Chapter 7: What Marcus Moved

Marcus had already moved forty-one thousand five hundred dollars of Alex's money before Alex sat down.

The Oslo clinic's account number was inked into the first transfer line, black on white, already addressed.

Sung-min had ten days to claim the slot, and the deposit had to clear before the window shut.

Three documents lay on the table above the print shop, edges squared.

'Cleared this morning,' Marcus said. 'Clean account. Nothing that touches the holding company.'

Alex picked up the pen.

He signed all three.

Marcus countersigned each one and sealed them into a print shop envelope.

The envelope went into a courier bag under the desk.

Alex's wrist ached, a low gold burn under the skin.

He looked at the window.

A man stood at the bus shelter across the street, phone angled up at the shop's upper floor.

The light at Alex's pulse points flared, brighter than the midday sun on the glass, and a thin thread of gold slid out from his cuff.

It crossed the window frame and pointed at the street, and the man's phone tracked the light without him knowing what he was recording.

Alex pressed his sleeve flat over his wrist.

The thread pushed back against the fabric, insistent, and bled a thread-thin line of gold through the cuff where the man could see it.

He did not move the arm.

He moved the bag instead, nudging it deeper under the desk with his heel until the strap disappeared behind the drawer.

Marcus saw the movement.

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