Chapter 74. The Hacker’s Bargain

They found a different kind of refuge: a 24-hour internet café in the basement of a student district, a grimy, neon-lit cave smelling of stale energy drinks and despair. It was a place of digital ghosts, where no one asked questions or looked up from their screens. They claimed a corner booth, thawing their frozen hands on the warm sides of ancient, humming CPUs. The stolen cryptographic key was a live wire in Sabe’s pocket. The Meridian was a dragon they had named. But the path forward was a blinding whiteout.

They needed a plan, an entry point into the Freeport’s impregnable vault where the exchange was set for midnight. Sabe was scrolling through dark web forums on a rented terminal, a place where whispers of the Zorya and the Meridian sometimes slipped through the cracks of encrypted chat rooms. The public-facing web, meanwhile, was ablaze with news: “Rogers Industries CEO Missing,” “Violence at Geneva Villa Linked to Corporate Espionage,” and the one that made Anton’s stomach turn: “Interpol Hunt for ‘Rogue’ Bodyguard Sabatine Stalker Intensifies.” His face, a grainy photo from his military file, stared back from the screen next to a headline speculating about his ties to “international cyber-terror networks.”

They were hunted, penniless, and out of moves.

Then, a direct message popped up in a private, encrypted chat client Sabe had left running in the background. It wasn't from a contact. It was from a void.

User: LO_Rez_Glitch

Message: I have the guest list for the midnight ball. And the floor plan of the vault. Price: one Rogers Industries Quantum Access Key, model QX-7, serialization prefix EV-09.

Anton read the message over Sabe’s shoulder. His blood went cold. The QX-7 was the most secure physical key in their corporate arsenal, a device that used quantum-entangled particles to generate uncrackable, one-time codes for accessing the deepest R&D servers. Only three existed. His, which was in a safe in London. The board’s master, in a vault. And Evelyn Voss’s.

EV-09.

“It’s a trap,” Anton breathed. “They know we’re looking. It’s the Meridian, or the Zorya, fishing for us.”

Sabe’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “Maybe. But the specificity… they didn't ask for money. They didn't ask for the prototype key. They asked for Evelyn’s key. They want a way into Rogers, not out of it. That feels like a different agenda.”

Sabe: Who are you?

LO_Rez_Glitch: Someone who profits from chaos. The Meridian is bad for business. They create silence. I prefer noise. The key is my f*e.

Sabe: Prove you have what you say.

A file transfer request appeared. Sabe accepted. A document opened. It was a list of twelve names, aliases, and associated biometric entry codes for the Geneva Freeport’s High-Security Auction Wing, scheduled for 23:45 tonight. Among the names were Marcus Rogers (his status now likely listed as ‘inactive’), two known Zorya lieutenants, and three names attached to shell corporations Sabe recognized as Meridian financial conduits.

The second file was indeed a schematic of the Freeport’s vault level, highlighting air ducts, security patrol rotations, and—most crucially—the isolated, hardened data port for the primary security console. It was the kind of insider detail only a systems architect or a supremely talented burglar could obtain.

“This is real,” Sabe muttered, a flicker of grim hope in his eyes. “This is a backstage pass.”

Sabe: How do we get the key? We don’t have it.

LO_Rez_Glitch: Evelyn Voss is en route to Geneva. Private jet, landing at 22:00. She’s coming to oversee the final transaction, to ensure the Meridian gets its prize. She will have the key. Take it from her. Bring it to the coordinates I will send at 23:00. You will receive the entry codes and the final schematic for the vault’s internal security grid.

Sabe: And if we’re caught? If she’s protected?

LO_Rez_Glitch: Then you fail, and the dragon eats the world. Not my problem. The deal is the key for the keys. Midnight is the witching hour. Be there, or be dead.

The user signed off, their avatar dissolving into pixelated static.

Anton sank back into the cracked vinyl booth. “She’s coming here. Of course she is. To collect her reward. To watch the final nail in my coffin.”

Sabe’s mind was already racing, overlaying the new mission onto their limited resources. “The private jet terminal. It’s smaller, more secure than the main airport, but also more predictable. She’ll have security, but it will be corporate, not military. They’ll be expecting paparazzi and anxious shareholders, not a direct assault.”

“We have no weapons, no transport, no leverage,” Anton said, the sheer audacity of it crashing down on him. “We’re two fugitives in a basement, and you want us to mug my CFO on the tarmac?”

“We have surprise,” Sabe said, his gaze locking with Anton’s. The partnership forged in the snow was already being tested. “And we have each other. And we have a hacker who wants a key bad enough to sell out the Meridian.” He leaned forward. “This is our only play, Anton. It’s a heist. A simple, brutal, physical heist. We get the key, we buy our way into the vault, we use my key to sabotage their transaction, and we get the evidence we need to burn it all down.”

