“Who?” he asked.

“I don’t know the name, but the map showed the elevator blind spots,” I whispered. “And the service stairwell is clear of their sweep for another three minutes.”

Dante looked toward the door of the study.

A flashlight beam swept across the frosted glass panel.

“We have to move,” Dante said.

He took my hand, his grip tight and warm.

He led me toward the rear exit of the study, which opened into a narrow utility corridor.

My mind raced back to my crisis intervention training from my university days.

*Assess the exits, control the breathing, focus on the immediate step.*

“The cameras on the west corridor are looped,” I told him. “The mole set them to repeat. That’s our blind spot.”

“The service elevator goes straight to the garage,” Dante said.

“No,” I countered, recalling the translated document. “They have two men waiting at the bottom of the service elevator. The stairs are safer.”

He looked at me, his dark eyes searching mine in the crimson light.

He chose to trust me.

“Lead,” he whispered.

We moved into the utility corridor.