“Ms. Sullivan,” he says, smooth as silk. “We need to talk.”
Stephanie’s chair creaks behind Caleb. I don’t have to look to know she’s watching, head snapping up like a vulture scenting blood.
My body goes still, every muscle locked. I’m holding my breath without meaning to. Then a dry swallow scratches down my throat, too loud in my own ears.
I force my eyes to flick sideways—toward the waiting area. Please, God, let there be someone else. Anyone else.
A woman in a floral blouse stands, clutching a fat envelope like it’s about to fly away. She heads straight for my window. Relief and dread collide in my chest.
“Okay,” I murmur, voice thinner than I want, “in a bit.” I drag the deposit slip closer, already bracing for the next transaction.
Caleb doesn’t argue. Doesn’t press. He just leans in close enough for me to smell cedar and citrus and something sharper beneath it. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Come to my office after this.” His tone isn’t a suggestion. Then he flicks a glance at the woman approaching, gives her a polite nod.
My hands tremble against the keyboard as I greet the woman, her chatter about utility bills barely piercing through the noise in my head. Caleb wants me in his office. Alone.
And all I can think is…this is it. The chance. The spy device burning a hole in my purse suddenly feels heavier than the entire bank vault.
Now I just have to survive this transaction, steady my hands, and somehow figure out how to sneak a weapon into the lion’s den without letting him see me sweat.
17
Anton
The apartment looks like RadioShack exploded, and no one bothered with cleanup. Cables snake across the floor in tangled nests, routers stacked on pizza boxes blink like dying Christmas lights, and a drone with one missing propeller hangs from the ceiling fan like a bat that gave up on life.
Boris kicks aside a pile of empty Red Bull cans to clear a path to the couch.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warns, as if I have the slightest desire to get tetanus from his soldering iron collection.
I lower myself into a chair that may or may not have been rescued from a dumpster.
“How you survive in here, I’ll never understand.”
He grins, plopping down in front of six monitors. “Genius immunity.”
More like cockroach immunity.
On-screen, the feed from the watch comes alive—audio first. Mary’s voice. Nervous, careful, pitched just high enough that I know she’s trying to sound professional.
“…of course, Mrs. Calder, if you’d like me to walk you through the savings options, we can—yes, absolutely.”
Her rhythm’s steadier than the last time. Less stammer, more flow. She’s getting used to playing banker again. Still, I can hear the nerves—the tiny pause before she says a client’s name, the sharp little inhale she doesn’t think anyone notices.
I do.
Boris slurps something from a cup that I pray isn’t three-day-old ramen.
“She’s not bad.”
Not bad. He makes it sound like she’s auditioning for community theater. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, tuning everything else out.
Mary finishes her spiel, papers shuffle, and then… quiet. For a long second, only the static of the room.
Then her whisper, low, shaky but determined:“I’m going to try it now.”
My chest goes tight.
