Stage two carried the greater risk. The other driver, or an accomplice, had proposed Finch go first in this second exchange—transfer his remaining funds and then receive an identical gym bag holding more U.S. dollars. But Finch wouldn’t agree. There was no reclamation if the recipient simply sped away, stiffing Finch out of the final two hundred fifty thousand. His coins would be irretrievably lost, whereas the gym bag of cash physically existed and could be physically recaptured if Finch tried to make a break for it. And he wasn’t entirely confident they couldn’t track him down.

The second bag smacked against the concrete, and the figure retreated faster this time. Finch stayed as cautious as before, this time sweeping his eyes in a wider arc across the deck as he approached the final payment. This time he kept his right hand on the butt of the holstered Beretta as he carried the bag to the car.

Again, he pulled out a roll of currency at random. Twenty-five one-hundred-dollar bills with enough other rolls to increase the total cash value of the haul to a half million. He tossed the zipped bag into the back seat with the first, and then turned his attention to the laptop. With a few keystrokes, he set up the second transfer, moved the cursor to the icon, and paused. If he’d been heading up a sting operation, he would have called in his backup. He now had a record of the transfer and the cash as evidence. On his signal, all exits to the parking garage would have been sealed, and a computer forensics team would have descended upon the car, primed to confiscate all electronic equipment before it could be wiped clean.

If he were heading up a sting operation.

He started the engine. Then he clicked the icon to initiate the second transfer, deleted his private key, and slammed the transmission into reverse. The vehicle rocketed backward so fast, the tires laid rubber. The laptop tumbled onto the floorboard, shutting the screen against the keys. But Finch wasn’t taking the time to watch the balance of his account decline. He was hell-bent on getting the half-million dollars to safety. The tires continued to screech in protest as he raced down the ramps to the exit.

The crossing bar was down. If he’d been set up by the mysterious other party, the exit lane could be the ambush point. He’d checked that there were no surveillance cameras on the entrance or exit. So, without stopping, he crashed through the bar, sending it splintering onto the pavement. What was a dent or busted headlight in exchange for the untraceable windfall that rode with him?