Ryan didn't return to the 42nd-floor office, nor did he head back to his own apartment.
He took a circuitous route, switching cabs twice, finally unlocking the door to a sterile, short-term corporate rental in Hell's Kitchen he had booked under a pseudonym three days prior.
The apartment was aggressively modern, devoid of any personal touches. White walls. Grey furniture. A glass coffee table.
Ryan dropped his overcoat over a chair and set the scorched steel briefcase onto the glass surface. The smell of thermite and charred metal instantly polluted the stale, recycled air of the room.
He didn't sit down. He gripped the warped edges of the briefcase, his thumbs finding the seam where Graves had melted the locking mechanism.
The steel groaned, resisting for a fraction of a second before Ryan ripped the lid backward.
The hinges snapped. The case lay open.
Nestled inside a custom-cut block of high-density foam was the silver flash drive.
