# Chapter 3: Safe Harbor
The Copper Kettle served its last table at 10:47 PM. Andy watched his crew break down their stations with the efficiency of soldiers striking camp. In a way, they were soldiers—united by purpose, bound by the shared trauma of dinner service. He'd hired most of them himself. Maria, his sous chef, had been with him eight years. She had a daughter in second grade and a mortgage she stressed about. Tom, the saucier, was putting himself through night school for computer programming. Lisa, on pastry, sent money home to her sick mother in Ohio.
These were his people. They trusted him. And because of that trust, they were all in danger.
The text had been specific. *First the sommelier, then the night manager.* They knew the staff hierarchy. They'd been watching.
Andy retreated to his office and locked the door. He pulled out the prepaid phone and stared at the Bitcoin wallet address they'd sent. 5,000 BTC. Roughly two hundred million dollars. A fraction of the total haul, but enough to make the transfer traceable. Once he sent it, they'd know for certain he controlled the wallet. They'd have his transaction signature. And they'd know Peter had trusted him completely.
He could refuse. He could transfer the entire amount to a new wallet they didn't know about, move it through mixers until it was untraceable, and disappear. Peter had taught him how. "Just in case," he'd said, those last three weeks ago.
But running meant leaving his crew exposed. The Bitcoin gang—the Consortium, Peter had called them—wasn't known for mercy. They'd killed Peter not just for the betrayal they thought he'd committed, but as a message to the others. Andy had seen the photos Peter showed him. The other three members were serious people. Trained. Connected. They'd find his staff, his friends, anyone who might know something. They'd extract information with methods Andy had seen used in war zones.
He'd spent twenty years building a life away from that violence. Now it had followed him home.
The prepaid phone buzzed again. A different number. Same message, but with a new detail:
*We have the sommelier's daughter. She's safe for now. Cute kid. Likes unicorns. Transfer 1000 BTC in the next hour or we send her mother a finger.*
Below that was a photo. Marcus—Andy recognized him from Peter's description, the logistics guy—holding a stuffed unicorn, smiling at the camera like a proud uncle. The little girl—Emily, the sommelier's daughter—was in the background, playing with blocks, unaware.
Andy felt ice crawl up his spine. They'd escalated. This was no longer about money. This was about control.
He had the sommelier's home address in his files. Jennifer Lau, single mother, daughter Emily, age six. Jennifer had mentioned once that Emily's father had walked out when she was a baby. That she'd built her whole world around this job, this hotel, this fragile stability.
Andy had to make a choice.
He opened his laptop—not the prepaid phone, but his regular computer—and logged into a VPN. Then he accessed a cloud storage service where Peter had left him instructions. There was a file named "In Case of Emergency." Andy had never opened it, hoping he wouldn't have to.
Inside were names. Photos. Addresses. The complete roster of the Consortium.
Marcus Bell. Logistics. Former Marine, dishonorable discharge. Expert in transportation, security systems, and making people disappear. Currently checked into the Post under the name Michael Ross. Room 203.
Sofia Chen. Financer. MIT classmate of Peter's, the one who'd provided the capital for the operation. Specialized in money laundering and offshore accounts. Room 318. Checked in as Sarah Mitchell.
And the leader. The one Peter had feared most.
Yuri Volkov. Former Russian intelligence, or so Peter suspected. The strategist. The one who'd planned the heist down to the second. He wasn't staying at the Post—too careful for that. But he was close. Peter's notes said Yuri had a safe house somewhere in the city, a place he went when operations went sideways.
Three people. Three killers. And somewhere, a little girl who liked unicorns.
Andy transferred 1,000 BTC to the address they'd provided. It was traceable, but so be it. He included a message in the transaction metadata: *PROOF OF LIFE IN ONE HOUR OR I TUMBLE THE REST AND YOU GET NOTHING.*
Let them think he was just a scared amateur. Let them underestimate him.
While he waited, he called Jennifer Lau. She answered on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.
"Jennifer, it's Andy Melone. From the restaurant."
"Chef? Is everything okay?"
"I need you to listen carefully. Is Emily with you?"
"Yes, she's sleeping. Why?"