“Simple,” Anton repeated, the word tasting like ash. He looked at Sabe—at the determined set of his jaw, the fever-bright focus in his eyes. This was the man who had followed him into a blizzard. The man who loved him. The man asked him to step off another cliff.

He thought of the Meridian’ emblem, of the clean, efficient death of Darius, of a future where a chip bearing Sabe’s mind controlled the world’s digital arteries. He thought of the warmth of Sabe’s hand in his snow.

“How?” was all he asked.

Sabe laid out the skeleton of a plan, scrawling notes on a napkin with a borrowed pen. It relied on timing, misdirection, and the arrogant assumption that Evelyn would feel safe on her home turf. It was the kind of plan that had a ninety percent chance of getting them killed or captured.

At 21:30, shrouded in hoodies purchased from a thrift store with the last of Anton’s emergency cash, they were in position near the private aviation terminal’s perimeter fence. The night was clear and bitterly cold, the sky a velvet black pierced by the piercing lights of landing aircraft. Sabe had “acquired” a beaten-up delivery van, which now idled roughly in a staff parking lot, its interior reeking of old vegetables.

“Remember,” Sabe said, his eyes on the gate where luxury cars were waved through. “The moment her car passes, you cause a distraction. It needs to be loud, and it needs to draw the gate guards. Not towards you, but towards the van.”

Anton nodded, his mouth dry. In his hand was a cheap, powerful firecracker Sabe had procured from God-knows-where. His role was to be chaotic. It was a far cry from approving quarterly earnings reports.

At 22:07, a long, black Rolls-Royce Cullinan with diplomatic plates glided up to the security gate. The window slid down. Even from their distance, Anton recognized the sharp, perfect profile of Evelyn Voss as she handed over credentials. She looked calm, victorious. A queen arrives to claim her throne.

“Now,” Sabe whispered.

Anton struck the match. His hands, which had steadied billion-dollar deals, shook. He touched it to the fuse, waited for a heartbeat, and lobbed the firecracker in a high arc. It landed on the roof of a nearby parked sedan.

The bang was apocalyptic in the quiet night—a sharp, concussive CRACK that echoed off the airport buildings. The sedan’s alarm immediately began blaring, a whooping, panicked siren. Lights exploded in adjacent offices. The two guards at the gate spun, shouting, drawing their sidearms as they sprinted toward the source of the noise, away from the Rolls-Royce.

As planned, Sabe gunned the van’s engine. Not towards the gate, but directly across its path, fifty meters down the fence line. He slammed on the brakes, threw the van into reverse, and backed it clumsily into a concrete bollard with a grinding shriek of metal. He then leaped out, leaving the driver’s door open, the engine running, and sprinted into the shadows in the opposite direction of Anton.

It was a second, compelling distraction. A crash, an abandoned vehicle, a fleeing suspect. The guards, already alerted by the explosion, now had a moving target. One peeled off to pursue Sabe’s fleeting shadow.

In the chaos, the Rolls-Royce, its window still open, was momentarily forgotten at the gate.

Anton moved. He didn't run. He walked, quickly, purposefully, head down, directly toward the driver’s side of the Rolls. The remaining guard was shouting into his radio, his back turned.

Evelyn was looking out the opposite window, towards the commotion with the van, a faint, annoyed frown on her lips. The driver was half-turned in his seat, watching the same scene.

Anton reached the car. He yanked open the rear door and slid in.

Evelyn turned, her frown melting into an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. For a second, she simply stared, as if he were a ghost. “Anton?” The word was a disbelieving exhale.

“Hello, Evelyn,” Anton said, his voice calm. In his hand, pressed against the back of the driver’s seat, was the matte-black knife they had taken from Darius. He saw the driver’s eyes go wide in the rearview mirror. “Tell your man to drive. Normally. Now. Or this gets very messy.”

Evelyn’s shock hardened into an icy calculation. She saw the knife, saw the desperate determination in Anton’s eyes. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod to the driver. “Do as he says. Take the southern perimeter road. Slowly.”

The car pulled smoothly through the now-unguarded gate. In the side mirror, Anton saw Sabe melt back out of the shadows near the fence, unseen, the second guard having given up the chase. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—a flash of fierce, shared triumph—before the car turned a corner, and Sabe was gone.

They were in the belly of the beast. Anton was alone in a car with the architect of his ruin. But he had the wheel. And he had a knife. And across the city, a hacker was waiting for a key.

He looked at Evelyn, who was now studying him with a predatory curiosity, her initial fear mastered. “This is a dramatic but futile gesture, Anton. The die is cast.”

“We’ll see,” Anton said, his gaze dropping to the sleek, titanium briefcase chained to her wrist. Through its semi-transparent lid, he could see the sleek, gunmetal grey form of a Rogers Industries QX-7 Quantum Access Key. The serial number began with EV-09.

The informant’s bargain was in motion. The witching hour was approaching. And the dragon’s treasure was now within their reach.

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