I knew the routing codes, the account prefixes, and the secondary authorization key.

My father had made me memorize those sequences when I was a teenager, telling me they were security codes for his accounting firm.

They were not security codes.

They were the keys to the entire financial network of the rival syndicate that had kept my family in debt for a decade.

“If I don’t enter the key,” I said, “they will take her.”

“If you enter it,” Roman said, “you hand them the leverage.”

He took his hand off his gun and placed it gently over mine.

His palm was rough, calloused, and completely steady.

“We can send my team in Switzerland,” he said. “They are twenty minutes away.”

“Twenty minutes is too long,” I said. “The sedan is already there.”

The phone vibrated again in my hand.

A text message appeared over the live video feed.

*Enter the secondary key, or she leaves the clinic in the back of the car.*

My chest felt tight, the air in the room suddenly hot and stagnant.

“I am going to call them,” I said.