"Wake her up. Take her somewhere else. A friend's house, your mother's, anywhere but home. Don't tell anyone where you're going. Don't pack much. Just go."
He could hear the fear creeping into her voice. "Chef, you're scaring me."
"Good. You should be scared. Just trust me. Please."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Okay. We're leaving in ten minutes."
"Thank you."
He hung up and transferred another 4,000 BTC to the same address. Then he deleted the message thread and powered off the prepaid phone. He wouldn't use it again.
The kitchen was empty when he emerged from his office. The cleaning crew had gone home. The silence felt heavy, expectant. Andy walked to the butcher's station and selected his favorite knife—a ten-inch chef's blade that he'd had custom-forged in Japan. It balanced perfectly in his hand. In the army, they'd taught him to fix what was broken. In kitchens, they'd taught him to break things down into their component parts.
He was about to do both.
---
Resa ate dinner at the Copper Kettle because it was part of the investigation, but also because she was hungry and hotel room service was depressing. She sat at a corner table where she could see the kitchen doors and ordered the tasting menu. Let the chef think she was just another diner. Let him relax.
The food was extraordinary. A scallop crudo with yuzu and chili that made her close her eyes involuntarily. A pasta with mushrooms that tasted like the forest floor after rain. A piece of halibut so perfectly cooked it barely held together under her fork.
Andy Melone was a genius. He was also a man under pressure. She could see it in the way his crew moved—stiff, cautious, like they were walking on eggshells. Something had changed in the kitchen between lunch and dinner. The easy camaraderie was gone, replaced by something tense and watchful.
Her phone buzzed. Mike.
*Found something. Marcus Bell, aka Michael Ross, Room 203. Has a record. Dishonorable discharge, suspected in three missing persons cases but never charged. Currently works private security.*
Resa texted back: *On it.*
She signaled for the check. The waiter—young, nervous—brought it over on a leather folio. As she opened it to slip her card inside, she noticed something written on the receipt in tiny, precise handwriting:
*Room 203. 11 PM. Come alone or the girl dies.*
Her blood went cold. She looked up, but the waiter had already moved to another table. She scanned the room and caught Andy watching her from the kitchen window. He held her gaze for exactly three seconds, then disappeared.
He was asking for help. Or setting a trap.
Either way, she was going to Room 203 at 11 PM.
She paid her bill and left a generous tip. In the lobby, she found Mike waiting with two uniforms.
"We have probable cause to bring in Marcus Bell," she said quietly. "But I think we should wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For him to make a move. Marcus is the muscle. We need the brains."
Mike looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "Resa, this guy's a suspected killer."
"And our chef is communicating with him." She showed him the receipt. "Andy Melone just invited me to a meeting."
"That's not an invitation. That's a threat."
"It's both. And it's our way in." She turned to the uniforms. "I want surveillance on Room 203. Audio if you can get it, visual if you can't. And I want a team ready to move at my signal. But nobody goes in until I say so. Understood?"
They understood. Mike opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He'd worked with her long enough to know when she'd made up her mind.
"I'll be in the lobby," he said. "Watching the feed. If it goes sideways—"
"It won't. Andy's not a killer. He's a soldier. There's a difference."
"You sure about that?"
"No," Resa admitted. "But I'm sure he's our best chance of ending this before more people die."
She spent the next two hours in her car, watching the hotel. At 10:45, she saw Jennifer Lau leave through the side entrance, carrying a sleeping child wrapped in a blanket. She didn't look back. Good girl, Resa thought.
At 10:55, Resa entered the hotel and took the stairs to the second floor. She left her phone with Mike—if things went bad, she didn't want them finding it—but kept her service weapon. Her backup piece, a small .38, was tucked in an ankle holster.
Room 203 was at the end of the hall. She knocked twice, then stepped to the side, standard entry protocol.
The door opened. Marcus Bell filled the doorway—six-three, two hundred thirty pounds, with the kind of muscle that came from functional training, not gym mirrors. He looked at her and smiled.
"Detective Rational. I was wondering when you'd show up."
"Marcus Bell. Also known as Michael Ross. Also known as the man who's about to be charged with kidnapping and possibly murder."
