CHAPTER 4: THE CRACK IN THE MASK
Outside the Mint, a new silence fell over the mobile command post.
Raquel leaned on the table, her fingers digging into the edges, eyes locked on the satellite image of the building. She had seen plenty of hostage situations. Bank jobs. Drug standoffs. But none like this.
This was strategy. Discipline. Theatre.
And whoever was behind it was playing her like a grandmaster.
"I want the voice traced," she snapped. "Backtrack every frequency that came through our tower."
A tech nodded. "We're on it, Inspector. But he's bouncing through encrypted proxies. Very advanced."
"Then find someone smarter than him," she growled.
Inside the Mint, Berlin stood alone in the lobby. He adjusted his cuffs, pulled out a gold pocket watch from his coat, and clicked it open. The ticking echoed in the vast chamber.
A girl, maybe nineteen, shifted nervously near the wall.
"Marina, isn't it?" he asked.
She nodded slowly. "My dad works in logistics."
"You look frightened."
"I am."
He stepped closer, his tone smooth but surgical. "Good. Fear makes us human. But trust me obedience keeps us alive."
He offered her a small wrapped chocolate.
She hesitated.
He raised an eyebrow. "I poisoned it."
She blinked.
"Just kidding. Eat. You'll need the sugar."
She took it. He smiled. The kind of smile that hides a blade.
In the server room, Rio noticed something.
"The police are trying to breach our loop."
"Counter?" I asked.
"Implemented. I sent them a dummy feed of old footage. They'll think it's live."
"Good. But double-encrypt it."
As I gave that order, I noticed something strange. A gap in our schedule logs. A ten-minute black window from the eastern hallway feed.
"Tokyo," I said. "Report."
She came through the mic a few seconds later. "I'm on a sweep. What's up?"
"Did anyone access corridor six in the last half hour?"
"No one on my end."
"Check it again."
Inside corridor six, Arturo Roman sat with a hand-drawn map on his lap and a stolen ID badge tucked in his pocket.
He was planning something.
Again.
Nairobi was back in the press room. Bills flew off the machines in thick, fast stacks. The hostages-turned-laborers were now in rhythm.
José, the old technician, leaned toward her again.
"You know," he said, "you're good at this."
She didn't look away from the bills.
"I was always good," she said. "The world just didn't want to admit it."
He chuckled.
"You have a son, right?"
Her eyes froze for a split second. Then she nodded.
"Axel. I haven't seen him in years. The state took him. Said I was unfit."
"And this?"
"This is me earning him a future. Or at least... a legacy."
She didn't elaborate.
But José saw something change in her then.
And he went back to work without another word.
Meanwhile, in a hallway outside the breakroom, Denver was cleaning his rifle. Tokyo leaned in the doorway, watching him.
"You always polish that thing like it's a violin."
He smirked. "It sings when I shoot."
She sat next to him. No words for a moment.
"You think this is going to work?" she asked.
"I think we're in too deep to turn back."
She lit a cigarette, blew smoke over his lap.
"You ever think about after?"
"What, like a beach? A house? Some tragic love story?"
"I was thinking more like... you and me. Somewhere far away. No names. No bullets."
He looked at her for a long time.
Then leaned in.
Their kiss this time was slower. Less fire. More smoke. Something aching, like they already knew they were doomed.
Raquel stared at her screen.
Then she pointed. "Pause the voice recording. Back five seconds. Listen to that background sound."
The tech replayed it.
Click-click-click.
Raquel's eyes narrowed.
"Sounds like a train schedule. European. Old type. That means he's calling from a transit hub. Not from a mobile van. We're narrowing him down."
Prieto smiled. "Finally."
I was already one step ahead.
I burned the burner phone. Switched to the next one. Relocated to a small bookstore two blocks away. I knew she'd chase the sound.
That's why I left it in.
Every step they took forward, I fed them just enough noise to drown themselves.
Back in the Mint, the tension broke when Berlin lost control.
One of the guards had mouthed off. Spit on the floor. Called him a coward.
Berlin responded by pistol-whipping him in front of the others.
Blood. Screams. Hostages huddled.
Tokyo got in his face. "That wasn't necessary."
"He disrespected the rules."
"You want loyalty? You don't buy it with violence."
Berlin turned, snarled. "I don't care about loyalty. I care about obedience."
She didn't flinch.
"You do that again, and I put a bullet in your knee."
The room fell silent.
And for the first time, I felt the crack.
It wasn't outside.
It was inside us.