Just four minutes remain before I need to escape this maze with something that makes this trip worthwhile.
After a racing heartbeat, the loading bar hits one hundred percent. I yank the drive free and slide it into the tight-fit pocket at my ribs, frustrated that it’s not what I came for.
Three minutes and counting.
The moment the progress bar vanishes, the Vault must detect unusual activity.
Lights blink for a moment as if everything is resetting, or worse, preparing to shut down. The steady hum of the servers drops half a pitch.
At that very moment, I’m certain the servers know something was stolen.
In a hurry, I scrub the logs and delete the false-routing alerts I had set up, erasing all digital traces that could link this back to the Blakes.
Backing away, I skirt the walls, sticking to the shadows as I retrace my steps through the underground tunnels.
I’d set up a decoy distraction in the farthest server location, occupying the armed men elsewhere while I got to work here.
My breath comes fast and shallow. Two minutes left and I still have to take the lift to the surface.
A crackle of radio chatter carries in the shadows. Voices overlap and someone swears.
I duck behind a row of towers, press myself to the floor, and listen.
“They’re shutting down on the south side.”
“What the hell happened?” someone yells, out of breath as they run past my hiding place.
“They can’t be overheating; this place is colder than a meat locker.”
Any second now the decoy will die, and they’ll know someone’s here.
I adjust my route by instinct alone,cutting left instead of right, trusting the map burned into my head. My pace matches the rhythm of my racing heart.
A flashlight beam washes across the far end of the passage, and I drop to my knees.
I hold still, pulse hammering, sweat trickling down my spine. A second guard appears, their shadows stretching long across the concrete as they scan the corridor I just vacated.
Fuck, they’re not interested in the failing servers at the other side anymore.
They’re hunting for an intruder…for me.
When they disappear, I slip back into action, changing direction, choosing the fastest route to the elevator shaft, which is my only way out.
By the time I get there, the light flickers again, and the steel doors slide open.
I freeze.
Standing inside the elevator is a broad-shouldered guy dressed in black, positioned dead centre like he’s been waiting for the doors to part.
He wears an Uzi strapped across his chest and dark hair peeks out from beneath a baseball cap pulled low; the brim shadowing a coarse-jawed face that hits me with a jolt of familiarity.
He looks like a soldier rather than a polished Red Tribunal senior, with one foot back, shoulders loose, weight distributed as if he’s expecting trouble and welcomes it.
Rich hazel eyes lock on mine. The irises lighten a fraction in the low light as he waits for my next move.
“Going up?” he asks, taking one step sideways, expecting me to join him.
“You’re not Tribunal,” I say, reaching for my gun but keeping it in place for now.