His smile didn't waver. "Come in. We need to talk."
The room was standard Post—tired furniture, polyester bedding, a view of the parking garage. Sofia Chen sat in the chair by the window, looking perfectly composed in a silk blouse and tailored slacks. She held a tablet that displayed what looked like a Bitcoin transaction ledger.
"Detective," she said. "We've been expecting you."
"Where's the girl?" Resa asked.
"Safe," Marcus said. "For now."
"That's not proof of life."
Sofia turned the tablet toward her. On screen was a live video feed. Emily Lau sat at a kitchen table, coloring. She looked unharmed, bored even. An adult hand entered the frame, offering her a cookie. She took it without looking up.
"She's at a safe house," Sofia said. "With one of our associates. Her mother thinks she's at a friend's. No harm will come to her as long as we get what we want."
Resa kept her voice level. "Which is?"
"The wallet that Peter Novak stole from us," Marcus said. "We know he gave it to Andy Melone. We want you to convince Andy to give it back."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because if you don't, the girl gets hurt. And then we start on the rest of the staff. Jennifer. Maria, the sous chef. Tom, the saucier. We know where they all live. We'll work our way through Andy's kitchen until he gives us what we want."
Resa calculated her options. She could arrest them now, but Emily would disappear. These people had resources, backup plans. She needed to play along.
"And if I get you the wallet?"
"The girl goes home. The staff is safe. And we disappear. You can pretend you never found us."
"That's a lot of trust for criminals to put in a cop."
Sofia smiled. It was a cold expression, like ice cracking on a lake. "We have leverage, Detective. You have a reputation for protecting innocents. We did our research. You saved those children from the Martinez syndicate last year. You took a bullet for a witness in the Corinth case. You care about civilians. We care about money. It's a simple transaction."
Resa looked at Marcus. "What happened to Peter wasn't simple."
"Peter betrayed us," Marcus said, and for the first time she heard emotion in his voice. Not regret. Anger. "He tried to cut us out. He was going to run with the entire haul. That wasn't the agreement."
"So you killed him."
"We executed a traitor. There's a difference."
Resa had heard that justification before. It never got less disgusting. "I'll talk to Andy. But I need proof the girl is safe, unharmed, every hour until this is resolved."
"Done," Sofia said. "You have until 6 AM tomorrow. That's when our patience runs out."
Resa left the room, her hands shaking with adrenaline and rage. In the hallway, she pressed her back against the wall and breathed. Mike materialized from the stairwell.
"What happened?"
"We have a hostage situation. Six-year-old girl. They're using her to leverage Andy's cooperation."
"Jesus."
"I need to talk to Andy. Now."
They found him in his office, the custom knife laid across his desk like a statement. He looked at them without surprise.
"You met Marcus and Sofia," he said.
"They have Emily Lau."
"I know. I moved Jennifer and Emily to a safe location. Marcus lied about having her. The video is old footage from a birthday party. I recognized the unicorn balloon in the background. It was from last month."
Resa stared at him. "How do you know that?"
"I pay attention. It's what I do." He picked up the knife, testing its edge with his thumb. "The Consortium thinks they have leverage. They don't. But they're going to escalate. Yuri is the dangerous one. He's here, in the city. He won't show his face until he's ready to end this."
"Andy, I need you to tell me everything."
He looked at her, really looked at her, and she saw the soldier he'd been, the medic who'd held guts in while mortars fell. "I have the wallet. All fifty-one thousand Bitcoin. Peter gave it to me for safekeeping. He was going to negotiate with them, try to buy his way out. They killed him before he could."
"Why you?"
"Because I owed him. And because I'm good at keeping things safe." He smiled slightly, a bitter expression. "It's a medic's skill. You hold onto things—supplies, medicine, hope—until they're needed."
"These people will kill you for it."
"They're going to kill me anyway. The question is whether they kill anyone else first." He set the knife down. "I have a plan. But I need your help."
"My help? You're obstructing a murder investigation."
"I'm trying to prevent more murders. There's a difference."
He was echoing Marcus's words, but with something else behind them. Not justification. Desperation.
"What's your plan?" Resa asked.
