Chapter 17 Chapter 17
Nina closed the locker, forcing herself to move at the pace of someone who belonged there. She walked toward the exit, heartbeat thrumming. The man folded his paper, followed. Another figure stepped into view near the ticket machines. The same stillness, the same intent.
Adrian, what did you send me into?
She crossed the concourse, blending with a group of students, then veered sharply into the underground passage that led to the tram platforms. The crowd thinned. The echo of her own footsteps was joined by two more, steady and unhurried.
At the next turn she saw a sign for Left Luggage and ducked through the door. The attendant looked up from a magazine.
“Lost something?” he asked.
“Just… looking,” she said.
The man frowned. “Not a public area, miss.”
She forced a smile. “Sorry.” Then she spotted the back door half-open and slipped through before he could protest.
The corridor beyond smelled of oil and concrete. It ended at a metal staircase spiralling down to maintenance tunnels. She didn’t think—she ran.
The tunnels were narrow and dim, lined with cables humming faintly. Water dripped from somewhere unseen. She clutched the case against her chest, trying to keep her breathing quiet. At the next junction, she pressed herself into a recess, listening.
Boots on metal. Two sets, maybe three.
She turned off her phone’s flashlight and waited.
A voice echoed softly: “She has the package. Orders?”
Static. Then a reply, too muffled to understand.
Another voice answered, lower. “Alive if possible. Marin will come for her.”
The words chilled her. They weren’t chasing her for the case—they were using her as bait.
Nina crept backwards, found another corridor, and followed it until faint daylight glimmered ahead. The exit opened into a side alley behind the old postal building. She climbed out, lungs burning, and merged with the pedestrian flow on the street above. The case felt heavier with every step.
At a café terrace, she paused, pretending to check her phone, scanning reflections in the window. No one obvious, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her. She turned the case over once, tracing the edge of a faded shipping label.
The sender’s name blurred, but one word remained clear:
Marin.
Not Adrian. Viktor.
Her stomach dropped. The case hadn’t been planted for Adrian—it had been waiting for whoever still carried the Marin name. Which meant someone inside the Circle had left it deliberately, knowing Adrian would send her.
The tram rumbled past, spraying light and sound. She used the distraction to slip across the street, heading for the park. Trees swallowed her; the air smelled of damp bark and exhaust. She kept to the paths that wound behind the greenhouses, away from the main roads.
Her phone buzzed once.
Adrian: Status?
She typed quickly: Got it. Being followed. Coming back.
Three dots appeared, then vanished. No reply.
She quickened her pace.
By the time she reached the apartment block, the sun had slid low behind the rooftops. The door to the garage level was ajar. She froze, listening. The faint hiss of a radio, then silence.
She slipped inside, hugging the wall. “Adrian?” she whispered.
A shape stepped out of the shadow—too tall, wrong build. Not him.
He smiled. “You must be the delivery.”
Nina turned to run, but another man blocked the exit. Hands grabbed her arms, cold and certain. The case hit the floor with a dull thud.
Before she could scream, a familiar voice cut through the dark.
“Let her go.”
Adrian stood at the far end of the garage, gun steady, expression unreadable.
“Marin,” the first man said lightly. “You’re late.”
“Traffic.” His voice was ice. “Step away.”
“Or what? You’ll kill us? You need her alive.”
Adrian’s finger tightened on the trigger. “You’re wrong.”
The report of the shot cracked through the concrete. The man fell before he could finish his smile.
The second bolted. Adrian’s next shot shattered the light above him, plunging the room into darkness. Footsteps echoed, then faded.
Nina’s ears rang. He was beside her before she realised he’d moved, checking her arms, her face, the blood on her lip. “Did they hurt you?”
“No,” she said. “But—Adrian—the package—it’s from Viktor.”
He stared at her, then down at the case. For the first time, he looked uncertain.
“Then it’s not over,” he murmured. “It’s only beginning.”
The echo of the gunshot still hung in the concrete air.
Adrian kicked the spent casing away, listening for footsteps, then holstered the weapon. The city beyond the garage was quiet again—too quiet, as if the sound had been swallowed whole.
Nina stood where he’d left her, arms folded around herself, the black case at her feet. A single strip of light from the cracked door cut across the floor, catching the outline of the name still visible on the shipping label: V. Marin.
Adrian crouched, running one gloved finger over the letters.
“I buried this name ten years ago,” he said. “It shouldn’t be here.”
“Then open it,” Nina whispered.