Katarina’s head snapped around. “What was that?”
Elena froze, her hand inches from the terminal.
“What was what?” Webb asked, still focused on his tablet.
“I heard something. A noise.”
“You’re being paranoid again.”
But Katarina was already moving, her sharp eyes scanning the server room. Elena pressed herself against the equipment rack, making herself as small as possible.
Please,she prayed silently.Please don’t let her find me.
Katarina’s heels clicked closer. Closer. Elena could see the woman’s shadow stretching across the floor, reaching toward her hiding spot like a dark hand.
Then Webb’s phone rang, shattering the tension.
“Yes?” He listened for a moment, his expression shifting. “I see. I’ll be right there.” He ended the call and turned to Katarina. “We need to go. There’s an issue with the Kowalski delegation.”
Katarina hesitated, still staring in Elena’s direction. “I could have sworn?—”
“Now, Katarina.”
After a long moment, Katarina turned away. Elena watched through a gap in the equipment as they walked to the door, Webb’s hand pressing the exit panel.
“Have security do a sweep of this room in twenty minutes,” Katarina said as they left. “Just to be safe.”
“If it makes you feel better.”
The door closed behind them, and Elena finally allowed herself to breathe.
Twenty minutes. She had twenty minutes to upload the virus and get out.
She moved quickly to the terminal, pulling out the drive containing her virus and connecting it to the server’s main port. The upload progress bar appeared on her phone’s screen—agonizingly slow, creeping forward in tiny increments.
Fifteen percent. Twenty. Twenty-five.
Elena’s earpiece crackled again, and this time she heard Reed’s voice clearly. “Elena, status?”
“I’m in,” she breathed. “Uploading now. But I’ve got a twenty-minute window before security sweeps.”
“Copy. We’ll create a distraction if needed. Just get that virus planted and get out.”
Forty percent. Fifty.
The minutes stretched like hours. Elena watched the door, watched the progress bar, watched the shadows for any sign of movement.
Seventy-five percent. Eighty.
Her phone vibrated with a text from an unknown number:We know you’re here, Dr. Vasquez.
Elena’s blood turned to ice. She stared at the message, her mind racing. How? The prosthetics had fooled the facial recognition, had fooled Katarina’s visual inspection. How could they possibly know?
Another text appeared:The disguise was clever. But you forgot about thermal imaging. Your biometric signature is quite distinctive.
Ninety percent. Ninety-five.
Elena heard footsteps in the corridor outside—multiple sets, moving fast.
