The doors open onto the maintenance level. Concrete floors, exposed pipes, the acrid smell of industrial cleaners and electrical components. Equipment rooms line both sides of a narrow corridor.
Andy leads us to a door at the end. The tactical team leader checks it—locked, reinforced frame, commercial-grade deadbolt. Someone wanted control.
"Breach," Andy says.
The team moves with practiced efficiency. Breaching tool positioned, three-count, the lock surrenders with a sharp crack. The door swings open.
And there it fucking is.
The monitoring station sits in the corner, partially hidden behind legitimate HVAC equipment. Multiple monitors arranged like a command center. High-end recording equipment that costs a fortune. A dedicated server with storage capacity for weeks of footage. All of it wired into the building's network with cable management that screams expensive installation.
The rage that surfaces is cold, controlled. Dangerous. Armand sat here. In Simone's own building, using her company's resources. Watching her most private moments. Documenting her vulnerability. Violating her while pretending family concern.
My hands want to destroy every piece of equipment in this room. Rip cables from walls, smash monitors, obliterate every trace of Armand's presence. But I force my breathing to stay even, my fists to stay loose. Get the evidence first, deal with the rage later.
"Jesus," one of the tactical operators mutters.
Andy's already photographing everything, documenting before touching. A forensic tech pulls on gloves and examines cable connections, tracing signal paths.
"Signal routes through the building's main network," she reports. "Terminates here. Whoever installed this had administrative access to LaCroix Petroleum's IT infrastructure."
"Access logs?" Andy asks.
"Working on it." She connects a laptop to the server. "Equipment has its own authentication. Keycard access, login credentials, timestamps."
I move closer. Each keystroke brings us closer to proof that will put Armand in a federal cell where he belongs.
"Got the logs." Her expression shifts. "This can't be right."
"What?"
"Primary user account belongs to Armand Deveraux." She turns the laptop. "His name, his Deveraux Oil credentials, his personal keycard. He didn't even try to hide it."
The arrogance is fucking staggering. Using his real credentials, his actual identity, so confident in his position that he skipped basic operational security.
"Last access?" My voice comes out rough.
"Days ago. Hours-long session. But there are multiple sessions logged over months—he's been accessing this regularly." She scrolls through logs. "Multiple camera feeds monitored simultaneously each time."
He sat in this room for hours at a time, watching Simone, documenting her. Armand's been doing this for months.
Andy's already on his phone. "I need FBI Cyber Crimes at this location. And get me a prosecutor. Federal charges."
"Federal?" I ask.
"Wire fraud charges. Conspiracy. witness tampering. Direct evidence placing Armand at the monitoring station." His jaw sets. "This just became federal."
The tech keeps working. "Communications log shows encrypted messages sent from this terminal. Can't decrypt without FBI resources, but timestamps correlate with majorevents. Photograph deliveries, break-in at Simone's penthouse, the night you were kidnapped."
Someone coordinated everything from this room. From inside Simone's building.
My phone rings. Remy.
"Yeah?"
"FBI just showed up at Rapier Strategic. They say Andy called about federal charges."
"Found Armand's monitoring station. He was running the whole operation from inside LaCroix Petroleum."
