Page 119 of The Thief
The house smells like cigarettes and must. Documents are scattered across the dining room table; laptops open and running—the detritus of a man planning war.
"Jackpot," Maverick whispers, photographing everything with his phone.
I'm already moving toward what looks like a home office. Inside, I find a safe built into the wall. Industrial grade, expensive, but nothing I haven't cracked before.
"How long?" Maverick asks.
I grin at him. "Less than two minutes."
"I'll keep watch."
The safe takes less than ninety seconds to open. Not my best time, but one of the better ones. Inside is cash, weapons, and most importantly, files. Detailed intelligence on our operations, photos of family members, financial records showing payments to sources within our organization.
"Freddie." Maverick's voice is urgent. "We've got company."
Car engines are approaching fast. Multiple vehicles by the sound of it.
"Time to go," I say, grabbing what files I can carry.
But as we head for the back exit, I spot something that makes me change course. A laptop, still open, logged into what looks like offshore banking accounts.
"What are you doing?" Maverick hisses.
"Making a withdrawal."
My fingers fly across the keyboard, navigating through account menus with practiced ease. Trace has been careful, spreading his money across multiple banks in multiple countries. But careful isn't the same as secure.
"Freddie, we need to leave. Now."
"Two more minutes."
I'm into the primary account now, looking at a balance that makes my eyes widen. Trace has been accumulating serious money; enough to fund his war for years.
Had been accumulating. Because I'm transferring every penny to accounts I control.
"Done," I say, closing the laptop. "Let's go."
We slip out the back as the front door explodes inward. Trace's reinforcements—arriving just too late to catch us, but early enough to know someone's been inside.
The run back to our car takes us through muddy fields and over stone walls. Behind us, shouts sound and flashlight beams sweep the surrounding area as they search for intruders they'll never find.
"What did you get?" Maverick asks as we reach the vehicle.
"Everything. Financial records, intelligence files, and about twelve million euros in liquid assets."
"You stole his money?"
"Every fucking penny. Let's see how long his operation lasts without funding."
The drive back to Dublin is quiet, both of us processing what we've learned. Trace is well-funded, well-informed, and has resources we didn't know about. But now he's significantly poorer, and that might make him desperate.
Desperate men make mistakes.
Stephen's house is still secure when we return, guards alert and professional. Inside, the women are playing cards while Emmanuel and Stephen are anxious. Their faces are void of emotion, but I can see the anger and wariness in their eyes.
"Success?" Stephen asks as we enter his office.
"Partial. We've got intelligence on his operation, but it's safe to say that he'll be moving on from that location."
