"Have you heard from them?" I ask him as he opens the door, and he grunts.
"Nah, but I know they're coming based on the email response we got this morning. It's just a matter of time."
Riley stays close to me, her arms wrapped around herself, as we enter the main offices. I don’t come here often, but when I do, I always draw stares. Employees gawk at us as we walk past, probably wondering why the head honcho is here. And a few of them look curious as to who Riley is.
The admin office is tiny compared to mine, but all we need is a computer hooked up to the network with access to all our systems and Feodor has supplied exactly that. We squeeze into the closet-sized space I can never imagine Lombardi occupying,and Riley plants herself in the chair, already waking the computer up.
"Everything you need is here," he says. "Admin login is already pulled up. You'll need to access the federal shipping database and update the routing permits for shipment code seven-four-three-nine."
Riley sits down and pulls the keyboard toward her. Her fingers hover over the keys for a moment, then she starts typing. I watch her work for a few seconds. She's fast. Her eyes scan the screen, darting from line to line, and her fingers move without hesitation.
"How much time do I have?" she asks without looking up.
"Just over an hour," I say. "Maybe less."
She nods and keeps typing. The minutes crawl past. I stand behind her, watching the code scroll across the screen, and try not to think about what happens if she fails. Feodor steps out to coordinate with the men on the floor, leaving me alone with her.
"I need the original filing date," she says.
"Three weeks ago. November twenty-eighth."
Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "And the destination?"
"Seattle. Distribution center on the south side."
She pulls up another window and starts cross-referencing codes. I watch her brow furrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. She's nervous. I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way she keeps glancing at the clock in the corner of the screen.
"How did you learn to do this?" I ask.
"Online tutorials. Forums. Trial and error." She doesn't look at me. "I used to build custom mods for games I played. Tweaking mechanics, adding features. It's not that different from this."
Seconds tick by, then minutes. I lean against the wall and see how her hands are shaking, especially when Feodor knocks to let me know he's gotten a call and the agents are about fifteen minutes out. Her nervous glances stop entirely after that, focus consuming everything she's doing. And when Feodor knocks again, she hits the enter key and the printer in the corner buzzes to life.
"Done," she says, but her face is contorted in fear.
"They're here," Feodor says at the same time Riley speaks. The tension in this room is so palpable, I could play it like a guitar string.
"Let's go," I tell them, waiting only a second to snag the new paperwork before heading out.
The Feds are waiting by the loading dock, wearing dark suits with badges clipped to their belts. A woman in business attire stands beside them, holding a tablet and looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"Gentlemen," I say, extending my hand. "Rafe Ferretti. I manage this facility."
The taller of the two agents shakes my hand with a firm grip. "Agent Monroe. This is Agent Kellerman and Officer Davis from the compliance division. We're here to inspect shipment seven-four-three-nine."
I hand him the permits. "I was shocked to get your notice. It appears everything's in order on our end." I hand them thepaper, still warm from the printer, but even I'm nervous this time. I'm banking everything in my company on the work of a bank teller from Brooklyn.
Nothing could possibly go wrong…
Officer Davis takes the papers and starts scanning through them with narrowing eyes as she scans each line. Riley stands behind me, her arms crossed, her face pale but composed. I can feel the tension radiating off her, but she doesn't speak.
"These permits are dated three weeks ago," Officer Davis says, frowning. "But the system shows the shipment was flagged yesterday for a routing discrepancy."
"Clerical error," I say smoothly. "One of our staff entered the wrong codes into the system when logging the shipment. It's been corrected."
She looks at me, then at Riley. "And you are?"
Riley straightens. "Riley…" She's wise not to mention her last name. "I handle documentation and filing for this facility."
