X-03

5:18 AM

Sarah stood just outside the post office, feeling the cool morning air on her face. Streetlights reflected across the wet pavement in long, broken lines. Somewhere down the block, a lone engine idled.

She held her phone to her ear, listening to her handler’s voice cutting through the quiet.

“понял,” she mumbled like she was dragged out of bed for school.
(“Understood,”)

Sarah ended the call and slipped the phone into the pocket of her dark blue hoodie. She rolled her neck once, loosening the stiffness,

“Хорошо бы заплатили…” she yawned out groggily “Слишком рано чёрт…”
(Better be good money…) (Way too early, damnit…)

She scanned the empty street. The only person in sight was the guard sitting at his post near the front entrance, half-lit by the streetlamp.

When he turned his back, she moved. A quiet sprint across the pavement, then into the narrow alley that separated the post office from the next building. The noise from the street faded behind her.

The loading bay opened up ahead. Delivery trucks sat asleep, their cabins dark, waiting for sunrise to drag them back into motion—which was about seventy minutes from now.

She approached the rear service dock. The lock was simple, no one expects a post office to be robbed.

She pulled a hairpin from her sleeve, slid it into the mechanism, twisted twice, and felt the tumblers slip. The door clicked open.

She slipped inside, immediately flattening her stance as she checked the space.

This was the back corridor where letters and parcels were normally sorted before being pushed out to the lobby or to the delivery team during work hours. Ahead, the doors to the main reception were closed. To her right, the elevator waited to take mail to the top floor. To her left, a dim staff lounge sat empty.

She kept left.

The security room sat tucked into the back corner of the lounge, its door next to a glowing vending machine. She eased the door open and found it just as she expected: unoccupied.

The only guard she had seen tonight was the one outside.

She considered getting a drink from the vending machine.
“Кофе сейчас звучит так хорошо.”
(Coffee sounds so good right now.)

She sat at the console, the chair slightly recoiling as she did.

The last five minutes of camera footage disappeared under her commands. Then she looped the five minutes before that, setting the repeat to run two more times.

That gave her fifteen minutes total.

She stepped back out into the corridor, this time heading straight for the elevator. A quick glance toward the main lobby showed nothing but darkness and the faint glow of the exit signs.

She entered the elevator and rode it to the top floor.

The doors opened into a hallway swallowed in darkness. The lights were off, the air still. She raised her phone and switched on the torch, the narrow beam cutting across shelves and numbered doorplates.

She searched left and found the parcel room. Locked.

She pulled out the same hairpin, slid it into the keyhole but snapped it in half.

She grumbled in irritation.

She tried brute force. Two hard shoves near the latch, and the lock gave. She nudged the door back into place to keep it looking untouched from the outside.

She checked her watch.

5:23.

Two minutes since she’d set the camera loop. Which meant she had less than ten to find the USB.

She replayed her handler’s line in her head:
“Пакет X-03 уже на месте. Забери носитель незаметно.”
(Package X-03 is already in place. Retrieve the drive discreetly.)

She ignored the larger parcels, focusing only on the smaller items. One by one, she shifted boxes, scanning labels, “где же ты…” was repeated in a soft voice.
‎ (“Where are you…”)

Soft, muffled thuds echoed above her from inside the ventilation system. She backed into the far corner of the room and angled her phone into her chest.

A figure dropped out of the vent and landed quietly in the center of the floor. Slender, dressed in dark clothing. Two more followed, one with orange hair and the other with a gray beanie.

She mumbles
“Ну конечно.”
(Of course.)

Sarah eased forward to get a better look, but the beam of her phone flashlight slipped and caught them full in the face.

All three snapped toward her.

The men muttered to each other in Italian. The slender one pointed straight at her.

The two heavier men charged at her first.

Sarah grunted as she sidestepped the first punch and drove her elbow into the ribs of the second. It barely slowed him. A boot swept toward her legs and she jumped back, losing her footing for half a second before recovering.

She landed a kick to the beanie’s knee. He grunted and staggered, but the other swung a wide hook that clipped her jaw and sent her stumbling into a metal shelf.

Sarah’s ears started ringing, her shoulder blades aching.

The shelf rattled down a small package onto the floor.
Bold black letters: X-03.

Her eyes locked onto it.

Another punch came for her head. She ducked, rolled beneath it, and snatched the package off the ground just as a boot stomped where her hand had been.

She pushed off the floor, but one of them caught her by the shoulder. She twisted free, threw a kick, landed it—then took a hard shove to the chest. She hit the ground again. Her focus slipped for a second.

That was enough.

The slender one closed in, slipped behind her, and locked his arm around her neck. His weight drove her down. Her phone flashlight skidded across the tiles. The package slipped from her grip.

It dropped perfectly into the mail chute in the center of the room.

All four of them saw it disappear.

One of the goons muttered something sharp and urgent in Italian.

Sarah jammed her fingers under the slender man’s forearm, forced space, and tore herself free. She shoved him backward and sprinted for the door without looking back.

