CHAPTER 11: FAULT LINES
By sunrise, the Royal Mint wasn't a battleground it was a pressure cooker.
The crew wasn't talking.
Nairobi barely spoke. Tokyo avoided Berlin. Denver refused to leave Moscow's side. Rio was glued to the comms, ears tuned for even a flicker of my voice.
And me?
I was watching it all collapse. One monitor at a time.
Nairobi finished wrapping the last IV line into Moscow's arm. He was stable but unconscious.
She looked at Denver.
"You need sleep."
"I'm not leaving him."
"He needs you alive when he wakes up."
Denver shook his head. "He needs me now. Not later."
She gave him a blanket.
And left him to hold his father's hand.
Meanwhile, Arturo was slipping deeper into the belly of the Mint. He had the guard's card, the layout memorized, and desperation bleeding from his every pore.
He wasn't trying to be a hero now.
He was trying to get out.
Alone.
Even if it meant blood.
Tokyo caught up with Berlin in the weapon stash near Vault Corridor C.
"You should've told us Arturo was gone."
He didn't look at her. Just cleaned a rifle.
"I had it under control."
"No, you had it buried. That's not the same."
"You think I don't see how they look at you now? Like you're the new leader?"
"I don't want to lead. I want to survive."
He stood, slammed the magazine into place.
"You don't get both."
Their eyes locked.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Not hate.
Something worse:
Regret.
In the tunnels, Helsinki was trying to reinforce the weakened supports. Every hour they delayed the dig-out pushed the escape window further into risk.
He turned to the wall and whispered something in Serbian.
A prayer.
A curse.
Both.
I sent Rio a private signal.
"Status update," I said.
"Bad. We're fracturing. Berlin's in his own world. Tokyo's close to mutiny. Nairobi's exhausted. Denver's wrecked. Moscow's still out."
"And you?"
"I miss you."
There was silence.
"I'm not abandoning you," I said.
"I know. But you're not here either."
And I had no answer for that.
Raquel was now two steps ahead.
She'd triangulated my last three signal pings.
Cross-referenced them with traffic cams.
And she had a list of potential disguises.
A man in a trench coat. Glasses. Cane. Always the same frame.
She posted sketches.
Interpol was activated.
And my anonymity?
It was disintegrating.
Back inside, Tokyo tried to reset morale.
She brought everyone together in the cafeteria. Hostages. Crew. Everyone.
"We are here for one reason," she said. "To survive. To get the money. And to walk out of here as ghosts."
She looked at the hostages.
"Every one of you helping us print gets a million euros. That deal hasn't changed. But if you help anyone escape? Or sabotage us?"
She pulled a pistol.
"You forfeit your life."
She wasn't smiling.
And neither was anyone else.
Berlin stayed out of that meeting.
He was down in the red corridor, staring at a mirror.
He looked old.
Worn.
Like the mask he wore was melting.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small vial.
Swallowed it.
And closed his eyes.
Later, he found Nairobi.
Handed her a clipboard.
"You take the printing floor from here."
She blinked. "You're stepping down?"
"Temporarily."
She studied him. "Or permanently?"
He didn't answer.
Just walked away.
At 2:37 p.m., Arturo reached the roof.
He cracked the emergency lock.
Lifted the hatch.
And for one glorious second
He saw the sun.
Then heard the click of a rifle behind him.
Tokyo.
"You think you're the first one to try this?"
He froze.
"Climb back down," she said.
"No."
"You leave, you die."
"I die anyway. In here, or out there."
She didn't shoot.
But she didn't lower the weapon either.
And eventually, he climbed back down.
Raquel sat alone at her desk, reviewing my voice logs.
She had me.
She could prove it.
But something in her stopped her from moving forward.
Instead, she opened the file marked "Álvaro."
Scrolled to the part about his father. The bank robbery. The hospital.
She stared at that paragraph.
And started crying.
Because for a moment, it wasn't a criminal she was chasing.
It was a broken boy with a plan to rewrite the world.