Chapter 19: ANASTASIA
Gordon's car isn't in the driveway. Business trip to Harrisburg—two days. Carrie mentioned it during our planning session, relief evident in her voice. One less complication.
Lucas knocks. The door opens immediately. Carrie stands there, still in her suburban uniform—jeans, sweater, hair pulled back. But her eyes are different. Harder. Older.
"How much do you know?" she asks.
"Enough," Lucas says.
She steps aside. We enter. She closes the door, locks it, checks the street through the window. Professional awareness. Not a housewife's caution. A fugitive's habit.
"Deva's at a friend's house," she says. "We have two hours."
We follow her to the kitchen. She doesn't sit. Just leans against the counter, arms crossed. Defensive posture. Preparing for judgment.
"Anastasia Hisbauch," I say. Not a question.
The mask fractures. Just for a second. Then she nods.
"How long have you known?"
"Two days. Since the intruder." Lucas pulls out a chair. Sits. "We ran his prints. Followed the connections."
"To my father." Her voice is flat. "And you came here anyway. Why?"
"Because I love you," Lucas says simply. "I've always loved you."
She closes her eyes. "You loved Ana. The woman from fifteen years ago. I'm not her anymore."
"You're still you."
"Am I?" She opens her eyes. "That woman was reckless. Selfish. She used you as cover to escape. Let you go to prison for her. She was a coward."
"She was surviving," I say.
Carrie looks at me. Really looks. "You're not what you seem either."
"No."
"But you're protecting me. Why?"
"Because Lucas is mine. Which makes you mine by extension." I keep my tone neutral. "And I protect what's mine."
She almost laughs. "A deputy who talks like a criminal. Lucas, you pick interesting partners."
"I didn't pick him. He picked me." Lucas's voice is gentle. "Or we picked each other. Still figuring it out."
Carrie starts making coffee. The action is automatic—hands moving through familiar ritual while her mind processes. The pot gurgles. She pours three cups. Doesn't ask how we take it. Just serves it black and strong.
I accept mine. Too hot. I drink anyway.
"My father won't stop," she says. "You understand that? He's searched for fifteen years. Spent millions. Destroyed lives. All to find me."
"We understand," Lucas says.
"Do you?" She sits finally. "He's not just a crime lord. He's obsessed. I'm his heir. His legacy. The daughter who rejected everything he built." She wraps her hands around her cup. "He won't negotiate. Won't compromise. He'll send as many men as it takes. And when they fail, he'll come himself."
"Let him come," I say.
She stares at me. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying. Your father is dangerous. Powerful. Patient." I set down my cup. "But he's also human. Humans make mistakes. Can be beaten."
"Not him."
"Everyone." I lean forward. "Tell me about the diamonds."
She blinks. Surprise. "How did you—"
"You and Lucas pulled a heist. Diamonds. Ten million worth." I watched her reaction. "You used the score to disappear. Build this life. But your father wants them back."
"He wants me back," she corrects. "The diamonds are secondary."
"Are they?" I challenge. "Ten million in stolen property. His property, I'm guessing. The embarrassment of being robbed by his own daughter. That's not just about love. That's about pride."
Carrie's jaw tightens. "You're sharper than you look."
"Where are the diamonds?"
"Safe."
"How safe?"
"Safe enough that my father hasn't found them in fifteen years." She stands. Paces. "They're my insurance. My leverage. As long as I have them, I have value beyond just being his daughter."
Lucas's expression shifts. "You're planning to bargain?"
"If I have to. If there's no other way." She looks at him. "I won't let them take me. I won't let my father destroy what I've built. Gordon, Deva—they're real. They're good. They deserve protection."
"They'll get it," Lucas promises. "From all of us."
She looks between us. Two deputies offering protection against impossible odds. "You're both insane."
"Probably," I agree. "But we're committed. So you need to tell us everything. Your father's methods. His weaknesses. How he thinks."
"He doesn't have weaknesses."
"Everyone does."
Carrie sits again. Drinks her coffee. Then starts talking.
She tells us about growing up in Rabbit's world. The training—languages, combat, tactics. Being groomed to run an empire. The constant tests. The impossible standards. The knowledge that love was conditional on loyalty.
