I step out first, weapon raised, sweeping the junction.
“Clear left. Clear right.”
We move into the corridor. It’s lined with thick cables running along the ceiling, pulsing with the lifeblood of the AI.
“Target is two hundred meters,” Talia says, checking her wrist comm. “Main server cluster.”
We advance.
Thirty meters. A junction.
“Contact,” I hiss.
A shadow moves at the far end of the hall. A guard on patrol. He’s looking at a tablet, bored.
Too far for a knife. Too quiet for a gun.
He turns. He sees us.
His hand goes to his radio.
I don’t hesitate. I sprint. My boots thunder on the concrete now—stealth is blown.
The guard fumbles with his holster.
I close the distance. Fifty feet. Forty.
He gets the gun up.
I slide, baseball style, knocking his legs out from under him. He hits the floor hard. The gun skitters away.
He opens his mouth to shout.
I drive a fist into his solar plexus, collapsing his diaphragm. The shout becomes a wheeze. I roll him over and apply a sleeper hold. Ten seconds of struggle. Then he goes limp.
I check his pulse. Strong. Just unconscious.
“Clear,” I pant, standing up. My arm screams in protest, the wound throbbing against the stitches. I ignore it.
Talia is beside me, picking up the guard’s keycard. “He didn’t call it in.”
“Lucky.”
“Luck is a statistical anomaly.”
“Take the win, Singh.”
We push forward. The corridor widens. We are approaching the brain.
A final blast door looms ahead. The entrance to the server room. It should be guarded. There should be a squad here. There should be laser grids, pressure plates, and automated turrets.
There is nothing.
The corridor is empty.
“Halo,” I say into the comms. “I need eyes on the door. Subbasement three.”
“I see you,”Halo replies.“You’re at the threshold.”
