"You want us to believe you can pick a lock that's designed to survive ocean voyages?"
Dante stared at Marcus. His driver looked like death warmed over. One eye swollen shut.
Blood crusted across his face. And now he was claiming he could get them out of a reinforced shipping container with nothing but hope and determination.
"I was a Navy SEAL before I worked for you," Marcus said. His voice was steady despite the pain. "Extraction. Infiltration. Lock picking was day one stuff."
"That was what, ten years ago?" Elena moved closer, studying the lock through the small gap at the door's edge. "And you don't have tools."
"I have these." Marcus held up his hands. Even in the dim light, Dante could see the scars. Old ones. The kind you got from doing dangerous things with sharp objects. "A