"You let me transfer the Bitcoin. All of it. To an account they control."
"That's surrender."
"It's bait. The moment they move that much cryptocurrency, it lights up every blockchain monitoring system in the world. The exchange it was stolen from has been watching for it. The FBI cyber division has alerts set. The second those coins move from my wallet, everyone knows where they are. Including Yuri."
"You want to use the money to flush out the leader."
"I want to use the money to make them all visible. Then you can arrest them. All of them. With evidence that will stick."
"What about the hostage?"
"There is no hostage. But they don't know that. They think they're winning. Let them think it."
Resa considered. It was a good plan. Risky, but good. It meant letting two billion dollars in stolen crypto move through the system, but it would bring down the entire crew. And it would keep Andy alive—maybe.
"What's in this for you?" she asked.
"My staff stays safe. Peter's death gets avenged. And I get to go back to cooking," Andy said. "Simple."
Nothing about this was simple. But it was the only plan that didn't end with more bodies.
"Okay," Resa said. "But we do this my way. I want surveillance on every move. I want the FBI cyber team standing by. And if anyone gets hurt—including you—this deal is off."
Andy extended his hand. "Deal."
She shook it. His grip was firm, calloused from years of knife work."Detective, one more thing. Yuri Volkov isn't just going to watch this happen. He's going to try to take control. When he does, he'll be dangerous. More dangerous than Marcus and Sofia combined."
"Then let's make sure we're ready for him."
She left him in his office, the knife still lying on his desk like a promise. In the hallway, Mike was waiting.
"We're really doing this?" he asked. "Trusting a chef with two billion dollars and our case?"
"We're trusting a soldier who happens to be a chef," Resa corrected. "There's a difference."
"You keep saying that. I'm not sure it's true."
"We'll find out soon enough."
It was midnight. In six hours, Andy would transfer the Bitcoin. In six hours, the Hotel Post would become the center of the biggest cryptocurrency theft recovery in history.
And somewhere in the city, Yuri Volkov was making his own plans.
Resa could feel the storm building. She just hoped they weren't all standing in its eye when it broke.
# Chapter 3: Safe Harbor
The Copper Kettle served its last table at 10:47 PM. Andy watched his crew break down their stations with the efficiency of soldiers striking camp. In a way, they were soldiers—united by purpose, bound by the shared trauma of dinner service. He'd hired most of them himself. Maria, his sous chef, had been with him eight years. She had a daughter in second grade and a mortgage she stressed about. Tom, the saucier, was putting himself through night school for computer programming. Lisa, on pastry, sent money home to her sick mother in Ohio.
These were his people. They trusted him. And because of that trust, they were all in danger.
The text had been specific. *First the sommelier, then the night manager.* They knew the staff hierarchy. They'd been watching.
Andy retreated to his office and locked the door. He pulled out the prepaid phone and stared at the Bitcoin wallet address they'd sent. 5,000 BTC. Roughly two hundred million dollars. A fraction of the total haul, but enough to make the transfer traceable. Once he sent it, they'd know for certain he controlled the wallet. They'd have his transaction signature. And they'd know Peter had trusted him completely.
He could refuse. He could transfer the entire amount to a new wallet they didn't know about, move it through mixers until it was untraceable, and disappear. Peter had taught him how. "Just in case," he'd said, those last three weeks ago.
But running meant leaving his crew exposed. The Bitcoin gang—the Consortium, Peter had called them—wasn't known for mercy. They'd killed Peter not just for the betrayal they thought he'd committed, but as a message to the others. Andy had seen the photos Peter showed him. The other three members were serious people. Trained. Connected. They'd find his staff, his friends, anyone who might know something. They'd extract information with methods Andy had seen used in war zones.
He'd spent twenty years building a life away from that violence. Now it had followed him home.
The prepaid phone buzzed again. A different number. Same message, but with a new detail:
*We have the sommelier's daughter. She's safe for now. Cute kid. Likes unicorns. Transfer 1000 BTC in the next hour or we send her mother a finger.*
Below that was a photo. Marcus—Andy recognized him from Peter's description, the logistics guy—holding a stuffed unicorn, smiling at the camera like a proud uncle. The little girl—Emily, the sommelier's daughter—was in the background, playing with blocks, unaware.
