Cat and Mouse
The chill of a Russian winter settled over Red Square like a heavy, frostbitten blanket, the air sharp with the scent of snow and history. Ava zipped up her Moncler jacket, a gift from friends back in the U.S., and took in the sheer grandeur of the scene before her. The iconic, candy-colored domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral gleamed against the overcast sky, its architecture a relic of Ivan the Terrible’s reign—both beautiful and ominous in equal measure. Just beyond, Lenin’s Mausoleum stood like a stark granite sentinel, its perpetual queue of silent, shuffling visitors a reminder of the ghost of communism still lingering over Moscow. To her left, the Kremlin’s red-bricked walls loomed, a fortress of power dating back to the 15th century.
Ava wasn’t here for sightseeing.
This was her first live training mission—her first real game of “Cat and Mouse.”
The Order’s philosophy was simple: If you couldn’t lose your tail in broad daylight, you weren’t ready for the shadows.
She was the Mouse. Judd was the Cat.
Red Square was one of the most famous plazas in the world—a vast expanse bordered by some of the most recognizable landmarks in Russia. To her left, the Kremlin loomed, an impenetrable fortress of thick red-brick walls, its towers capped with gleaming rubies. Straight ahead stood Lenin’s Mausoleum, the stark marble tomb where the embalmed body of the Soviet leader lay in eternal display, flanked by unsmiling guards in thick woolen coats.
But it was St. Basil’s Cathedral that stole Ava’s breath.
It stood at the far end of the square like something out of a fairy tale, its candy-colored domes twisting into the sky in surreal spirals of green, red, and gold. Built in the 16th century on the orders of Ivan the Terrible, it was unlike any church in the world, more a fever dream than a structure, its chaotic beauty somehow balanced by a strange symmetry. Legend had it that Ivan had the architects blinded so they could never create anything as magnificent again.
Ava zipped up her Moncler jacket—a gift from friends back in the U.S.—and moved forward with purpose, her boots clicking against the stone. She weaved through the crowd of tourists snapping pictures of the cathedral, using their slow movements to break Judd’s line of sight.
At this very moment, he was somewhere in the crowd, watching. She knew it. He had left Cindy to enjoy her coffee at Restaurant Laduree on Nikolskaya Street, and had been tailing her ever since she slipped out of GUM, the grand department store lining the square’s eastern edge, blending effortlessly with high-end shoppers. He was good—one of the best. But Cindy had trained her, and that gave Ava an edge.
Ava quickened her pace, her boots crunching against the frozen pavement. She wove through clusters of bundled-up tourists, their heavy coats and thick scarves the perfect camouflage. She needed to make her fake drop—place a marker in the field as though it were the real thing. The best place for it? Hiding in plain sight.
Lenin’s Mausoleum.
She moved toward the stone structure, its dark, polished surface reflecting the faint glow of the winter sun. A group of Chinese tourists spilled from a large tour bus, cameras at the ready. Perfect. Ava melted into their ranks, slipping between them like a ghost in a storm.
Judd, meanwhile, was watching from across the square, tying the laces on his red wing boots while subtly tracking her through the press of bodies. He’d picked her up fifteen minutes prior, moving like a shadow as she maneuvered toward the mausoleum. She was good. But not good enough.
Then, suddenly—she was gone.
Judd straightened, eyes scanning. His heart kicked into overdrive. Where the hell did she go? He swore under his breath. Ava was fast, but she shouldn’t have been able to vanish.
Then it hit him.
She’d changed coats.
Judd spotted a dark-haired figure moving away from the crowd, her posture slightly different, her pace just a bit too steady. He smirked. Clever. But not clever enough. He surged forward, slipping through the masses, weaving between chattering tourists, sidestepping a babushka selling trinkets. His hand reached out and landed on the shoulder of his target.
“Got you, you little fox,” he murmured with satisfaction.
Except—when the girl turned, her wide, startled eyes locked onto his, and she was most definitely not Ava.
A mortified gasp. Then yelling. In Mandarin.
Her parents wheeled around, their tour guide joining the fray, all three of them berating him in rapid, angry bursts. Judd backed up, hands raised. “Sorry—mistaken identity—”
It was too late. The scene was spiraling. A uniformed guard turned his head. Judd knew he had seconds before things escalated. He disappeared into the crowd.
Ava, watching from a distance, smirked.
Judd—distracted.
Mission—accomplished.
She made her way toward Lenin’s tomb, crouching behind a section of the granite wall and marking a small white chalk triangle in the corner. A simple signal to anyone in The Order who would later confirm the drop.
Ava: 1. Judd: 0.
She turned toward the Monument to General Zhukov, where Cindy would be waiting to debrief. The thrill of victory hummed through her veins. She had done it. She had lost Judd. She had won.
And then—
She was on the ground.
A sharp shove, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. She hit the frozen pavement, her gloved hands breaking the fall.
A man in an old East German overcoat crouched beside her, murmuring an apology in Russian as he helped her up.
Ava barely registered the words. Her mind screamed at her to react, to counter, but the stranger was gone before she could process it—disappearing into the crowd like mist in the winter air.
Something was in her hand.
A folded note.
Ava’s pulse hammered as she uncurled her fingers, revealing a hastily scrawled message.
“Beware the Black Tide. Be careful. Stay away.”
Her training mission had just become something else entirely.
