I am in the building.
The hallway is chaos. Emergency lights are flickering red. Guests are screaming in the distance.
I sprint toward the vault level.
I turn the corner and see her.
Ivy is running down the corridor, barefoot—she must have kicked off the boots to run faster. She is holding the bloody knife.
Behind her, three guards are chasing her, flashlights cutting through the gloom.
"Drop her!" one of them yells.
He raises his rifle.
I don't hesitate. I don't slow down.
I raise the HK416.
Thwip-thwip. Thwip-thwip.
I drop the first two guards with double taps to the head. They crumple mid-stride.
The third guard spins toward me.
I don't shoot him. I’m out of ammo in the mag.
I use the rifle as a battering ram. I slam the stock into his face with enough force to shatter every bone in his skull. He goes down.
I stand there, chest heaving, standing over the bodies.
Ivy skids to a halt ten feet away. She looks at me. She looks at the dead men. She looks at the knife in her hand.
"Silas," she gasps.
"Did you get it?" I ask, walking toward her. "Did you authenticate the fake?"
"Yes," she says, trembling. "It’s done. The money...?"
"It’s ours," I say. "Fifty million. It’s in Panama."
I reach her. I grab her face, checking her for injuries.
"He touched you," I snarl, wiping a speck of Nikolai’s blood from her forehead. "He put his hands on you."
"I cut him," she whispers, a savage pride lighting up her eyes. "I cut him deep, Silas. I saw the blood."
"Good girl."
I kiss her hard, a kiss of adrenaline and victory.
"Now we run."
I grab her hand. We sprint toward the fire exit.
As we burst out into the cool night air of the alley, the sirens start to wail in the distance.
We jump into the Bronco (which Luca brought around). I floor it, tires screeching as we peel away into the city traffic.
