Chapter 78. The Art of Retreat

The SLEEPING message on the console glowed a soft, malevolent green. The packet was in, a digital parasite coiled around the heart of the transaction. For a moment, the only sound in the sterile server room was the relentless hum of the machines and the frantic thud of Anton’s own heart. Ninety seconds.

Sabe was already moving, his eyes on the east wall. He located the access panel Leora’s schematic had indicated—a plain, brushed steel square secured by four recessed screws. He had the multi-tool out in a flash, the bit clicking into place.

Seventy-five seconds.

The first screw came out with a soft sigh. The second. Anton stood guard at the base of the stairs, his ears straining for any sound from the gallery above. The looped camera feed bought them time, but it wouldn't mask the sound of the panel coming off, or their escape.

Sixty seconds.

The third screw dropped into Sabe’s palm. He was working with a controlled, desperate speed, his injured shoulder clearly protesting the precise, sustained pressure. The fourth screw began to turn.

Then, from the gallery above, a sound that was utterly wrong in the temple of silent art: the crisp, electronic chirp of a keycard reader.

Anton’s blood froze. It wasn't the scheduled meeting. It was too early.

Sabe heard it too. His head snapped up, his eyes meeting Anton’s. A silent, shared understanding passed between them: the plan was already ash.

They hadn't triggered a silent alarm. Leora had. Or her loop had failed. Or the Meridian had protocols upon protocols.

The chirp was followed by the smooth whoosh of the gallery’s main door sliding open. Muffled voices, sharp and professional, not the cultured tones of art dealers. Boots on polished concrete. More than one pair.

Forty-five seconds.

Sabe redoubled his effort on the final screw. It was sticking, cross-threaded. He swore under his breath, applying more force.

A voice, amplified and distorted by the gallery’s acoustics, called out in French. “Sécurité. Restez où vous êtes.” Security. Stay where you are.

They weren't asking. It was a declaration. They knew someone was here.

Thirty seconds.

The final screw gave with a metallic shriek that sounded deafening in the quiet. Sabe caught the panel as it loosened, lowering it silently to the floor. Behind it was a dark, narrow cavity, a vertical shaft lined with bundled cables and dusty pipes. The service tunnel.

Footsteps pounded down the staircase. They were out of time.

“Go!” Sabe hissed, shoving Anton toward the opening.

Anton didn't hesitate. He scrambled into the shaft, his shoulders brushing the cold, greasy walls. He reached back, and Sabe passed him the heavy panel. “Put it back! Slow the pursuit!”

Anton understood. He braced the panel against the opening from the inside as Sabe squeezed in after him. They couldn't re-screw it, but a false wall was better than an open door. The footsteps hit the server room floor just as the panel clicked into place, plunging them into absolute blackness.

For a heart-stopping second, there was silence from the other side. Then a shout. A hand slapped against the metal from outside. “Ici! Une trappe!”

They were blown.

“Down!” Sabe whispered, his voice a ghost in the dark. “Follow the cables!”

The shaft descended at a steep angle. Anton went first, half-sliding, half-climbing down the slick cables, his palms burning. Behind him, he heard the screech of metal being pried away—the panel being torn off. Light, thin and sharp, stabbed into the shaft from above. A voice barked commands.

A gunshot roared, deafening in the confined space. Not aimed at them—a warning shot, or someone shooting the lock. The bullet sparked off a pipe inches from Anton’s head, ricocheting with a scream of metal.

He lost his grip. He fell, sliding down the last few meters of the shaft in a tangle of limbs, landing in a heap on a concrete floor in a wider, horizontal tunnel. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and ozone. Sabe landed beside him a second later, grunting in pain.

The light from above was blocked as the first guard started climbing into the shaft.

“Run!” Sabe gasped, hauling Anton to his feet.

They ran, hunched over in the low tunnel, following the snaking bundles of fiber-optic cables that were their only guide. The tunnel was a claustrophobic maze, branching off into darkness. They took turns at random, driven by the primal need to put distance between themselves and the pounding boots now echoing behind them.

