out two thick envelopes and handed them over. "Open them."

Viktor fumbled with the seal. "Aleksandr and Elena Petrov?" he read, his voice hollow.

"That is who you are now," I told them. "You are retirees from Voronezh. You’re moving to a warmer climate for your health. Memorize every detail in those folders. Your birthdays, your parents' names, the street you lived on. If you hesitate for a second at customs, it’s over."

"And the money?" Viktor asked, clutching the envelope to his chest.

"It’s already in the offshore accounts listed in the back," I replied. "It’s enough to ensure you never have to work again. Just be careful with it and don't spend it all in one place. You can’t draw attention."

When we finally rolled onto the tarmac, the jet was already idling, its engines a dull roar against the silence of the field. We stepped out into the wind, the scent of jet fuel sharp in the cold air.

Santi stepped toward me, and for a brief second, the clinical mask slipped. He pulled me into a hug, his coat rough against mine. As his chin rested on my shoulder, his voice was a ghost of a whisper in my ear. "Look at the driver, Marie. Look and see who brought us here."

"Santi—" I started, but he was already pulling away.

"Stay safe, Marie," he said, his eyes hard once more. He turned to the couple. "Come on. We're on a tight schedule."

I took a step back. I watched as Santi ushered Viktor and Ludmilla toward the stairs of the plane. Ludmilla looked back once, her face a mask of grief and gratitude, before Viktor pulled her inside. They moved quickly, shadows against the hangar lights. I stood on the cold asphalt, my hands buried in my pockets, and waited. I didn't move until the landing gear retracted and the lights of the aircraft were nothing more than a fading star in the black sky.

Only then did I walk toward the front of the ambulance. The engine was still idling, a low growl in the dark. I leaned down, peering through the driver’s side window. The man behind the wheel didn't turn his head at first, but his eyes shifted to meet mine in the side mirror.

"Long night," he said, his voice unmistakable.

He turned his head, his face finally illuminated by the dashboard glow. It was Boris.

"Hello, Marie," he said, a grim shadow of a smile touching his lips. "I figured you might need a lift."

“Boris!” I whispered before I blacked out from excruciating pain.