On paper, it handles freight coordination and supply chain management. Legitimate business, legitimate employees, legitimate tax filings.
Except the freight manifests don’t match the actual shipments. The supply chains route through territories controlled by families under Sharov’s authority. The corporate ownership structure mirrors patterns I’ve seen in the documents detailing my family’s collapse.
This is one of his hubs. Has to be.
I memorize shift schedules pulled from a bribed security supervisor. Learn employee access protocols from a cleaning contractor who needed cash more than loyalty. Study floor plans obtained through public records requests that shouldn’t have been granted but were, because the right official got the right envelope.
By the time I’m ready to move, I know which entrance has the laziest guards, which corridors have camera blind spots, which terminals stay logged in overnight because employees forget to secure their workstations.
I know exactly how stupid this is.
I do it anyway.
***
The cleaning company uniform fits poorly, too large in the shoulders and too short in the legs. I bought it from a woman who works the late shift, paid her enough that she won’t ask questions when she calls in sick tonight.
The employee ID is forged, good enough to pass a casual inspection but not detailed scrutiny. The credentials loaded onto the magnetic strip came from a database hack that cost me most of my remaining liquid cash.
I’m betting my life on forgery and borrowed access.
My hands are steady as I approach the service entrance at 11:40 p.m. The guard barely looks up from his phone, just waves me through with the bored disinterest of someone who’s seen a thousand cleaning staff and doesn’t care about a thousand and one.
Inside, the building is exactly what I expected—industrial functionality wrapped in corporate aesthetics. Gray walls, fluorescent lighting, the smell of floor cleaner and stale coffee. I push a cart loaded with supplies, head down, moving with the purposeful anonymity of someone who belongs here because they’re invisible.
The first floor is administration. Nothing useful. I take the service elevator to the third floor where the real work happens, according to my intelligence. The doors open onto acorridor lined with offices, most of them dark, a few still lit where employees work late.
I avoid those. Keep moving, cart wheels squeaking slightly, until I reach the storage room that doubles as a network hub according to the floor plans.
The door is locked. My borrowed credentials open it with a soft click that sounds deafening in the quiet.
Inside, the room is cramped and hot, filled with server racks and cable management that looks like organized chaos. I pull out the laptop I’ve hidden under cleaning supplies, plug into a terminal, and start working.
My hands move automatically, muscle memory from years of database management and financial analysis. Find the login credentials left active. Navigate to the shared drives. Search for anything containing keywords: Lawrence, acquisitions, shell companies, regulatory pressure.
The files appear faster than I expected. Transaction logs. Communication records. Legal documents detailing seizures and freezes. Everything is here, meticulously organized, probably because whoever manages this system never expected someone to access it who shouldn’t.
I transfer everything onto an encrypted drive, watching the progress bar crawl across my screen. Sixty percent. Seventy. The room is stifling, and sweat trickles down my spine beneath the uniform.
Eighty-five percent.
A voice outside the door makes my heart stop.
“—told him the shipment clears tomorrow, not tonight. He needs to learn patience.”
Footsteps approaching. I yank the drive from the port before the transfer completes, shove the laptop back under supplies, and grab a spray bottle like I’m actually here to clean.
The door opens. Two men in suits, mid-conversation, stop short when they see me.
“Who are you?” the first one asks. Younger, suspicious eyes immediately cataloging details.
I keep my expression neutral, bored even. “Cleaning service. Building management sent me.”
“We didn’t request cleaning tonight.”
“I don’t make the schedule.” I shrug, turning back to the server rack like I’m wiping down surfaces. “Complaint about dust accumulation affecting equipment. You want me to skip this room, take it up with maintenance.”
The lie comes out smooth, practiced. I’ve learned to lie well over the years; every bastard daughter does, when truth means admitting you don’t quite belong.
