I circle around her slowly, studying her from every angle. The ill-fitting uniform, the stolen credentials hanging from her neck, the determination in her posture despite the fear.
She’s in so far over her head she can’t even see the surface anymore.
“The drive,” I say finally. “Hand it over.”
“No.”
“Elena—”
“No.” She meets my eyes. “That’s evidence. Proof of what you’re doing. I’m not giving it to you.”
I stop circling and stand directly in front of her. Close enough that she has to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin.
“You think you have leverage here? You think that drive gives you power?”
“I think it gives me options.”
“Your only option is cooperation. The degree of pain involved is up to you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m explaining reality.” I reach out slowly, deliberately, and grip her chin. Force her to hold my gaze. “You broke into my facility. Stole my property. Put yourself completely at my mercy. The smart play is surrender.”
Her pulse jumps under my fingers. Fear and something else, something that makes her pupils dilate despite the terror.
“I won’t give you the drive,” she whispers.
“Then I’ll take it.”
She bolts.
The moment she’s through the door, I watch her sprint down the corridor, fast and desperate. Guards move to intercept, but I wave them back. Not yet. Let her think she has a chance.
She reaches the stairwell, throws herself down the steps. I track her on my phone, watching her progress through the building security system. Third floor to second. Second to first.
She’s fast. Determined. Almost makes it to the side exit before Viktor’s team closes in.
I watch the footage as they corner her near the loading dock. Watch her try to fight, shoving past one guard, almost slipping through. Watch them catch her anyway, gentle but inexorable, hands closing around her arms.
“Bring her to me,” I say into my earpiece, calm and unhurried. “Alive.”
Chapter Seven - Elena
I run.
The corridor blurs past, fluorescent lights streaking overhead. Behind me, I hear movement—guards shifting position, voices calling out—but no one stops me.
The stairwell door crashes open under my hands. I throw myself down the stairs, taking them two at a time, hand gripping the railing to keep from falling. My borrowed shoes slip on the concrete, too big and clumsy, but I don’t slow down.
Third floor to second. My lungs burn, breath coming in gasps that echo in the enclosed space.
Second to first. I can hear them now, footsteps pounding above and below, coordinated movement closing in from both directions.
The ground floor exit appears ahead. I slam through it, emerging into a service corridor that smells like exhaust and garbage. The loading dock is to my left, side exit to my right.
Right. Toward the street, toward people, toward any chance of—
I burst through the side exit into cold night air. The alley outside is narrow, dark, lined with dumpsters and industrial debris. I run anyway, feet pounding against pavement, cutting through toward the main road where I can see traffic, lights, the promise of witnesses.