Andy felt ice crawl up his spine. They'd escalated. This was no longer about money. This was about control.
He had the sommelier's home address in his files. Jennifer Lau, single mother, daughter Emily, age six. Jennifer had mentioned once that Emily's father had walked out when she was a baby. That she'd built her whole world around this job, this hotel, this fragile stability.
Andy had to make a choice.
He opened his laptop—not the prepaid phone, but his regular computer—and logged into a VPN. Then he accessed a cloud storage service where Peter had left him instructions. There was a file named "In Case of Emergency." Andy had never opened it, hoping he wouldn't have to.
Inside were names. Photos. Addresses. The complete roster of the Consortium.
Marcus Bell. Logistics. Former Marine, dishonorable discharge. Expert in transportation, security systems, and making people disappear. Currently checked into the Post under the name Michael Ross. Room 203.
Sofia Chen. Financer. MIT classmate of Peter's, the one who'd provided the capital for the operation. Specialized in money laundering and offshore accounts. Room 318. Checked in as Sarah Mitchell.
And the leader. The one Peter had feared most.
Yuri Volkov. Former Russian intelligence, or so Peter suspected. The strategist. The one who'd planned the heist down to the second. He wasn't staying at the Post—too careful for that. But he was close. Peter's notes said Yuri had a safe house somewhere in the city, a place he went when operations went sideways.
Three people. Three killers. And somewhere, a little girl who liked unicorns.
Andy transferred 1,000 BTC to the address they'd provided. It was traceable, but so be it. He included a message in the transaction metadata: *PROOF OF LIFE IN ONE HOUR OR I TUMBLE THE REST AND YOU GET NOTHING.*
Let them think he was just a scared amateur. Let them underestimate him.
While he waited, he called Jennifer Lau. She answered on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.
"Jennifer, it's Andy Melone. From the restaurant."
"Chef? Is everything okay?"
"I need you to listen carefully. Is Emily with you?"
"Yes, she's sleeping. Why?"
"Wake her up. Take her somewhere else. A friend's house, your mother's, anywhere but home. Don't tell anyone where you're going. Don't pack much. Just go."
He could hear the fear creeping into her voice. "Chef, you're scaring me."
"Good. You should be scared. Just trust me. Please."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Okay. We're leaving in ten minutes."
"Thank you."
He hung up and transferred another 4,000 BTC to the same address. Then he deleted the message thread and powered off the prepaid phone. He wouldn't use it again.
The kitchen was empty when he emerged from his office. The cleaning crew had gone home. The silence felt heavy, expectant. Andy walked to the butcher's station and selected his favorite knife—a ten-inch chef's blade that he'd had custom-forged in Japan. It balanced perfectly in his hand. In the army, they'd taught him to fix what was broken. In kitchens, they'd taught him to break things down into their component parts.
He was about to do both.
---
Resa ate dinner at the Copper Kettle because it was part of the investigation, but also because she was hungry and hotel room service was depressing. She sat at a corner table where she could see the kitchen doors and ordered the tasting menu. Let the chef think she was just another diner. Let him relax.
The food was extraordinary. A scallop crudo with yuzu and chili that made her close her eyes involuntarily. A pasta with mushrooms that tasted like the forest floor after rain. A piece of halibut so perfectly cooked it barely held together under her fork.
Andy Melone was a genius. He was also a man under pressure. She could see it in the way his crew moved—stiff, cautious, like they were walking on eggshells. Something had changed in the kitchen between lunch and dinner. The easy camaraderie was gone, replaced by something tense and watchful.
Her phone buzzed. Mike.
*Found something. Marcus Bell, aka Michael Ross, Room 203. Has a record. Dishonorable discharge, suspected in three missing persons cases but never charged. Currently works private security.*
Resa texted back: *On it.*
She signaled for the check. The waiter—young, nervous—brought it over on a leather folio. As she opened it to slip her card inside, she noticed something written on the receipt in tiny, precise handwriting:
*Room 203. 11 PM. Come alone or the girl dies.*
Her blood went cold. She looked up, but the waiter had already moved to another table. She scanned the room and caught Andy watching her from the kitchen window. He held her gaze for exactly three seconds, then disappeared.
