“What about the service stairs?” I ask.
“Keycard and six-digit PIN. Can’t clone that without knowing her actual code.”
Talia pulls up more data. “According to building maintenance logs, there’s an HVAC shaft that runs from the parking garage to the roof. Maintenance access requires a basic keycard only—no biometrics.”
“You want us to crawl through air ducts?” Jackson huffs a laugh.
“I want us to have options.” She turns to me. “If elevator access fails, we need a backup entry point.”
Smart. Always thinking three moves ahead.
“The HVAC route dumps us where?” I ask.
Talia traces the schematic on her screen. “Mechanical room on forty-six. One floor below Nexus. We’d have to use service stairs for the last level.”
“Which requires Blackwell’s PIN,” Vargas reminds us.
“Or we bypass the door entirely.” I’m already planning the approach. “I can blow the lock. Shaped charge, minimal noise, won’t trigger fire alarms if I time it right.”
“You’re carrying shaped charges?” Talia stares at me.
“Always.”
She blinks, processes, then nods, as if this is perfectly reasonable. “Okay. So our entry options are: main elevator with cloned biometrics or HVAC shaft with explosive breach.”
“Those are terrible options,” Vargas mutters, but he’s already assembling equipment. “You’re both going to die.”
“We’re doing it anyway.” I check my watch. 3:47 AM.
Vargas works in focused silence, building what he calls a “universal access device”—a sophisticated lock pick that mimics Blackwell’s biometric signature. He integrates it into a blank keycard and adds a small display showing authentication status.
“Green means you’re good.” He holds it up. “Red means run. Yellow means it’s processing—give it five seconds.”
“Failure rate?” Talia asks.
“Honestly? Forty percent. These systems are designed to catch clones.” He hands her the card. “But it’s the best I can do with what we have.”
She takes it, studies the device with those analytical eyes. “Forty percent failure rate means sixty percent success rate. Acceptable margins.”
Vargas looks at me. “She always this optimistic about death?”
“Only when she’s done the math.”
He pauses, his hand hovering over a sensor array on his desk. A red light blinks. Once. Twice.
Heat signatures blossom across the schematic like blood spreading through water.
“Shit.” Vargas’s fingers fly across the keyboard. “Shit, shit.”
“Talk to me.”
“Perimeter breach. Silent alarm on the alley sensors.” He looks at a monitor that is hardwired, not wireless. “Heat signatures. Six… Eight… Twelve. Closing fast.”
“Phoenix?”
“Who else?” Vargas grabs a shotgun from under the counter and racks the slide. “They found you. Or they found me. Doesn’t matter now.”
“We need to move.” I draw my weapon. “Back door?”
