While Voronov continues with his speech, full of self-promotion and references to his political connections, we move slowly toward the perimeter of the room. When all the guests raise their glasses in a toast, we take advantage to slip away down a side hallway.
The contrast between the bustle of the party and the silence of the hallway is immediate. We advance quickly, the sound of our heels muffled by the thick carpet. And when we turn a corner, we come face to face with a security guard.
Before he can react, Sabina extends her hand toward him. A thin bluish mist emerges from her fingers and wraps around the man's head and his gaze loses focus.
“Sleep,” she orders in a whisper.
The guard collapses like a rag doll and between the two of us, we drag him to a nearby closet and lock him inside.
“Wow, that was impressive,” I admit as we continue toward Voronov's bedroom. “What exactly did you do to him? Can I do that too?”
“Mental fog,” the siren explains. “A useful trick for occasions like this. He'll wake up in half an hour with a terrible headache, but with no memory of having seen us.”
When we reach the hallway leading to the master bedroom, we find another security guard stationed in front of the door, but this one with a visible weapon on his belt.
“More mental fog?”
Sabina shakes her head.
“Too far away for it to be effective. We need another plan.”
Suddenly, our earpieces come to life.
“I have an idea,” Sylara's voice announces. “Stay hidden.”
A few minutes later, Sylara appears walking confidently down the hallway. She approaches the guard and says something in his ear, pointing toward Voronov's bedroom.
The guard hesitates for an instant, looks at her again and smiles, shaking his head.
“I'll be back in half an hour,” he announces, walking away with a grin from ear to ear.
As soon as he disappears, Sylara signals us to approach.
“What the hell did you tell him?” I ask, confused.
“That I was waiting for Voronov to fuck,” she responds, shrugging, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Now I understand the guard's silly smile.
The master bedroom brings back very bad memories of that massage session that could have ended very badly. Opulent, overdone with terrible taste, with a giant bed in the middle.
Sylara heads straight to the wall where the safe is hidden. With precision, she presses the exact spot and the panel slides open, revealing the metal box.
“It's your turn,” she tells me, stepping aside.
I approach, trying to visualize Cherie's instructions. It's a high-security model, with triple biometric lock and rotating numeric code. With trembling fingers, I insert the sequence we memorized and place the bypass device on the fingerprint scanner.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I murmur as the numbers flash on the small screen.
The first lock disengages with a soft click. Then the second. But when I get to the third, something goes wrong. The mechanism jams, refusing to complete the sequence.
“Shit,” I groan, trying again. “It's not working.”
“What's happening?” Sabina asks, looking nervously toward the door.
“The last bolt is stuck. It must have some kind of additional security mechanism that Cherie hadn't counted on. We're screwed.”
Sylara approaches to examine the problem, but after several failed attempts, she also gives up.
“Five minutes,” she warns, checking her watch.
