“Got it,” I say and continue.
The screen flashes green, granting access to the backup suite beyond the final door, a climate-controlled vault protected behind reinforced glass. This is where my skills matter most, where all the planning and timing narrow to a single mechanism.
I approach the biometric reader paired with a redundant keypad. It’s a corporate redundancy that assumes two layers mean safety.
My device attaches to the maintenance port beneath the scanner housing. Most biometric systems have a diagnostic mode built in for technicians, and they never expect someone else to understand how to trigger it.
I override into service access, inject a stored print pulled from personnel files, and wait for the confirmation pulse.
The light shifts.
Green.
“We’re in,” I murmur.
Rowan relays guard positions to the team through the comms while maintaining his position at my back.
The vault pulses with its own heartbeat, fans whirring, hard drives clicking, temperature regulators humming. Rowan moves behind me, his attention shifting from the door to me and back.
“Server cluster fourteen.” I scan the racks of blinking lights, following the numbered sequence along the floor. “Should be third column, second rack.”
My fingers brush across the cold metal cases, eachcontaining terabytes of information worth millions to the right buyer. Or the wrong one. The target is warm beneath my touch, power flowing through its circuits.
“Found it.”
Rowan crosses the room in two strides, his focus locked on my hands as I trace the outline of the data core’s housing. “How long?”
“Extraction takes forty-five seconds.” I unzip my bag, pulling out the specialized tools needed for a clean removal. “Another thirty to swap in the dummy core so they don’t realize it’s missing right away.”
The server hums under my fingertips as I release the primary locks. The casing slides open, revealing the cluster of hard drives nestled inside. I insert the extraction tool, its blue light indicating proper connection.
Rowan kneels beside me, so close his shoulder brushes mine. The contact sends electricity through my skin, but unlike days ago in his bedroom or at the Blue Note, this heat channels into focus rather than distraction. His hand extends, ready to receive the drive once it’s free.
“Twenty seconds.” I turn the extraction key, listening for the release mechanism to engage. “Ready with the container.”
He pops open a foam-lined case, the paddingcustom-cut for our target. His movements mirror mine, anticipating each need without the need to speak.
We move in perfect tandem, his hands ready before I need them, my actions flowing into his without a word in a rhythm neither of us learned but somehow both know, as if we’ve been working together for years instead of weeks.
The data core slides free with a satisfying click, and I lift it, the weight of millions in information resting in my palm. Rowan’s fingers brush mine as he takes it, securing the drive that contains the Vartanian family’s laundering records, worth millions and stolen twice now, into its protective case.
I insert the dummy core, its lights blinking in perfect imitation of the original. Whoever stole the data after I killed Danny can’t exactly file a police report about stolen evidence of their own crimes, so the replaced drive may go unnoticed for months, if it ever gets discovered.
“Ready for extraction.” I zip my bag, mind already mapping our exit route.
Rowan secures the case inside his jacket and extends a hand to help me up. His warm palm connects with mine, strong fingers curling around mywrist. For a heartbeat, we stand close, his amber eyes reflecting the blue glow of server lights.
“Nice work.” The words ride on his breath, reaching me alone.
The moment stretches, fragile but unbroken. Then his head turns, nostrils flaring, and the new tension in his stance triggers my alarms.
Rowan’s hand is already on his weapon before I register the footsteps where there shouldn’t be any. Before I can react, he shoves me toward a bank of servers, out of direct view of the door as it slides open with a hydraulic hiss.
A guard appears with his gun already drawn, sweeping into the doorway in a practiced stance. His tactical vest bears the logo of an elite private security firm, not the standard uniform of regular staff.
As his weapon points at Rowan, time splinters into crystal-clear fragments.
Each second stretches into a miniature eternity where details burn bright. The guard’s finger tightens on the trigger as Rowan widens his stance, preparing to engage. They’re too close for either man to miss, but Rowan without body armor to protect him.
