The air was freezing, biting through my thin jacket.

We moved quickly up the wide stone steps of the bank.

The heavy glass doors were locked from the inside.

Roman nodded to one of his men, a burly guard named Viktor.

Viktor pulled a heavy steel pry bar from under his coat and jammed it between the doors.

With a loud crack, the lock shattered, and the doors swung open.

An alarm began to chime, a high-pitched, rhythmic beep that echoed through the marble lobby.

We stepped inside, our wet boots squeaking on the polished floor.

The lobby was vast, with high ceilings and brass teller cages.

At the far end of the room, near the private offices, a man in a blue security uniform turned around.

It was Elias.

He had his hand on his holster, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Don’t do it, Elias,” Roman said, his voice echoing in the empty lobby.

Elias froze, his fingers twitching near his gun.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Elias said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice,” Roman said, stepping forward.