Adrian plugged his phone into the terminal. He initiated the transfer. The screen flashed. Upload to FBI and Interpol servers. Zero percent complete. Bang. The door buckled. Ten percent complete. Bang. The hinges screamed. Twenty percent complete. “They’re coming in,” Sarah shouted. But it was not just the door opening. A vent high on the wall suddenly kicked open. A canister dropped in. Smoke. “Gas,” Adrian choked. Sarah ran to him. “The upload. It’s at fifty percent.” The door finally gave way with a deafening crash. Through the smoke, silhouettes of men in tactical gear emerged. And behind them, walking calmly through the gas as if he owned the place, was a man in a white suit. He held a handkerchief to his nose. Victor Kane. He looked at Adrian. And then he looked at Sarah. “So,” Kane said, his voice smooth and cold, “this is the waitress who cost me forty billion dollars. I must say, you’re prettier than the photos.” He raised a silver pistol and pointed it directly at Sarah’s heart. “Cancel the upload, Adrian,” Kane commanded, “or the girl dies first.”
Adrian’s finger hovered over the abort key. He looked at Sarah. She was coughing, eyes watering, but she shook her head. “Don’t do it.” “I’m waiting,” Kane smiled. He cocked the hammer. The hum of the server banks was the only sound in the room, a low electric drone that underscored the terrifying silence of the standoff. The percentage bar on the screen behind Adrian blinked mockingly. Fifty-two percent. Fifty-three percent. Victor Kane stood with the relaxed posture of a man who had already won. The silver pistol in his hand was steady, aimed directly at the center of Sarah’s chest. “I don’t have all night, Adrian,” Kane said, checking his watch with his free hand. “The gas is clearing. My cleanup crew is on the way. Abort the upload, or the waitress becomes a statistic.”
Adrian’s hand hovered over the keyboard. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked at Sarah, his eyes communicating a desperate apology. He could not let her die. Not after she had risked everything for him. “Don’t do it, Adrian,” Sarah said, her voice shaking but firm. “If you stop the upload, he kills us both anyway. He can’t leave witnesses.” “Smart girl,” Kane sneered. “But incorrect. You die. Adrian dies later, in a tragic suicide caused by the grief of losing his company. It’s already scripted.”
Behind Kane, the three tactical mercenaries shifted their weight. They were masked, hulking figures who had not spoken a word of English. They were professionals, hired muscle brought in for the dirty work. One of the mercenaries, the largest of the three, leaned slightly toward the other and whispered something through his comm system. It was faint, muffled by the gas mask, but in the acoustic echo of the concrete basement, Sarah heard it. It was not English. It was not German. It was a Slavic dialect. Serbian. When we get the signal, kill the old man. Take the drives.