The technician’s frown deepened. “I ran those tests. They were fine.”
Double shit.
Dom shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to him either way. “Take it up with Stavros. I just go where they tell me.” He turned toward the elevator, hoping the conversation was over.
“Wait,” the technician called. “Let me see your badge.”
Dom turned back slowly, his hand drifting to his pocket—not for a badge, which he didn’t have, but for the ceramic knife concealed there. He didn’t want to use it. Killing the guy would create a whole new set of problems. But if it came down toa choice between completing the mission and leaving a body behind...
The overhead lights flickered.
The technician looked up, distracted. “Fuck. The north grid again.” He turned to Dom. “You know what? Not my problem. Go fix whatever needs fixing. I’ve got enough to deal with today.” He waved a dismissive hand and continued down the corridor, muttering under his breath about incompetent managers and redundant work orders.
Dom waited until the technician disappeared around the corner, then ducked into a utility closet instead of the elevator. Too risky. The technician might mention the encounter to someone, or worse, call up to verify Dom’s story. Better to wait until the guy was well away from this section.
The closet was cramped and dark, smelling of cleaning chemicals and damp concrete. Dom left the door open a crack, just enough to see out into the corridor. He checked his watch again.
Twenty-nine minutes.
Fuck.
Vivi could only stall Stavros for so long. Every minute Dom spent hiding in this closet was a minute wasted, a minute closer to discovery, a minute that put both their lives—and Sabin’s—at greater risk.
He leaned his head back against the wall, forcing himself to breathe slowly, evenly. Panic wouldn’t help. Rushing wouldn’t help. Only patience and precision would get him through this.
The hardest lesson he’d ever learned in combat was sometimes the waiting was the mission. The holding still. The doing nothing when every instinct screamed to move, to act, to fight.
From his vantage point, he could see a sliver of the corridor outside. No movement. No sound except the constant,distant hum of the ventilation system. Somewhere above, Vivi was playing her part—creating a scene about the missing icon, keeping Stavros occupied and away from the security monitors that might show an unauthorized presence in the sublevels.
He thought about her standing in her vault, forcing anger into her voice, letting outrage pull Stavros’s attention like a magician’s misdirection. She’d always been brilliant at that—making people look where she wanted them to look, never where she was actually working.
Twenty-five minutes.
Twenty.
Each minute crawled by, stretching into eternity. Dom didn’t move. Didn’t check his watch again. Just kept his eyes fixed on the sliver of corridor visible through the crack, waiting for any sign of the technician’s return.
Eighteen minutes left, and finally—movement in the corridor. The technician walked past, toolbox in hand, heading back toward the main section of the facility. Dom held his breath until the man’s footsteps faded completely.
He counted to thirty, then eased the closet door open and stepped back into the corridor. The service elevator waited at the end of the hall, its brushed steel doors reflecting the dim light.
Eleven minutes lost. Eleven out of forty-three. The original plan was now completely shot to hell.
Dom reached the elevator and pressed his palm against the reader, the film with Stavros’s print still intact. The doors opened silently. He stepped inside and hit the button for sublevel four, the lowest level, where the high-security vaults were kept. The car descended smoothly, without the usual announcement tones that would alert anyone to its movement.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened onto a stark, clinically lit corridor lined with numbered vault doors—massive steel constructions with security systems that would makemost government facilities jealous. Dom stepped out, already scanning for cameras, for motion detectors, for the subtle signs of security systems not mentioned in any blueprint.
Vault 485. According to the layout, it should be at the far end of the corridor. Dom moved quickly, staying close to the wall, counting vault numbers as he passed. 479... 481... 483...
There. 485. Strauss’s vault. The place Praetorian was willing to kill for.
The vault door was older than the others, its security system a generation behind the sleek biometric scanners that protected the newer installations. That was both good and bad. Good because older systems had known vulnerabilities. Bad because the original plan had required time they no longer had—time to manipulate the mechanical timing devices, to spoof the simpler electronic verification systems.
Twelve minutes left.
Not enough time for finesse. Not enough time for the elegant solution they’d planned. Dom reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a roll of breath mints. He popped the container open to reveal five small, putty-like discs—specialized C4 charges designed for precision work.
This was where the whole “wild card” reputation came from. When the elegant solution failed, Dom went with the direct approach. His brothers called it reckless. He called it adaptable.
