I pick up my fork again. “Then I guess I should finish breakfast and get to work.”
Rowan’s rumble returns, deeper this time, threaded with unmistakable pride.
“That’s my boy.”
16
The building sits behind a twelve-foot iron fence topped with cameras that pan on thirty-second intervals. I count the blind spots as our black SUV pulls to a stop at the security gate, filing away the knowledge for later.
Beside me, Rowan hands credentials to the guard, who barely checks them before waving us through. Money opens doors faster than any of the tools in my kit.
“What’s your assessment?” Rowan asks as we circle to the service entrance.
My fingers tap on my thigh, counting seconds between security sweeps. “Card readers with five-year-old encryption. Basic motion sensors positioned for maximum coverage, but no heat detection. Camerasystem runs on a closed circuit with a backup generator.”
“Good,” Rowan says, pleased with my analysis.
Two SUVs pull up behind us, each disgorging three men in black tactical gear. Their weapons remain holstered but visible, a clear message to anyone watching.
Two months ago, the sight would have sent my threat assessment into overdrive. Now, I recognize Saint as he approaches Rowan, a balaclava hiding his identity.
I pull down my own face covering, wait for Rowan to do the same, and we climb out to meet his team.
“Perimeter secure,” Saint reports. “Ten minutes until shift change.”
Rowan turns to me. “You’ve got eight.”
My kit sits heavy on my shoulder as I approach the side entrance. The steel door boasts an electronic keypad with a mechanical override, which is standard protocol for buildings constructed in the early 2000s. I run my gloved fingers along the frame, searching for alarm triggers or secondary systems.
“Entry point compromised,” I murmur, noting the stripped screw at the top hinge. “Someone’s been in here before.”
Not routine maintenance.
Saint positions himself at my back, creating a human shield between me and any potential observers. “Problem?”
“Not sure. It depends on whether they were after the same thing we are.” I extract a thin metal tool from my kit. I slide it into the gap between the door and the frame, and the security sensor trips with a soft click. “Whoever they were, they weren't lock professionals.”
Rowan guards my back, his body on high alert.
It's a data storage house, so there are any number of reasons someone could want what's inside, but the timing sits uneasily with us both.
The other men form a perimeter around us, their attention directed outward. No one questions my methods or offers suggestions. They trust my expertise, which is a novel experience after years of clients who thought watching YouTube tutorials qualified them to critique my work.
The electronic lock yields first. I bypass the reader with a small device that cycles through access codes, finding the right combination within thirty seconds. The mechanical deadbolt requires more finesse. I extract my tension wrench and pick, inserting them with practiced fingers.
“Seven pins,” I note as the tumblers click into place one by one. “Unusual for this type of installation. Someone upgraded the lock but not the frame.”
The final pin sets with a satisfying click, and the door swings inward on silent hinges. Inside waits a narrow utility hallway, emergency lighting casting everything in a sickly green. I hold up a hand, signaling the others to wait as I scan for trip wires or pressure plates.
“Clean,” I announce after fifteen seconds.
Saint enters first, followed by two men who move with the fluid coordination of those who’ve worked together for years. Rowan follows, his hand resting on the small of my back as we step inside.
The secondary security station appears at the end of the corridor, a reinforced glass booth protected by a card reader and a biometric scanner. A camera rotates overhead, its red light blinking.
“Camera’s on a loop,” I inform Rowan, noting the subtle stutter in its rotation pattern. “Five-second delay before it resets.”
“How long to get through that?” Rowan motions toward the scanner.
