Chapter 3: Five Minutes

Nine a.m. Private room.

Fourteen people at the table.

Me at the wall, with a coffee pot and a stack of napkins, because Simone made sure everyone knew exactly what I was for.

"That's Kelly," she'd said on the way in, loud, warm, cruel. "She does our dishes. Don't mind her."

One of Volkov's lawyers had actually laughed.

The Fulton Street blueprints went up on the wall and my whole body reacted before my brain did — that old animal lean toward the map, that itch in my fingers.

I made myself look at the carpet.

Simone presented beautifully. She's good at this part. Voice like a news anchor. Slides that looked like a real estate brochure.

Then Nikolai Volkov started asking questions.

"You've listed a four-minute operation."

"Correct."

"Six crews told me this was impossible. You're telling me four minutes."

"Six crews were conservative."

"Or six crews were honest." He tapped the table once. "Explain the cold room."

Simone didn't blink. "The hostage is held in a secured room behind the boiler. We'll clear it during entry."

"Clear it."

"Yes."

"With the alarm on the door."

"We cut the alarm from the panel."

"The Dervishi panel is a dummy. The real trigger is a pressure plate under the threshold. Everyone who's ever done business with them knows that." His voice didn't rise. That was the worst part. "So. Your men step on the plate. The man inside hears it. What does he do?"

Silence.

Three seconds. Four.

I have watched people lose an entire reputation in four seconds. It doesn't sound like anything. It's just a person breathing wrong.

"He'd... respond," Simone said.

"Respond how?"

"...Predominantly, he'd try to hold position."

"Predominantly." Volkov leaned back. "My sister's head is not predominantly important to me."

Sal jumped in. "Mr. Volkov, Simone is the finest operator this family—"

"Don Moretti, I've read your books. You need my port more than you need your pride, so please stop talking."

Sal stopped talking.

Volkov looked back at Simone. "I'll ask once more. What's your fallback if the man inside has ninety seconds and a loaded gun?"

"We would... adapt on entry."

"To what?"

"That would depend on the room."

"You don't have one." He said it flatly. "You have a beautiful slide deck and no plan for the only thing that's actually going to happen in that building."

He stood and buttoned his coat.

"We're done. The Volkovs withdraw. I'll bury my sister myself."

Sal stood too fast and knocked his water over. "Mr. Volkov—"

"They'll kill her the day your money stops moving," Chicago said quietly from the speaker. "You don't have a week. You have maybe three days."

And that sentence went through me like a blade.

Three days.

I know exactly what three days looks like. I know what it looks like when someone's time runs out at 4:39 in the morning while your hands are still pressed into their body.

Two voices in my head.

Not your business. You're the dish girl. You have a small quiet life and it doesn't hurt anymore.

It always hurt. You just stopped calling it that.

Volkov was three steps from the door.

The coffee pot was still in my hand.

"Mr. Volkov."

My voice came out steady. It surprised me more than anyone.

Fourteen heads turned.

Simone's face went white, then red. "Kelly—"

"Give me five minutes," I said.

The room made a sound. Someone laughed. Sal said, "Get her out of here—"

"She's holding a coffee pot," Simone hissed. "Mr. Volkov, I apologize—"

Nikolai Volkov didn't look at Simone.

He turned around fully and looked at me, and what was in his face was not surprise.

It was recognition. Like a man confirming a suspicion he'd carried since yesterday at 8:59 p.m., when he watched a woman in a stained apron read a file in nine seconds and go pale.