The final pin clicks into place.
I turn the wrench, and the lock gives.
I pocket the tools and ease the door open slowly so the hinges don't squeal, then I step inside. The utility room is small, dark, and warm. Electrical panels line one wall. The air smells like heated plastic and dust.
In the back corner, behind a waist-high barrier, several server racks stand in a row. Small indicator lights blink in steady patterns. Cooling fans whir constantly, filling the room with a low mechanical noise.
I pull a folded piece of paper from my back pocket and unfold it. The server designation and rack number are written clearly. I scan the labels along the side of each unit until I find the correct one.
Once I confirm the number, I kneel and release the side panel with a controlled press. The metal cover swings open,exposing the internal components. Then, I grip the motherboard firmly at both edges and disconnect it with one solid jerk. The cables detach, and the plastic cracks as I slide the board out in one smooth motion.
The fans continue spinning for a few seconds before the system powers down.
The lights on that rack go dark. Someone is bound to notice, but they won’t be here for at least an hour. I’ve spent the last week testing the on-site response time, and this building is a fucking joke when it comes to security.
I reach back into the open server and pull the RAM and two processors free, then I slide them into the inside pocket of my hoodie. I scuff the interior with the edge of my pocket knife and leave the panel hanging loose so it looks rushed.
Then I move on to the next server, popping open the side panel and repeating the process. I grab another set of RAM and processors, tucking them away securely. I make sure to leave each server in a state of disarray, panels hanging and cables dangling, to sell the illusion of a botched robbery.
A simple break-in.
Then I check my watch.
Right on time.
I close the utility room door behind me and head back into the stairwell.
It’s darker on the way up. Only every other light seems to be working. My boots echo sharply against the concrete as I take the steps two at a time. I move fast but controlled, breathing steady. Years of this kind of work have trained my body to stay calm under pressure.
By the time I reach the fifth floor, I slow.
Marcus always parks on five.
I push the stairwell door open just enough to slip through and catch it before it slams. The parking level is dim, shadowsstretching long between concrete pillars. There’s only one car on this level.
A black luxury sedan.
Polished, expensive, and very obnoxious.
I edge along the perimeter wall, keeping to the darker side of the structure. My eyes flicker to the camera mounted above the space directly across from Marcus’s car.
The tiny red indicator light is off.
Good.
That confirms I dismantled the right server.
An elevator dings somewhere behind the row of concrete columns, and I flatten myself into the shadows about twenty feet from the car and wait.
The double doors on the far side of the garage shove open.
Marcus steps out, phone pressed to his ear, voice already raised.
“What are my options?” he barks. “No, that’s not good enough.”
He strides toward his car, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.
“Then fucking take care of it!” he roars into the phone.
