Chapter 3 - The Art of DeceptionBy noon, Grant had relocated Sadie from the industrial waterfront warehouse to a secure safe house located on the top floor of a high-rise residential building overlooking Central Park.
The apartment was sleek, minimalist, and heavily fortified with biometric security locks and private elevator access. A private doctor—a discreet, middle-aged man named Dr. Vance who owed Grant a debt that could never be repaid—had examined Sadie’s ribs, prescribed painkillers, and applied specialized ointments to her bruised face.
"You need rest," Dr. Vance had told her before packing up his black leather bag. "Your ribs aren't fractured, but they're severely bruised. If you push yourself too hard over the next forty-eight hours, you'll be coughing blood."
After the doctor left, Sadie sat at the marble kitchen island, sipping chamomile tea while watching Grant work across the room. He had set up a makeshift command center on the dining table, surrounded by encrypted laptops, financial printouts, and architectural blueprints of downtown Manhattan.
"You're quiet," Grant noted without looking up from his screen.
"I'm just trying to process the fact that my life was hijacked by a missing brother who apparently moonlights as an international syndicate thief," Sadie sighed, setting her teacup down.
Grant looked up, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. "It's an impressive resume, I'll give him that. Most accountants settle for embezzling from the petty cash drawer."
"It's not funny, Grant," she said, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her split lip.
"Humor is a survival mechanism, Sadie. In my line of work, if you don't laugh at the absurdity of human greed, you end up drinking yourself to death by forty."
Before Sadie could respond, the secure laptop on the table chimed softly—a double-tone notification indicating an incoming encrypted trace.
Grant’s expression shifted instantly from casual host to ruthless strategist. He slammed his fingers across the keyboard, routing the signal through three different proxy servers in Zurich and Singapore.
"Got it," Grant murmured.
"What is it?" Sadie asked, standing up from the island and walking over to his side.
"An IP address ping from a burner device," Grant said, his eyes scanning scrolling lines of code. "The signal originated from a public Wi-Fi network at the Metropolitan Museum of Art uptown."
Sadie gasped. "The Met? Arthur and I used to restore sixteenth-century gilded frames for their European sculpture wing years ago before he took the corporate job at Hale Maritime."
Grant’s gaze sharpened. "Does he have a secure workspace or a storage locker there?"
"Not officially," Sadie said, her mind racing. "But... the conservation labs beneath the sculpture wing have private subterranean access tunnels that date back to the early nineteen-hundreds. They’re closed to the public. Only senior conservators and master restorers have the security codes."
Grant stood up immediately, grabbing his charcoal suit jacket from the back of his chair.
"Get your coat," Grant ordered quietly.
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"We're going to the museum?" Sadie asked, her eyes widening.
"We are," Grant said, sliding a sleek, black-finished Smith & Wesson M&P Shield into his shoulder holster. "Before Valeri’s hitmen figure out the same digital footprint and beat us there."
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