We park next to the industrial dumpsters, pulling into the spot where Iris’s silver Audi sat about a week ago before Varro took it to a chop shop to cover our tracks.
“Comms check,” Varro says, tapping his ear.
“Check,” I reply, adjusting the receiver.
Iris reaches up and taps her microscopic earpiece. “Check.”
Varro shifts the SUV into park but leaves the engine idling. “I have the perimeter completely locked down in a two-block radius,” he reports, pulling up a glowing digital map on the console screen. “Team 6 is in position covering all four exits. The city street cameras have been successfully looped. We’ve tapped the local precinct dispatch. If the NYPD happens to route acruiser past the front steps, we’ll know three minutes before they turn the corner. We own this grid.”
“What are the rules of engagement for Hale’s security?” I ask, my eyes scanning the dark alleyway.
“If he brings his private detail, we let them park,” Varro says, confirming the plan. “We let them set up a perimeter outside. My men are running suppressed rifles with thermal optics. We don’t engage unless his men attempt to breach the building or you give the direct order. The objective is to make the museum look abandoned, so Hale walks inside.”
“And if they move on the loading dock while I’m inside?”
“We drop them before they hit the door,” Varro says coldly.
“Good.” I push the passenger door open. “Let’s go.”
I step out into the humid night air. Iris slides out of the back, her boots hitting the wet asphalt with a soft thud.
We walk silently to the loading bay door. The red LED light on the security keypad blinks in the pitch black.
Iris steps right up to the keypad. Without hesitating, she reaches out and punches in the numbers.
6 - 7 - 2 - 9 - 0 - #
The keypad flashes red. A negative buzz echoes in the alley.
ACCESS DENIED.
I step up beside her. “They changed the vendor codes after the hit.”
I inspect the terminal. “It’s hardwired to the main server. If I brute-force it from out here, it triggers a silent alarm at the precinct.”
“So how do we get in?” she asks.
“We bypass the digital relay,” I tell her, pulling a slim pry tool from my belt. “I have to pop the faceplate and cross the internal wires.”
I wedge the tool into the seam. I grip the handle with my right hand and try to brace my left hand against the brick wallfor leverage. The instant I put weight on my left side, the torn muscle in my shoulder seizes. A spike of pain shoots down my arm. I drop my left hand, my jaw clenching hard enough to snap a bone.
“Cassian,” she says, stepping closer. “Stop. You’re going to tear the muscle open again.”
“I can do it,” I grate out.
“Give it to me,” she orders.
I look down at her. I hate showing physical weakness, especially to her, but we don’t have time for pride.
I hand her the tool.
“Slide it into the top right corner,” I instruct, stepping closely behind her. My chest brushes her back as I look over her shoulder to guide her hands. “Push hard until you feel the retaining clip snap.”
She wedges the tip into the seam. She leans her body weight into the door, pushing until a sharp crack sounds. The faceplate pops off, dangling by a cluster of wires.
“Good,” I murmur. “Look for the green and yellow wires. Don’t touch the red.”
She isolates them.
