We park under the broken camera at the rear. Snow crunches under boots when we get out. I send two men to cover the corner and the line of dumpsters. Vlad takes point by the service door.I stand to his right. Raina stays between me and the wall, close enough that I can grab her if something jumps.
Vlad tests the handle. It’s unlocked.
“He wants a welcome,” Vlad says quietly.
“Open, slow,” I say.
He pushes the door. No alarm, no rush of air, no shout. The corridor inside is lit by low lamps. White tile on the floor, light green paint on the walls, lockers and hooks on one side. No voices. No steam. No staff.
We move in fast and low, weapons up. The door shuts behind us. I note the hinges, the frame, the deadbolt plate. No wires, no fresh marks.
“Clear left,” I whisper.
The men sweep the corridor toward the laundry and staff showers. Empty rooms, open doors, nothing but folded towels and storage racks. The front desk area shows on a feed at the end of the hall. Four monitors, one for each public area, sit on a shelf. All of them are dark.
Raina taps the control panel with the side of her hand. “Power to these is cut,” she says. “He is running his own cameras now.”
“Garage access?” I ask.
“Through here,” Vlad says, pointing to the stairs at the end. “Two levels down to the parking. Cellar entrance is near the ramps.”
We move down the stairs, fast but not careless. The scent changes as we descend. Less soap, more oil and damp concrete. On level one, I send two men to sweep the parked cars and the pillar rows. No engines ping, no doors open. All license platesmatch the list we pulled when we entered the block. No new guests.
The red exit signs cast a dull light. A line of storage cages runs along one wall. At the far end, a door with a fresh lock waits. Heavy industrial steel, keypad mounted above the handle, small camera bubble over the frame. “That’s new,” Raina says.
Kirill checks the keypad. “Off the main power,” he says. “The numbers are lit. Someone fed this from a separate line too. No heat behind the door on thermal.”
I look at Raina. She nods once.
“This is it,” she says.
I study the frame, the hinges, the floor. I check the ceiling corners. No visible charges, no fragmentation net, no tripwire. Still, I do not give him the gift of my body in the doorway.
“Vlad,” I say, “bring the mirror.”
He pulls a thin pole with a round mirror from his pack, slides it under the door. He rotates it, watching the reflection, reading the space under the gap.
“Floor is clear,” he says. “No wires, no blocks. I see one table leg, center. No movement.”
“Everyone back,” I say. “I open. I stand to the side. If something moves in that room that is not a table, you shoot.”
They shift position without question. Raina is behind a column now, angle through the door clear. Her pistol is out, hands steady.
I key in the code Mikhail gave me. It’s a date, an old one from the wars. It should bother me that the Courier uses my history for his locks, but all it does is confirm he’s still my problem.
The keypad beeps green. The lock clicks. I pull the handle and yank the door open, then step to the side and hold my breath.
Nothing comes out. No gas, no blast. No movement.
We clear the room in a tight pattern. It’s empty. Concrete floor, bare walls, exposed pipes in the ceiling. A single table stands in the center. On it sits a black box and a small camera set on a tripod, lens facing the door. No chairs, no ropes, no drains.
Raina walks to the table while Vlad covers the far corner.
“He wants the camera to see whoever opens the box,” she says.
“He already saw,” I answer. “He has our angles from the hall. This is theater now.”
Kirill checks the walls. “No vents open into this room,” he says. “No ducts cut. If there is gas, it comes from the main line, not here.”