The sound of pursuit was disorienting, magnified and distorted by the tunnels. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. A shout in German. An order in Russian. The Meridian’s security was a multinational affair.

Anton’s lungs burned. His elegant leather shoes, never meant for this, skidded on damp concrete. He could hear Sabe’s ragged breathing beside him, the sound of his injury catching up with him.

A junction appeared ahead. Three choices. Left, right, or a narrower pipe leading downward.

“Left,” Sabe gasped, his operative’s instinct choosing the path with the faintest draft of colder air—a potential exit.

They plunged left. The tunnel began to slope upward. The sound of pursuit grew slightly fainter, but they could hear radios crackling now, coordination happening. They were being hunted in a warren.

The upward slope grew steeper, becoming a ladder rung set into the wall. They climbed, Anton’s muscles screaming. At the top was a heavy, circular manhole cover.

Sabe braced his good shoulder against it and heaved. It didn't budge. Locked, or rusted shut.

Boots echoed in the tunnel behind them. Closer now.

“Together!” Anton said, placing his hands beside Sabe’s.

They pushed a unified strain of desperation. For a terrible second, nothing. Then, with a grating shriek of protesting metal, the cover shifted. A sliver of pallid, electric light sliced into the tunnel. They pushed again, muscles corded, veins standing out. The cover scraped aside, opening just enough.

Sabe went first, wriggling through the gap like a snake. He reached back, grabbed Anton’s wrist, and hauled him up and out in one brutal, heaving motion.

They collapsed onto cold, slick asphalt, gasping in the relatively fresh, oil-scented air. They were in an underground parking lot, vast and dimly lit, filled with the silent hulks of expensive cars. The manhole cover was set in the middle of a lane.

Before they could even catch their breath, a shout echoed from between the rows of vehicles. A guard in tactical gear, having taken another route, had cut them off.

Sabe was on his feet in an instant, shoving Anton behind a concrete pillar. “The cars!”

It was a desperate, wild-card move. The guard raised his weapon, but Sabe was already moving, not towards him, but towards the nearest car—a sleek, black sedan. He smashed the driver’s window with the butt of his knife, yanked the door open, and ducked inside.

A second later, the car’s engine roared to life, the headlights blazing on like startled eyes. Sabe threw it into reverse, the tires screeching as he backed it violently into the guard’s path, forcing him to dive aside.

“Get in!” Sabe yelled, skidding the car to a halt next to Anton’s pillar.

Anton didn't need telling twice. He dove into the passenger seat as Sabe slammed the car into drive. They shot forward, weaving between pillars, heading for the ramp that led up to the street.

Behind them, more guards spilled into the parking level, shouting. A shot rang out, punching a starred hole in the rear windshield.

Sabe took the ramp at a speed that lifted the car onto two wheels. They careened out into the quiet, late-night street, the tires screaming for traction. In the rearview mirror, Anton saw figures running from the gallery entrance, pointing, but no immediate pursuit. They’d chosen stealth over a public car chase.

For now.

Sabe drove with a focused fury, putting blocks between them and the gallery, before finally pulling into the shadowed loading dock of a shuttered restaurant. He killed the engine. The sudden silence was broken only by their ragged, panting breaths.

They sat there, in the stolen car, the adrenaline crash leaving them trembling. The art gallery’s trap had been sprung, but they had escaped. The packet was planted. The dragon’s heart was poisoned.

Anton looked over at Sabe, his face pale and streaked with grime in the dashboard lights. “Ninety seconds,” he managed, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat.

Sabe leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. A faint, grim smile touched his lips. “We made it count.”

They were still hunted. They were still in a stolen car. The Meridian was now fully, violently alerted. But they had done it. They had turned the beautiful, lying gallery into a battlefield and emerged, not with the prize, but with the detonator in place.

The exhibit was over. The real show was about to begin.

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