He was asking for help. Or setting a trap.
Either way, she was going to Room 203 at 11 PM.
She paid her bill and left a generous tip. In the lobby, she found Mike waiting with two uniforms.
"We have probable cause to bring in Marcus Bell," she said quietly. "But I think we should wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For him to make a move. Marcus is the muscle. We need the brains."
Mike looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "Resa, this guy's a suspected killer."
"And our chef is communicating with him." She showed him the receipt. "Andy Melone just invited me to a meeting."
"That's not an invitation. That's a threat."
"It's both. And it's our way in." She turned to the uniforms. "I want surveillance on Room 203. Audio if you can get it, visual if you can't. And I want a team ready to move at my signal. But nobody goes in until I say so. Understood?"
They understood. Mike opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He'd worked with her long enough to know when she'd made up her mind.
"I'll be in the lobby," he said. "Watching the feed. If it goes sideways—"
"It won't. Andy's not a killer. He's a soldier. There's a difference."
"You sure about that?"
"No," Resa admitted. "But I'm sure he's our best chance of ending this before more people die."
She spent the next two hours in her car, watching the hotel. At 10:45, she saw Jennifer Lau leave through the side entrance, carrying a sleeping child wrapped in a blanket. She didn't look back. Good girl, Resa thought.
At 10:55, Resa entered the hotel and took the stairs to the second floor. She left her phone with Mike—if things went bad, she didn't want them finding it—but kept her service weapon. Her backup piece, a small .38, was tucked in an ankle holster.
Room 203 was at the end of the hall. She knocked twice, then stepped to the side, standard entry protocol.
The door opened. Marcus Bell filled the doorway—six-three, two hundred thirty pounds, with the kind of muscle that came from functional training, not gym mirrors. He looked at her and smiled.
"Detective Rational. I was wondering when you'd show up."
"Marcus Bell. Also known as Michael Ross. Also known as the man who's about to be charged with kidnapping and possibly murder."
His smile didn't waver. "Come in. We need to talk."
The room was standard Post—tired furniture, polyester bedding, a view of the parking garage. Sofia Chen sat in the chair by the window, looking perfectly composed in a silk blouse and tailored slacks. She held a tablet that displayed what looked like a Bitcoin transaction ledger.
"Detective," she said. "We've been expecting you."
"Where's the girl?" Resa asked.
"Safe," Marcus said. "For now."
"That's not proof of life."
Sofia turned the tablet toward her. On screen was a live video feed. Emily Lau sat at a kitchen table, coloring. She looked unharmed, bored even. An adult hand entered the frame, offering her a cookie. She took it without looking up.
"She's at a safe house," Sofia said. "With one of our associates. Her mother thinks she's at a friend's. No harm will come to her as long as we get what we want."
Resa kept her voice level. "Which is?"
"The wallet that Peter Novak stole from us," Marcus said. "We know he gave it to Andy Melone. We want you to convince Andy to give it back."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because if you don't, the girl gets hurt. And then we start on the rest of the staff. Jennifer. Maria, the sous chef. Tom, the saucier. We know where they all live. We'll work our way through Andy's kitchen until he gives us what we want."
Resa calculated her options. She could arrest them now, but Emily would disappear. These people had resources, backup plans. She needed to play along.
"And if I get you the wallet?"
"The girl goes home. The staff is safe. And we disappear. You can pretend you never found us."
"That's a lot of trust for criminals to put in a cop."
Sofia smiled. It was a cold expression, like ice cracking on a lake. "We have leverage, Detective. You have a reputation for protecting innocents. We did our research. You saved those children from the Martinez syndicate last year. You took a bullet for a witness in the Corinth case. You care about civilians. We care about money. It's a simple transaction."
Resa looked at Marcus. "What happened to Peter wasn't simple."
"Peter betrayed us," Marcus said, and for the first time she heard emotion in his voice. Not regret. Anger. "He tried to cut us out. He was going to run with the entire haul. That wasn't the agreement."
"So you killed him."
