I find the fire escape on the western wall. Old enough to predate current security. Ladder to the roof near HVAC units. No cameras.
Except when I test the roof access, it doesn't give like it should.
New lock. Industrial grade. Installed recently.
They're closing vulnerabilities.
I work the lock anyway. Takes eight minutes—too long, too exposed—but it finally clicks. I ease the door open, pause to listen.
Voices below. Dutch. Two guards talking while they patrol.
I move into the ventilation shaft. Tight fit. Ductwork smells like chemicals and metal. I navigate by feel and memory, heading toward the main storage floor.
The shaft terminates in a grate overlooking storage. I position myself carefully, peer through.
Open floor divided into climate-controlled sections. Reinforced storage units along walls. Loading equipment parked near east wall.
And four guards as intel stated. Two patrolling in opposite patterns, one at a security station, one near the personnel entrance.
All armed. All alert.
This isn't standard warehouse security. This is a tactical response team.
Movement catches my eye. A door opens near the security station. A fifth person enters.
Male. Mid-forties. Expensive suit. Moving with authority that says he owns the space.
Lazarev.
I watch him talk to the head guard. Can't hear words, but body language is clear. He's giving orders. Tightening security further. The guard nods, pulls out a radio, starts barking commands.
Two more guards enter from the loading dock. That makes six now.
Six armed guards and Lazarev himself on site.
The vent shifts slightly under my weight. Metal creaking.
Everyone below freezes.
One guard looks up. Scans the ceiling. His eyes track across ductwork.
I hold absolutely still. Don't breathe. Don't move.
His gaze passes over my position. Pauses. Returns.
Fuck.
He points. Shouts something in Dutch. Other guards raise weapons.
I'm already moving. Reversing through ductwork fast, abandoning stealth for speed. Behind me, I hear them mobilizing. Doors slamming. Boots pounding.
I hit the roof, sprint for the fire escape. Voices below shouting. Flashlight beams cutting through darkness.
Down the ladder three rungs at a time. Drop the last eight feet. Roll. Come up running.
Shouts behind me. Someone's spotted me.
I cut through alleys between warehouses. Footsteps pursuing. Radio chatter coordinating pursuit.
