The second man, older and less interested, tugs on his companion’s sleeve. “Leave her. We have the meeting in ten minutes.”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
“You’ve never seen half the cleaning staff. Come on.”
They hesitate. I can feel their eyes on my back, evaluating, deciding whether I’m worth the trouble of verification. My hand stays steady on the spray bottle but my pulse hammers against my throat.
Finally, the older one wins. “Fine, but lock up when you’re done.”
“Will do.”
They leave, their conversation resuming as they walk away. I wait until their footsteps fade completely before exhaling the breath I’ve been holding.
Too close. Way too close.
I need to leave. Now. Forget the complete transfer, forget checking for additional files. I have enough to prove the connection between Sharov’s operations and my family’s collapse. Enough to take to authorities or journalists or anyone who might actually care.
I gather my supplies, arrange the cart, and head for the door.
The corridor is empty. I move quickly now, abandoning the pretense of leisurely cleaning. The service elevator is at the end of the hall. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Almost there.
The atmosphere changes before I understand why.
Movement slows throughout the building, like everyone suddenly became aware of something I haven’t noticed yet. An employee hurrying past me stops, straightens his tie, shifts his posture. Guards at the far end of the corridor snap to attention, hands moving to earpieces.
Then I hear it. A voice carrying down the hallway, speaking rapid Russian that I only partly understand. I recognize the tone—authority that doesn’t need to be loud to command attention.
I recognize the voice itself. Aleksandr Sharov. Here. Now. In this building at nearly midnight when he has no reason to be here except—
Except he does have a reason. This is his operation. His hub. Of course he comes here, probably unannounced to keep everyone sharp and afraid.
I’m fifteen meters from the elevator with nowhere to hide.
I keep walking, head down, pushing the cart like nothing is wrong. Maybe he won’t notice. Maybe he’s focused on whatever brought him here at this hour. Maybe I can slip past before—
“Stop.”
The single word freezes everyone in the corridor. Including me.
I don’t turn around. Don’t react. Just stop pushing the cart and stand there, hoping against hope that he’s talking to someone else, that this is coincidence, that I can still—
“You. Cleaning staff. Turn around.”
His voice is closer now. How is it closer? How did he move that fast without me hearing?
I have two choices. Run and confirm his suspicion. Or turn around and lie better than I’ve ever lied in my life.
I turn around.
Aleksandr Sharov stands ten meters away, surrounded by men in dark suits who radiate violence barely contained. He’s dressed for business—charcoal suit, no tie, top button undone like he’s been working late. His hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look more dangerous than polished.
Recognition flashes across his face immediately. Not confusion. Not curiosity. Instant, certain recognition.
He knows exactly who I am.
The moment stretches, suspended in terrible clarity. I see the calculation behind his eyes, the rapid processing of how I’m here, why I’m here, what this means. I watch understanding settle into something darker and more dangerous.
This wasn’t clever. This was suicidal.
