Chapter 16
The building sits behind a twelve-foot iron fence topped with cameras that pan on thirty-second intervals. I count the blind spots as our black SUV pulls to a stop at the security gate, filing away the knowledge for later.
Beside me, Rowan hands credentials to the guard, who barely checks them before waving us through. Money opens doors faster than any of the tools in my kit.
“What’s your assessment?” Rowan asks as we circle to the service entrance.
My fingers tap on my thigh, counting seconds between security sweeps. “Card readers with five-year-old encryption. Basic motion sensors positioned for maximum coverage, but no heat detection. Camera system runs on a closed circuit with a backup generator.”
“Good,” Rowan says, pleased with my analysis.
Two SUVs pull up behind us, each disgorging three men in black tactical gear. Their weapons remain holstered but visible, a clear message to anyone watching.
Two months ago, the sight would have sent my threat assessment into overdrive. Now, I recognize Saint as he approaches Rowan, a balaclava hiding his identity.
I pull down my own face covering, wait for Rowan to do the same, and we climb out to meet his team.
“Perimeter secure,” Saint reports. “Ten minutes until shift change.”
Rowan turns to me. “You’ve got eight.”
My kit sits heavy on my shoulder as I approach the side entrance.
The steel door boasts an electronic keypad with a mechanical override, which is standard protocol for buildings constructed in the early 2000s.
I run my gloved fingers along the frame, searching for alarm triggers or secondary systems.
“Entry point compromised,” I murmur, noting the stripped screw at the top hinge. “Someone’s been in here before.”
Not routine maintenance.
Saint positions himself at my back, creating a human shield between me and any potential observers. “Problem?”
“Not sure. It depends on whether they were after the same thing we are.” I extract a thin metal tool from my kit. I slide it into the gap between the door and the frame, and the security sensor trips with a soft click. “Whoever they were, they weren't lock professionals.”
Rowan guards my back, his body on high alert.
It's a data storage house, so there are any number of reasons someone could want what's inside, but the timing sits uneasily with us both.
The other men form a perimeter around us, their attention directed outward. No one questions my methods or offers suggestions. They trust my expertise, which is a novel experience after years of clients who thought watching YouTube tutorials qualified them to critique my work.
The electronic lock yields first. I bypass the reader with a small device that cycles through access codes, finding the right combination within thirty seconds. The mechanical deadbolt requires more finesse. I extract my tension wrench and pick, inserting them with practiced fingers.
“Seven pins,” I note as the tumblers click into place one by one. “Unusual for this type of installation. Someone upgraded the lock but not the frame.”
The final pin sets with a satisfying click, and the door swings inward on silent hinges. Inside waits a narrow utility hallway, emergency lighting casting everything in a sickly green. I hold up a hand, signaling the others to wait as I scan for trip wires or pressure plates.
“Clean,” I announce after fifteen seconds.
Saint enters first, followed by two men who move with the fluid coordination of those who’ve worked together for years. Rowan follows, his hand resting on the small of my back as we step inside.
The secondary security station appears at the end of the corridor, a reinforced glass booth protected by a card reader and a biometric scanner. A camera rotates overhead, its red light blinking.
“Camera’s on a loop,” I inform Rowan, noting the subtle stutter in its rotation pattern. “Five-second delay before it resets.”
“How long to get through that?” Rowan motions toward the scanner.
I extract a small electronic device from my kit. “Fingerprint reader uses outdated capacitive technology. Two minutes, tops.”
Saint positions his men at intervals along the corridor, each facing outward with hands near their weapons. Rowan stands beside me, his bulk blocking the camera’s view as I attach my device to the biometric scanner.
The device hums, cycling through stored fingerprint data until the green light flashes and the reinforced door clicks open.
“One minute, forty-three seconds,” Rowan notes, checking his watch.
Pride warms me despite my attempt to remain detached. “Told you it was outdated.”
The room beyond contains server racks and a central workstation, the air cool and dry with the constant hum of running equipment. While Rowan’s men fan out, I move to the alarm panel mounted near the door. This system could alert security if not handled properly.
My fingers dance across the keypad, entering the universal service code I had memorized from the manufacturer’s technical manual. The display shifts from armed to maintenance mode, giving us fifteen minutes before it will auto-restart.