The goons didn’t bother chasing on foot. The slender one barked an order and they scrambled into the vent they came from.

Sarah bolted into the hallway, already hearing metal clanging overhead. They were all racing to the same place: the sorting room on the ground floor.

She hit the ground floor, slipped out of the elevator, and immediately froze.

Across the lobby, a flashlight beam swept in a sharp arc.

The guard had come inside.

His torch landed squarely on the glass of the lobby doors she was standing behind. She stepped back quickly.

“Shit.” She clicks her tongue as she turned toward the sorting room.

Through the doorway she spotted the slender goon crouched near the main conveyor. The X-03 package slid onto the belt and drifted toward the loading dock where the delivery trucks were lined up.

The goon dropped low, squeezed himself through the rubber flaps of the conveyor’s exit, and vanished into the rear of one of the trucks.

Sarah sprinted after him, ducked under the belt, and forced her way through the same narrow opening. The rubber seals scraped her shoulders as she pushed through.

Inside, it was pitch-black

Behind her, from somewhere in the lobby, the guard’s shout erupted in Portuguese. She knew the cops would be involved now.

She pulled her phone from her pants pocket and flicked the torch on.

The beam cut through the dark just long enough to catch a boot flying straight toward her face.

She reacted on muscle memory. Her weaker hand shot up and caught the slender goon’s ankle before it connected. She braced to drag him down hard.

But then the truck engine roared to life beneath her feet.

The sudden lurch forward threw her balance off as the vehicle accelerated into the night.

Loose crates slid behind her, thudding in uneven bursts as the truck picked up speed.

The truck jerked forward again and Sarah slammed into the steel wall, wincing as she was rammed onto the back of the truck.

The collision shook the cargo hard, the rest of the boxes sliding toward her in an avalanche.

The goon then drove a punch into her left cheek, Sarah winced as he cocked his arm for a second hit.

She dropped low and managed to strike her right fist square in the groin.

The slender goon folded instantly, collapsing to his knees with a strangled burst of Italian curses. He rolled sideways, clutching himself, voice cracking.

“Мама не учила, что женщин по лицу не трогают?”
(“Didn’t your mom teach you not to touch women in the face?”)
She scoffed as she rubbed her reddening cheek.

She then snatched the X-03 package from the floor, checked the label once to confirm, stuffed it deep into her jacket, then grabbed the goon by his collar and dragged him toward the thin sliding panel that opened into the driver’s cabin.

She shoved his head through the gap.

The two men in the front seats snapped toward him, launching into frantic Italian—assuming he’d handled her.

She let them talk for a bit.

She dropped his head out of view, and both driver and passenger goon leaned closer, confused. Sarah slid both arms through the opening, one hand on each of their skulls, and cracked their heads together with a hard, satisfying thud.

Both men cursed and grabbed at their foreheads.

She didn’t stop there. She seized both their heads and rammed them into the side windows. The glass spiderwebbed as they slumped.

The slender goon tried to crawl forward behind her.

She grabbed his collar next, shoved him back into the storage compartment, then slammed the panel shut and twisted the manual latch. Locking him from the outside.

With the front half dazed and the back half trapped, she climbed forward into the driver’s seat. The truck was still hurtling down the road. She kicked the driver’s foot off the gas and eased the brake down until the vehicle screeched into a quiet residential wall with a dull crunch.

She checked her jacket, package and phone secure.

She slipped out through the fractured window and bolted down the street.

By the time she crossed to the opposite sidewalk, she spotted a sign pointing toward the nearest metro station. Good enough.

She glanced back. A faint red-blue shimmer pulsed at the far end of the block—police car, closing fast.

She gave a sigh of relief. She started to acknowledge the physical pain she just went through. It wasn’t too bad, a few odd bruises here and there but it could all be covered under her usual common attire.

She did have a really sore cheek though.

Above her, the sky softened. A faint glow leaked through the clouds. Dawn was coming, the sun itself minutes behind.

Her phone lit up in her palm.

06:00.

Sarah pulled her phone from her jacket pocket, thumb swiping across the screen as she unlocked it. The display blinked to life, bright against the dim light of the early morning. She tapped the call icon and held the phone to her ear.

After a few rings, a familiar voice cut through.

“Ты её забрала?”
(Did you retrieve it?)

“Забрала. Но не без осложнений.” Sarah answered.
(Yes, but not without complications.)

“Правда?”
(Is that so?)

“Не строй из себя невинного. Почему ты не сказал, что там конкуренты? Пришлось иметь дело с тремя итальянскими болванами.” She flared up softly.
(Don’t play coy with me. Why didn’t you tell me there was competition? I had to deal with three Italian buffoons.)

Ты справилась, я так понимаю?
(You’re competent, you handled it, yes?)

“Хм… да, справилась.”
(Yeah… handled it.)

“Отлично. Переведу оплату.” He said whilst his keyboard clacked.
(Good. I’ll wire the payment.)

When she ended the call, she let out a soft scoff and rubbed the back of her neck, wincing at the tension that had built up from the fight. Her thoughts flicked to her day job. 8:00 at the music store. “Right.”

