With her access to the bank, her knowledge of the accounts, her innocent face that no one would suspect, she could get me inside information that would take my crew months to gather.
She could help me take down Timofey’s operation before it destroys Igor’s empire.
She could be the key to everything.
If she lives long enough.
I grab my phone, dial Dima. He picks up on the first ring.
“She ran,” I say without preamble.
Silence. Then: “How far?”
“Building exit. Maybe three minutes ago.”
“I’ll track her.”
“Quietly. Don’t approach unless she’s about to die.”
“Copy.”
I hang up, look at the papers again.
Maybe I’m not losing my mind after all.
Maybe this isn’t about some misplaced protective instinct or whatever the hell’s been eating at me since I pulled her unconscious body against my chest.
Maybe this is strategy.
Pure, cold, calculated strategy.
I need her alive because she’s useful.
Because she’s access.
Because she’s the perfect little spy who doesn’t even know she’s playing the game.
I fold the papers, put them back in her purse.
The lasagna’s getting cold, but I grab a fork anyway. Take a bite.
It tastes like ash.
But I keep eating.
Because this is about business now.
Nothing else.
My phone vibrates. Text from Boris.
Picked the lock. Took longer than usual. This girl has three deadbolts on a door worth fifty bucks.
I almost smile. Almost.
Another text.
Boris: Jesus Christ, Anton. You see her fridge? Energy drinks and yogurt cups from 2019. I found bills stacked like Jenga blocks. This woman is broke as shit.