“System neutralized,” I inform Saint, who acknowledges with a curt jerk of his chin.
Rowan and two of his men access the central server, extracting data while another man stands guard. I turn my attention to the exit strategy, checking for additional security measures we’ll encounter on departure.
“Secondary alarm on the north exit,” I tell Saint. “Hardwired to a separate system. I’ll need to bridge it before we leave.”
He tilts his head, studying me with new interest. “You know this building well.”
“I know security systems,” I correct him, extracting wire cutters from my kit. “This installation follows standard protocol for financial data centers. The architecture tells me what to expect.”
I move to join Rowan, who stands at the central workstation as the first access script runs, watching the progress bar creep across the screen.
The cursor blinks for a moment before the directory populates, and I frown.
“That’s not right,” I murmur.
Rowan curses at the same time.
The timestamps don’t line up. The folder structure is intact, permissions untouched, but the contents are gone.
Another black-clad figure steps in. Orien, I think, though I've only met the man once. His fingers fly over the keyboard as he pulls up the audit logs. “The overwrite pass is clean. They did multiple cycles, and randomization protocols were executed. There's no getting it back.”
Saint swears under his breath.
“How long ago?” Rowan demands.
He checks the last access record. “Hours. Maybe less.”
“Fuck.” Rowan steps away from the workstation.
“Wait.” Orien scrolls further, scanning fast. “They didn’t take everything.”
Rowan circles back. “What did they leave?”
He stops on a fragment of metadata, a synchronization error, small enough that most people would miss it. “There was a cloud mirror.”
My pulse spikes. “What does it mean?”
“There’s a remote endpoint,” Orien says. “They pushed the data before the wipe.”
Rowan exhales slowly. “So we have a lead.”
“Yes,” Orien agrees. “But we need to be careful how we move forward. If they wiped this clean, they’ll be watching for access attempts.”
Rowan’s eyes sharpen, already thinking toward the next step.
“If we wait,” I say, “we lose the trail.”
Orien shakes his head. “If we rush, we light ourselves up. This needs prep.”
“We're not rushing this. We'll do it the right way.” Rowan gestures in a circling motion to the rest of his men. “Time to leave.”
Disappointment fills me as I lead the way back to our entry point, disabling the bridge I created earlier and restoring the system to its original state. No alarms, no evidence of our presence beyond whatever digital footprints Rowan intended to leave.
Outside, the winter air cuts through my black turtleneck and jeans as we move toward the waiting vehicles.
Saint pauses beside me before climbing into the lead SUV. “Good work today. Sorry, we didn't find what we came here for.”
I accept the words without comment.
As our SUV pulls away, Rowan’s hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. “We'll figure out what happened.”
“Yeah,” I say as the building recedes in the side mirror.
“You were amazing in there.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist. “You were wasted on residential locks and community centers.”
“Too bad it was for nothing,” I say.
Rowan's hand tightens around mine. “Let me worry about that. I said I'd protect you and Lena, and I meant it.”
And despite the failed outcome of this job, I believe him.
The high school parking lot overflows with idling cars and clusters of teenagers wrapped in winter coats. I lean against Rowan’s car, breath fogging in the frigid air as students stream through the front doors.
It's nice not to be rushing from a locksmith job, no frantic calculations about bus schedules or whether I can squeeze in grocery shopping before my night shift. Just me, waiting, with nothing beyond dinner plans needing my attention.
Lena spots me right away, and she breaks away from a group of girls. She navigates through the crowd with confident steps, her purple backpack slung over one shoulder. The pack is new, a gift from Rowan last month when her old one split at the seams after years of repairs.
“You didn’t have to pick me up,” she says, but her pleased smile contradicts her words. “I could have taken the car service.”
I push off from the vehicle. “Wanted to. Finished work early.”
She doesn’t need to know about the failed heist, the armed men, or what Rowan’s full operation involves. Some walls remain necessary, even in our new life.
She links her arm through mine. “Buy me a coffee before we go home? I have a big test to study for.”
“Sure, why not?”
We walk the three blocks to the nearest coffee shop, the winter wind whipping down the street, carrying automobile exhaust and the promise of snow, but unlike two months ago, we both have warm jackets now to keep the chill at bay.