With a deep breath, she hustled to the metro station. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she descended the stairs, weaving through the sparse crowd of early commuters.

The train screeched to a halt, doors opening in a hiss. She slipped inside and found a seat.

She got back to her apartment and locked the door behind her. She plugged her phone in. A quick hot shower, with steam fogging the bathroom mirror as she scrubbed away the last traces of the night’s fight.

She dried off, pulled on her clothes, and packed her bag with the day’s essentials. She grabbed her violin case and double checked its locks.

A quick swipe of eyeliner, and some concealer to hide the dark circles, and a splash of coffee brewing in the corner as she leaned against the counter. By the time the aroma filled the apartment, she’d poured it in a disposable mug and sipped it slowly.

Her purse slung over her shoulder, coffee in hand, she headed back out, keys in pocket, and made her way to the metro station. Ticket purchased, she slid into an empty seat, letting the train’s movement rock her slightly, eyes scanning the carriage clock.

7:31.

Twenty minutes to her stop, plus another five to reach the music store. Should be fine.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out to find a notification: a deposit of a little over a thousand euros. She let out a small, tired huff.

“That should cover rent for the month,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head at the relief it brought.

The train hummed along the tracks, and Sarah’s thoughts drifted. Her fingers moved over the screen again, searching for train tickets to St. Petersburg in Russia. Prices scrolled by, each one slightly higher than the last.

She frowned and tapped the call icon.

Sarah stepped into the music studio.

“Bom dia, Sarah!” a colleague called cheerfully.
(Good morning, Sarah!)

“Bom dia,” she replied. A faint smile flickered as she nodded to a couple of others.

She made her way to the counter, dropping her bag lightly on the floor. Her mug went straight into the dust bin. She sank into the clerk’s chair behind the counter and flicked through her schedule for the day, eyes glancing almost obsessively at the wall clock. Six o’clock.

She knew the exact moment she’d be free. A faint, amused smile tugged at her lips before she shook her head and focused back on the tasks at hand.

Bands came and went, the studio filling and emptying.

She moved instruments, adjusted microphones, and covered for a few colleagues who had disappeared for errands or lunch breaks. When she had a free moment, she flipped through a Portuguese lesson app on her phone.

Hours slipped by. The clock ticked toward six.

When the hands finally aligned, she stretched and quietly stood, gathering her bag and violin case. She approached the manager’s office.

“Obrigada, vou indo,” she said, voice careful, a hint of her usual accent slipping through. (Thanks, I’m leaving.)

“Bom trabalho, Sarah. E teu português está melhorando,” Her manager replied with a small smile.
(Good work, Sarah. And your Portuguese is improving.)

Sarah returned the smile, waved lightly at the rest of her colleagues, and accepted the envelope he handed her. One hundred euros, plus a fifteen-euro bonus for covering shifts and skipping lunch.

“Por que você tem assumido os turnos dos outros?” he asked curiously.
(Why have you been taking over other people’s shifts?)

“Dinheiro é bom,” she answered simply.
(The money’s good.)

“Ah, sim, sim,” he chuckled, waving her off.
(Ah, yes, yes,)

With her purse slung over her shoulder, violin case on her back and phone in hand, she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The evening air was cool, the sun almost fully set and city lights were flickering on. A quick stop at a corner shop netted her a chocolate bar before she descended the metro stairs.

The train hummed beneath her as she settled into a seat. Four stops later, she climbed out, the faint squeal of the doors closing behind her. A bus waited just across the street, twenty minutes to her destination. She found a window seat and let herself sink against it, eyes scanning lightly over the other passengers.

6:52 PM.

She stepped off the bus, adjusting her hair. The bar loomed ahead, its warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. Inside, the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses filled the air.

She stepped inside, the warm glow of the bar spilling onto her face. It was fairly busy for the hour.

A few small groups lingered near the tables, and a couple of people perched at the bar, quietly nursing drinks. She supposed bars didn’t really get lively until well past nine.

Sarah navigated between chairs and low tables, her violin case tapping softly against her back, and reached the bar. She caught the attention of a young employee wiping down the counter.

“Ele está aqui?” she asked slowly.
(Is he here?)

The man’s eyes turned to her. “Sim, sim, está aqui. Foi para os fundos um segundo,” he replied immediately. (Yes, yes, he’s here. He went to the back for a second.)

Sarah gave a small nod of thanks, pulling her phone out as she eased onto a stool. She scrolled briefly, checking her reflection in the dark screen—hair mostly in place, makeup holding, the bruises from the earlier night hidden beneath her usual layer of concealer.

A few minutes passed, her fingers idly tapping the screen, until a cocktail appeared quietly at her right, the straw angled perfectly toward her. She looked up, meeting the bartender’s eye.

“Ты… как сюда вдруг?” A bartender with an unconvincing accent, stumbling over the words. (You… how come you’re here all of a sudden?)

“Don’t push it,” she replied, though her smile betrayed her amusement.