“Right here,” she said, tapping her briefcase. “And three digital backups on encrypted drives.”

We spent the rest of the night in the glow of my tablet, cross-referencing the bank routings.

Outside, the Minneapolis wind whipped the snow against the glass in steady, rhythmic slaps.

The morning brought a grey, freezing dawn that seemed to hover over the city.

The streets below my penthouse were buried under six inches of fresh, heavy powder.

The plows had not yet cleared the side streets, leaving the city quiet and muffled.

Elena and I rode in the back of a hired black SUV, the heater blowing dry, hot air against our faces.

Neither of us spoke as the driver navigated the icy lanes toward downtown.

Voss Holdings occupied the top two floors of a granite tower on Nicollet Mall.

It was a building built on the illusion of old Midwestern stability.

Elena and I walked through the double glass doors of the executive suite at precisely eight o’clock.

The air inside smelled of stale coffee, expensive leather polish, and the damp wool of coats.