Exhausting.
Necessary.
The room is identical to the last three: two beds with polyester spreads, a bathroom that smells of chemical lemon, and a television we never bother to turn on. I drop my bag on the desk and start sorting while Maksim locks the door and checks the window latch, repeating the process as if the second check might somehow save my life.
We have developed a rhythm out of scraps.
Not romance. Not normal.
Something functional.
Cash stacked. Laptop positioned. Burner phones unboxed. Weapons placed where they can be found in the dark without searching.
Maksim sits on the edge of the bed, his leg stretched out. The bandage is clean; I changed it before we left the last motel. I've been changing it twice daily since the cabin. The wound looks better than it did, the angry red now fading to pink, but it's not good enough for me to forget how quickly an infection can turn a survivable injury into a death sentence.
"You're favoring it more tonight," I say.
His eyes flick to mine, then away. "Long day."
A lie by omission, not meant to deceive—just to keep me from reacting. It's the same instinct that made him try to sacrifice himself on the walkway, the same instinct that still lives in him, even after the cabin and the words.
"Sit still," I say.
He complies. When I use that tone, his body listens.
I hate that part of me still knows how to pull that lever.
I clean and rewrap the wound in silence, my hands steady. He keeps his gaze on the door, as if the threat might come in while I'm working on his thigh.
When I finish, he flexes his ankle, testing it. A small wince crosses his face before he smooths it away.
"I'm fine," he says, as if those words can control his biology.
"Fine is a story," I respond. "Blood is a fact."
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. Then he leans back against the headboard, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
I open the laptop.
The machine resists for exactly ninety seconds.
Not because the encryption is brilliant, but because Boris is consistently predictable with his codes; he believes his habits are invisible. He thinks no one dares look closely enough to see the pattern.
The password is one he has used since I was a teenager—a date and a name he repeats like a superstition. I try it. The lock gives way.
Files populate the screen.
Rows of transfers. Routing numbers. Shell accounts. Amounts that repeat in the same increments—small enough to be overlooked, steady enough to become a river over the years.
This is not just theft.
It is infrastructure.
A private bloodstream coursing through the organization.
"Leverage," I say, turning the screen toward Maksim.
He leans in, as he always does when he reads something that could get us killed. His focus sharpens, eyes scanning the columns with the same intensity he uses to survey a room.