She tells us about meeting Lucas. The heist plan. Seeing an opportunity to escape. Using the diamonds and the arrest as cover.
"I knew you'd protect me," she says to Lucas. "Even from prison. I knew you'd never give me up."
"I didn't."
"I know. And I'm sorry. For using you. For leaving you there. For building this life while you were locked away."
"Don't be." Lucas's voice is rough. "You survived. That's what matters."
"Is it?" She looks at her coffee. "I lied to a good man. Married him under false pretenses. Had a child who doesn't know who her mother really is. Some days I don't know if I escaped or just built a prettier prison."
The vulnerability is real. Raw. This isn't Anastasia the crime princess or Carrie the soccer mom. This is a woman caught between identities. Neither fully real. Both necessary.
"Your father's assault team," I say, pulling us back to immediate danger. "What can you tell us about their tactics?"
She shifts gears. Professional again. "He'll send overwhelming force. Probably three teams—assault, support, extraction. The assault team secures me. Support handles resistance. Extraction provides transport and cover."
"Numbers?"
"Twenty minimum. Probably thirty for a target this important."
Lucas and I exchange glances. Thirty professional killers against two deputies, a hacker, and a bartender.
"We're outnumbered," Lucas says.
"Significantly." Carrie's voice is steady. "Which is why my father always wins. He doesn't take chances. He stacks the deck until failure is impossible."
"Then we change the game," I say. "Make the deck irrelevant."
"How?"
"I'm working on it."
My phone buzzes. Text from Job: Pavel made contact. Rabbit's dispatching full team. ETA 48 hours. Intercept impossible—too many routes. You'll have to fight.
I show Lucas and Carrie.
"Two days," Lucas says.
"Less by the time they arrive and set up." I pocket my phone. "We need to evacuate Carrie. Get her somewhere Rabbit's team can't reach easily."
"No," Carrie says.
"Excuse me?"
"If I run, they'll chase. That's what they expect. What they're prepared for." She stands. "But if I stay, if I'm here when they come—I can be part of the defense. I know their tactics. I know how my father thinks."
"You're also their objective," I point out. "If you're in the fight, you're at risk."
"I'm at risk everywhere. At least here, I can contribute."
Lucas looks torn. "Ana—"
"Carrie. My name is Carrie now." She takes his hand. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. Both of you. But I won't hide while you fight for me. That's not who I am. Not who I was. Not who I'm trying to be."
I study her. The determination is real. So is the fear underneath. But she's right—running plays into Rabbit's hands. Staying gives us options.
"Okay," I say. "You stay. But you follow our lead. Lucas and I run the defense. You provide intelligence and backup. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
We plan through the night. Carrie draws maps of her father's typical assault patterns. Lucas contributes law enforcement tactical knowledge. I add Criminal Instinct-informed observations about defensive positions in Banshee.
By 3 AM, we have something. Incomplete. Risky. But something.
Carrie walks us to the door. "Thank you. For believing me. For protecting me."
"We haven't protected you yet," Lucas says.
"You came back. After everything. That's protection enough." She touches his face. "Be careful. Both of you."
We leave. Drive in silence back toward town.
"I should have told you about her earlier," Lucas finally says.
"You told me enough."
"Do you trust her?"
I consider the question. Trust is complicated. Carrie is a fugitive, a criminal, a woman who's lied for fifteen years. But she's also desperate, cornered, fighting for the life she built.
"I trust she wants to survive," I say. "That's enough to work with."
Lucas nods. "Aligned interests."
"Exactly."
We pull up to The Forge. The bar is closed—4 AM. The town sleeps. Unaware that in forty-eight hours, war is coming to their streets.
I should tell someone. Warn the sheriff's department. Call in state police. Do something official.
But I can't. Because explaining why thirty Ukrainian mobsters are descending on Banshee requires explaining Carrie. Which exposes Gordon and Deva. Which destroys everything.
So we handle it ourselves. Two fake deputies and a crime lord's daughter against an army.
The math is terrible.
But the wolf doesn't care about math.
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