Page 27 of Spock’s Snare

"Looks clear,” I murmur.

Rush nods.

I crouch beside the window and pull a small pouch from inside my cut. Months ago, Abra had spent an afternoon with several of us giving us instructions on how to break into places. As a former magician, the current Sergeant of Arms for the New Orleans Chapter has access to a few skills that have come in handy.

"Locks only keep honest people out," he'd said with that maddening grin. "Everything else is just understanding how the mechanism works."

I'd assumed he was exaggerating, but he wasn’t. I don’t think there is a lock made that he can’t pick.

Working together, Rush and I slide a thin shim beneath the aging latch. After giving it a gentle twist, we hear a satisfying click.

Rush smiles.

"I'll never get tired of that."

"You just like breaking the rules."

"I like breaking other people's rules."

I ease the window open gently and hold my breath. There’s no alarm. If the alarm was silent, we might hear sirens approaching, but for now, we’re good to go.

I crawl in first with Rush right behind me. The room we find ourselves in is a surprise. Based on the outside, I'd expected stained carpet and secondhand furniture. Instead, I'm standing inside an office that looks like it belongs in a corporate high-rise.

The floor has a thick dark blue carpet. A light oak bookcase spans the entire wall. It’s filled with neatly arranged binders. A matching oak desk sits perfectly in the center of the room with an expensive leather chair behind it. A sleek office phone sits alone on the desktop.

Rush moves to the desk, while I jerk my thumb toward the door.

"I'll check out there,” I say, unlocking and opening the door carefully.

The second office is considerably less impressive. There’s a cheap metal desk and a worn desk chair. Next to the desk, a printer sits on top of a banged-up file cabinet. The monitor is dark, but I jiggle the mouse and am relieved to see I won’t need a password. A spreadsheet with columns of data fills the screen. I see names, numbers, and addresses. Rather than scroll through everything, I send the spreadsheet to the printer. The machine whirs to life. Every second feels louder than the last as page after page slides into the output tray.

While the document prints, I search through the desk and the filing cabinet. I find nothing but office supplies. When the printer falls silent, I gather the stack and set it aside, then I click through the folders on the computer to see if I can find anything else useful. The only useful item is the spreadsheet, so I open it and leave it as I found it. Then I collect the printouts and head back into the back office.

Rush slips a small notebook inside the center drawer before closing it. He pats his kutte.

"I took pictures of every page," he says quietly.

"Good."

I hold up the stack of paper.

"I printed what I think is their client list."

Rush raises an eyebrow.

“You didn’t need a password?”

I shrug. “She probably just went to lunch and didn’t think anyone would get in.”

"That's sloppy."

“But good for us.”

He grins.

We make one final sweep with our eyes, ensuring every drawer, chair, and paper is exactly where we found it. Then we retrace our steps to the rear window. Rush slips outside first. I hand him the printouts before climbing through after him.

The window settles shut with a soft click behind us.