"We executed a traitor. There's a difference."
Resa had heard that justification before. It never got less disgusting. "I'll talk to Andy. But I need proof the girl is safe, unharmed, every hour until this is resolved."
"Done," Sofia said. "You have until 6 AM tomorrow. That's when our patience runs out."
Resa left the room, her hands shaking with adrenaline and rage. In the hallway, she pressed her back against the wall and breathed. Mike materialized from the stairwell.
"What happened?"
"We have a hostage situation. Six-year-old girl. They're using her to leverage Andy's cooperation."
"Jesus."
"I need to talk to Andy. Now."
They found him in his office, the custom knife laid across his desk like a statement. He looked at them without surprise.
"You met Marcus and Sofia," he said.
"They have Emily Lau."
"I know. I moved Jennifer and Emily to a safe location. Marcus lied about having her. The video is old footage from a birthday party. I recognized the unicorn balloon in the background. It was from last month."
Resa stared at him. "How do you know that?"
"I pay attention. It's what I do." He picked up the knife, testing its edge with his thumb. "The Consortium thinks they have leverage. They don't. But they're going to escalate. Yuri is the dangerous one. He's here, in the city. He won't show his face until he's ready to end this."
"Andy, I need you to tell me everything."
He looked at her, really looked at her, and she saw the soldier he'd been, the medic who'd held guts in while mortars fell. "I have the wallet. All fifty-one thousand Bitcoin. Peter gave it to me for safekeeping. He was going to negotiate with them, try to buy his way out. They killed him before he could."
"Why you?"
"Because I owed him. And because I'm good at keeping things safe." He smiled slightly, a bitter expression. "It's a medic's skill. You hold onto things—supplies, medicine, hope—until they're needed."
"These people will kill you for it."
"They're going to kill me anyway. The question is whether they kill anyone else first." He set the knife down. "I have a plan. But I need your help."
"My help? You're obstructing a murder investigation."
"I'm trying to prevent more murders. There's a difference."
He was echoing Marcus's words, but with something else behind them. Not justification. Desperation.
"What's your plan?" Resa asked.
"You let me transfer the Bitcoin. All of it. To an account they control."
"That's surrender."
"It's bait. The moment they move that much cryptocurrency, it lights up every blockchain monitoring system in the world. The exchange it was stolen from has been watching for it. The FBI cyber division has alerts set. The second those coins move from my wallet, everyone knows where they are. Including Yuri."
"You want to use the money to flush out the leader."
"I want to use the money to make them all visible. Then you can arrest them. All of them. With evidence that will stick."
"What about the hostage?"
"There is no hostage. But they don't know that. They think they're winning. Let them think it."
Resa considered. It was a good plan. Risky, but good. It meant letting two billion dollars in stolen crypto move through the system, but it would bring down the entire crew. And it would keep Andy alive—maybe.
"What's in this for you?" she asked.
"My staff stays safe. Peter's death gets avenged. And I get to go back to cooking," Andy said. "Simple."
Nothing about this was simple. But it was the only plan that didn't end with more bodies.
"Okay," Resa said. "But we do this my way. I want surveillance on every move. I want the FBI cyber team standing by. And if anyone gets hurt—including you—this deal is off."
Andy extended his hand. "Deal."
She shook it. His grip was firm, calloused from years of knife work."Detective, one more thing. Yuri Volkov isn't just going to watch this happen. He's going to try to take control. When he does, he'll be dangerous. More dangerous than Marcus and Sofia combined."
"Then let's make sure we're ready for him."
She left him in his office, the knife still lying on his desk like a promise. In the hallway, Mike was waiting.
"We're really doing this?" he asked. "Trusting a chef with two billion dollars and our case?"
"We're trusting a soldier who happens to be a chef," Resa corrected. "There's a difference."
"You keep saying that. I'm not sure it's true."
"We'll find out soon enough."
It was midnight. In six hours, Andy would transfer the Bitcoin. In six hours, the Hotel Post would become the center of the biggest cryptocurrency theft recovery in history.
And somewhere in the city, Yuri Volkov was making his own plans.
Resa could feel the storm building. She just hoped they weren't all standing in its eye when it broke.
