The downstairs opened into a large room with rows of cubicle-like sections branching off. At the far end, a staircase led up to what looked like private offices. If Oskar kept anything worth using against him, it would be up there.
And I was going to find it.
I ascended silently, scanning the layout. If I were Oskar, my office would be the furthest from the stairs, more bodies between me and a bullet. I headed straight for the door at the end of the corridor, picked the lock, and slipped inside.
I did a quick sweep with my penlight, and my attention snapped to the computer.
I slid into the chair and started working the keyboard. I just needed one usable file to drop onto the USB I brought along. Something that would gut Oskar. Something worth bleeding over.
I sat there for fifteen goddamn minutes with nothing to show for it. Every file was encrypted to hell. If I grabbed something useless—or worse, something booby-trapped—I’d blow the whole op.
There were still no sightings of guards, yet my instincts screamed at me.
Then, finally, a file opened.
Then I heard a noise.
Shit! Footsteps!
They were coming from right outside the door.
“Fuck,” I breathed silently.
I shut off the monitor with a slam of my finger and dove under the desk. I folded myself into its shadows, barely.
That was when my hand brushed something.
Small. Plastic. Sharp edges.
I strained my eyes.
A memory card.
My pulse raced. Jackpot.
I slipped it into my pocket just as the office door creaked open, and someone stepped inside.
“If I find whoever the fuck broke into this joint, they’re fucking dead,” a man snarled.
“Relax. The ladies said they’d wait until we get back,” another replied. “Can’t wait to sink your cock into that brunette, huh?”
“Did you see the tits on that broad?” the first one said. “I could get lost in those babies for a week.”
Idiots. I rolled my eyes, praying they’d hurry the hell up and get out.
“Looks like nobody’s up here. Let’s check the other rooms quickly.”
They really weren’t going to check the only hideable place in the office? Dumbasses.
They were almost at the door when a phone rang.
“Hello, Mr. Mosav,” the first man answered. “Yes, we’re on location.”
At least that confirmed Oskar owned the damn place.
“Okay, boss. Got it.”
“What did he want?” the second man asked.
