Roman walked over to the window and looked out at the street below.

“You have a good memory,” Roman said, his back to me.

“I do,” I said.

“Did you get all of them?”

“Yes,” I said.

He turned around.

The light from the corridor caught the edge of his jaw.

“Then we need to leave,” Roman said.

“The police will be here in five minutes.”

“And then?” I asked.

He walked over to me and stopped, only inches away.

He reached out and took my hand.

His palm was warm, and his grip was firm.

“Then we find out who else has the numbers,” Roman said.

Before I could ask him what he meant, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He didn’t answer it.

Instead, he looked down at the screen.

A single message was displayed on the lock screen.

The sender was listed only as an unknown number.

The message read: *The Cayman account has just been cleared.*

I stared at the screen.

The routing number I had just burned, the one I had memorized, was supposed to be secret.