The second I step into the hallway, I spot the guard walking off. The moment he disappears around the corner, I make for Kirill’s office and slip inside, easing the door shut behind me.
For one beat, I just stand there with my head tilted, listening for footsteps, but nothing comes. And that’s when I get to work.
My mouth goes dry as I kneel and unzip the bag, pulling the tools out, hoping my hands don’t shake and I don’t drop anything and make noise. A slim drill. Thin latex gloves. A stethoscope to help me work out the lock and identify the combination. A borescope, its tiny camera attached to a narrow wire I’ll feed through a hole small enough not to be noticed unless someone knows exactly where to look.
I slide on the gloves and drill a thin hole near the top, the whine of the bit deafening in the quiet room, even though I know it isn’t nearly loud enough to carry. Then I pick up the borescope and feed it in carefully, inch by inch, until the view on my phone finally sharpens and the internal mechanism comes into view.
My pulse kicks harder, but I force myself to slow down, to think, to trust what I know.
I study the wheels, then reach for the dial and begin turning it with measured movements, watching for the subtle shifts inside the lock.
Every pass is slow. Every correction slower.
When I think I have the first number, I test it, then keep going, working through the sequence one position at a time.
The further I get, the tighter every muscle in my body draws. One number. Then the next.
By the time I reach the last one, my whole body is rigid with tension.
I try that one too, another click sounding off. Like the metal gives a little.
I go completely still. There’s no way it was that easy.
I carefully set the stethoscope down and slide the camera back out, packing everything away into the tote as quietly as I can. When my hand closes around the handle, I pause again, straining to hear anything out in the hall. Still nothing.
I turn the handle slowly. At first, it resists, and my stomach drops. But I know I was careful. I know I had the right combination. For one terrible second, I’m sure I’ve screwed it up anyway, that I’ve done all this for nothing.
I stiffen my grip, force myself to breathe, and try again.
This time…something gives, and the handle moves.
My eyes close, and I silently thank whoever watches over criminals, because I really needed that to work.
When I ease the door open, I find a deep safe lined with neatly stacked folders. A lot of them. There are a few sealed envelopes tucked off to one side, a couple of flash drives, but no ledger. Not that I can see.
If I did all of this for nothing, I’m going to lose my mind.
If he has another safe, I don’t know where it could be, nor will I have the guts to try this again. Once is enough.
The ledger has to be here. If it’s that valuable, maybe it’s hidden inside one of these folders.
I grab the first one and flip it open, skimming page after page of contracts with company names I couldn’t care less about. Islide it back exactly where I found it and pull out the next manila folder. More paperwork. More documents stamped across the top in elegant script that readsMarinov Holdings.
My hands shake while my mind races against an invisible clock. The longer I stay in here, the greater the chance I get caught.
I move through another stack, and that’s when I see it, shoved deep into the back corner.
A dark leather book. Worn at the edges.
My heart stops. It looks almost exactly like the one Eli described.
I open it just enough to check, and there they are: names, numbers, payments, account information, and coded notations marked with letters and symbols I don’t understand.
This is it. This has to be what he wants.
My grip tightens around the leather cover. If I take it, everything changes.
Kirill will know it’s gone. Sooner or later, he’ll figure out it was me. And the second that happens, whatever this is between us—whatever we might have had—will be over.
