Page 49 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

I put on my own helmet, its tinted visor obscuring my face. Once on the bike, Condor shifts into gear, and we merge into Parisian traffic. He weaves between cars, moving fast, but not fast enough to draw attention.

Twenty minutes later, we reach the site. A business district—tinted windows, cold neon lights. Just another office building, at least on the surface. But on the top floor, a clandestine network is transmitting suspicious signals.

Condor parks the motorcycle a street away. Without a word, he escorts me to the tactical van set up in the underground parking lot. Inside, a team is working around the monitors. A commander greets me with a nod.

"Five individuals. Encrypted communications. We suspect they’re scouting for a coordinated attack. Their network is isolated, no external connections. We need access before sending in the RAID team."

"I need an entry point," I say.

The commander hands me an IT badge—probably obtained from an employee in the building.

I sit down, connect my equipment, and power up my laptop. One of the van’s screens mirrors my display for dual monitoring. The network map appears.

I insert the badge into the reader. Authentication accepted. The internal network loads. I open a backdoor into the surveillance server. Their firewall is solid, but there’s a breach.

In less than three minutes, I take control.

The internal video feeds pop up on my screen. The suspects are there, talking. I start recording. The moment they confirm a date and time for the attack, I move to the next step.

"Looping the video feed now," I announce. "You’re good to go."

Outside, RAID units move in.

Condor, stationed nearby, keeps watch.

Ten minutes later, the operation is a success. All suspects neutralized, their servers seized.

I pack up my gear and step out of the van. Condor is already waiting outside, helmet in hand.

"Let’s go."

Without a word, we ride off.

As if we were never there.

Condor drops me off and I rush into my car, slamming the door with a sharp gesture. Every minute spent away from the penthouse brings me closer to the moment when Ruslan will discover my absence. I cannot afford this mistake.

After several intersections, my gaze lingers once again on my rearview mirror. A black sedan is following me. It maintains a calculated distance, deliberately refusing to pass. I slow down, it matches my speed. Its intentions are clear. I can see two male silhouettes inside. A car stuck behind them grows impatient, honks furiously, then finally finds an escape route.

I take another intersection, deliberately staying on main roads where witnesses are numerous. But they're still there. My heart races, pounding against my ribcage. They're not even trying to be discreet.

I understand their strategy when a second vehicle, a metallic gray SUV, appears on my left, trying to force me toward an empty side street. I manage to avoid their isolation maneuver by a hair's breadth, my steering wheel gripped so tightly my knuckles turn white. I accelerate suddenly, pushing the pedal to the floor.

The SUV comes back on the offensive, its occupants hidden behind tinted windows. I feel the lateral pressure as it tries to push me out of my lane. At the same moment, the sedan violently hits my rear bumper. The jolt throws me against my steering wheel, momentarily cutting off my breath, but adrenaline keeps me lucid. My foot remains firmly pressed on the accelerator.

Suddenly, a deafening metallic noise resonates behind me. In the mirror, I see the black sedan stopped against a lamppost, its body crumpled like paper. An unexpected obstacle has caused it to veer off course, giving me a brief respite.

The SUV, however, doesn't let up and continues pushing me to the right. I struggle to maintain my trajectory, my arms trembling with the effort. The traffic light ahead turns red. But that's not the worst of it—behind me, a third dark sedan approaches at full speed.

"Damn, this can't be happening," I whisper, hands clammy on the wheel. How many of them are there?

I hesitate for a split second, weighing the risks of crossing an intersection on a red light at this hour of the night.

I make my decision in a fraction of a second: I give the wheel a violent turn at the last moment to dive into a small alley on my right. Instead of following me, the black sedan, hit from behind by the third car, lunges forward toward the intersection. A white flash appears from the right. The impact is brutal. A delivery truck hits it at full speed, sending it into a whirlwind of metal and broken glass.

I continue my escape, my heart on the verge of imploding, when a furtive movement in my rearview mirror freezes my blood. The third car has launched itself in pursuit with renewed determination.

26. Surveillance Priority