Hearing the report, Steve's expression twisted into sothing even more grotesque.
"Quick! Put it on!"
He glared at the optical disc in his subordinate's hand—a copy of surveillance footage procured from god knows where.
"Yes, sir!"
The subordinate hurriedly handed the disc to a team leader, who rushed to the dia player connected to the television. After a mont of fumbling with the controls, the screen flickered to life.
A series of clips from different street corners and angles began to play.
So were fleeting, blurry shots captured by caras near the villa's periter. Others ca from the private security company monitoring the wealthy residential district.
Clearly, the security firm responsible for the area was feeling the heat. After a billionaire's villa was cleaned out right under their noses two nights ago, they were desperate to save face. Consequently, they had been very cooperative with Steve's n, handing over footage without much resistance.
Steve stared unblinkingly at the screen, his face darkening with every passing second.
"Charlie Croker!"
Steve practically roared the na, grinding his teeth so hard they might crack.
Although most of the surveillance footage on the screen was grainy, the silhouettes were distinct enough for Steve to recognize them.
Evidently, the thieves hadn't anticipated that Steve would secure footage from caras hundreds of ters away from his property lines. They had been careful near the villa, but careless further out.
On the screen, several figures were clearly captured.
Steve knew every single one of them.
Especially the man leading the group. It was exactly who he had suspected—the only man capable of planning such an elaborate heist and stealing two massive safes containing his life's fortune: the international master thief, Charlie Croker.
In the instant he saw Charlie, a cascade of questions in Steve's mind found their answers.
"Charlie Croker... It really was you!"
Steve had been racking his brain, trying to understand how two safes—weighing over four tons combined with the gold inside—could be moved without leaving a single trace, all within such a short window of ti. It had seed physically impossible.
But seeing Charlie Croker on the screen changed everything.
If the opponent was Charlie Croker—a man known for his ticulous mind, a man who would spend months perfecting a plan down to the second—then the impossible beca possible.
Staring at his 'old friend' on the television, Steve let out a sinister laugh, his eyes radiating pure malice.
"You've really got guts, Charlie!"
"I spared your pathetic lives back then, and this is how you repay ? By delivering yourselves to my doorstep?"
Steve was a villain, through and through. He never pretended to be a saint.
Over a year ago, when he decided to betray the team and keep the ton of gold they had stolen from the Italian mafia for himself, he had murdered John Bridger. Old John had been Charlie's ntor, a father figure, and the soul of their team.
Killing John was a calculated move to break Charlie psychologically.
Back then, Steve had the chance to kill them all. He didn't, partially because he had secured the gold and his bloodlust had subsided, and partially because, after years of working together, he held a shred of camaraderie for them.
So, he hadn't finished the job.
If he had been ruthless then—when he and his n were fully ard and Charlie's team was crashing into the freezing lake with nothing but two small ergency air tanks—they would all be dead. How long could they have held their breath in that water?
Steve had regretted that mont of rcy every day since.
For the past year, he had lived in low-profile seclusion, paying the price for his softness.
He never expected his old friends to find him so quickly. And he certainly didn't expect them to strip him of everything—not just the gold he stole from them, but the majority of the wealth he had accumulated over the years.
The safes didn't just hold the remaining gold bars. They held cash, luxury watches, gems, and bearer bonds. Aside from his real estate and cars, those safes contained his entire net worth.
Without them, Steve had gone from a multimillionaire to a man facing imminent bankruptcy.
After all, loyalty was expensive.
His team of rcenaries cost hundreds of thousands of dollars a year in salaries alone.
And while real estate prices in the U.S. were relatively low compared to so places, the holding costs were brutal. In Los Angeles, property tax hovered around two percent.
Steve owned three properties. This villa alone cost him nearly a hundred thousand dollars a year in taxes. Add in maintenance, utilities, and insurance, and the annual upkeep was astronomical.
In Arica, living in a mansion wasn't just about buying it; it was about surviving the bills.
The thought made the veins on Steve's forehead bulge.
He whipped his head toward one of his n. "You. Go check it out."
"I want to know where Charlie Croker is. You have twenty-four hours."
"Yes, sir!"
The subordinate acknowledged the order and sprinted out.
Steve turned his gaze back to the screen, his eyes locked on the frozen image of Charlie's team. Now that he had identified the culprit, the fog in his mind lifted. His brain began to work sharply again.
"The Worthington 1000 isn't sothing just anyone can crack," he muttered to himself.
His eyes drifted to the person standing next to Charlie in the footage.
"Who is this woman?"
"A new mber of his team?"
"Wait... I rember Old John ntioning sothing once."
"He said he had a daughter. Soone with the sa terrifying talent for safes that he had."
"But she didn't follow in his footsteps. She went legit. She runs a security firm, contracting for the police, banks, and insurance companies."
"This woman looks young... She fits the description of the daughter John talked about."
"If I rember correctly, John said she worked right here in Los Angeles."
Thoughts raced through Steve's mind like lightning.
A cold, triumphant smile slowly spread across his face.
Steve knew he had them. He would find Charlie. And soon, he would have his safes back.
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