The lights in the office flickered, died for a second, then came back on under the emergency generator’s yellow hum.

“Diverting now,” Marco said, typing furiously.

“We need to drain the reserve account too,” I said. “He has two million in a Cayman trust.”

“I need the secondary authorization,” Marco said.

“The code is zero-seven-one-four-eight-nine,” I said.

“It’s processing,” Marco said.

He pointed at a progress bar on the screen.

Ten percent. Twenty percent.

A shadow crossed the frosted glass of the office door.

I reached into my pocket and gripped the small brass letter opener I had taken from the desk earlier.

The door handle began to turn.

The progress bar reached forty percent.

“Hurry,” I whispered.

The door opened, and a man in a tactical vest stepped in, a rifle raised to his shoulder.

He didn’t look at us; he looked at the monitors.

It was one of Damiano’s guards, his face covered in soot.

“We have to move,” the guard said. “They’ve breached the foyer.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Miss Bennett, we have orders,” the guard said, stepping toward me.