Page 16 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

I drain my coffee and gather my documents. Before leaving, I hug each of them, grateful for their unwavering support, even if it involves thriller-worthy scenarios. Then, I head toward our supervisor’s office, an isolated space separated from the open floor by an elegant frosted glass wall.

"Come in," he says without looking up from his screen.

He’s there, as always, drowned in the bluish glow of his monitors, hunched over several files spread out in a fan in front of him. A forgotten cup of cold coffee in his hand. The boss—forty, hyperactive, sharp-eyed. A little rigid, but terrifyingly efficient.

He finally looks up and gestures toward the chair in front of his desk.

"Weren't you supposed to be on your honeymoon, Sierra?"

"Not anymore, since I caught my husband kissing another woman."

His intense gaze locks onto mine.

"You take him out? Need a cleanup team?"

I smile.

"Not this time, but I appreciate the offer, boss."

"Then what brings you here?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, his expression already wary.

"I need an accreditation extension to investigate Stanislas Stanford and Nexora Trade, a consulting and auditing firm specializing in international transport and logistics."

His expression hardens slightly, his brows twitching.

"Justify it."

"I suspect it’s covering large-scale illegal activities."He drums his fingers on his desk, clearly weighing the pros and cons.

"Level of intrusion?"

"Whatever it takes."

"Wrong answer, Sierra."

He leans forward, his gaze sharp.

"I’ll grant you access to Level 3 secure databases, but with restrictions. No intrusion into critical target systems without prior validation. No detectable digital footprint. You can track financial flows, cross-check with our internal databases, but you stay off the radar."

I clench my jaw, aware that these limitations will complicate my task.

"Is that clear?" he insists.

"Yes, boss," I reply, suppressing my frustration.

He types a series of commands on his keyboard.

"Temporary access granted. Everything is logged, everything is monitored. One misstep, and I shut it all down."

"Your trust moves me," I retort as I stand up.

He smirks.

"Get out before I change my mind."

Back at my station, I launch a secure session on the isolated network dedicated to sensitive investigations.

I start with the databases I now have access to—classified financial records, surveillance reports, customs alerts. I trace commercial transactions, comparing them to classic shell company schemes. I focus on import-export declarations that show anomalies.