Chapter 4 – Lenoire
CHAPTER
FOUR
LENOIRE
Allowing this girl to stay is not a lapse in judgment.
It’s a mere calculation.
If she had any intention of going to the police, she would have done so already. Before arriving, before stepping into the blind spot, before inserting herself into a situation she clearly does not fully understand. Still, she’s not to be trusted—not yet anyway—which is why she’s here.
Because if something goes wrong, if she panics, or second-guesses, or decides at the last possible moment that this was all a mistake, her presence ensures she’s already implicated—an accomplice by proximity alone.
People are far less likely to betray a situation they’re somehow connected to. And if she does?
I’ll handle it.
Be so for real. No, you won’t, my subconscious chuckles. She’s so perfectly your type, you’ve already thought about all the ways you could her come as a ‘job well done.’
I nearly growl aloud and shake the image from my mind like an Etch A Sketch.
Is the observation correct? Absolutely. She’s exactly my type.
Voluptuous and full-figured, femme without giving high-maintenance.
Those hazel eyes are slightly hypnotic, the shaved side to her otherwise long hair is a nice touch, and the nose stud? Yeah, it all works for me.
But I don’t involve myself with co-workers, not even those at my day job, and I’m not about to start now.
“Left,” Mags whispers behind me.
The specs said right, but I make a mental note to later berate Elliot, and adjust course without hesitation, turning down the corridor she’s indicated as we move deeper into the building. I’m not remotely convinced that’s her real name, either, but that information will have to wait for later.
“There’s a camera at the end of the hall. It sweeps every ten seconds,” she adds a moment later, our footsteps softened by careful pacing. “Two-second delay on the reset.”
Useful, I think to myself, because the camera at the opposite end sweeps every eight seconds and there’s almost no reset delay.
Slowing just slightly, I align my movements with the rhythm she described and step forward only when the lens shifts away.
The timing is clean, the transition seamless, and to my surprise, she’s just as lithe.
We clear it without issue, continuing on down the darkened hall at an even, unhurried pace.
“Codes?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper, as we approach a secured door.
“It’s still the same. He never changes them.”
I almost laugh. How predictable. Moving aside just enough to allow her access, I motion to the keypad with a tip of my head.
She seems surprised I’m handing over the reins, but recovers quickly and steps up to input the sequence.
I watch silently as her now gloved fingertips (I always carry disposables in my bag) glide over each number: 0-7-2-3-7-2.
The keypad instantly flashes green, and the lock disengages with a soft click.
A satisfied smirk tugs at her full, plum-painted lips as she glances back at me from over her shoulder, the silver stud in her nose glimmering slightly. “See? Asset.”
I don’t respond. Though not entirely inaccurate, the label is premature. It’s too soon to tell, so I simply nod and motion for her to proceed.
Once we’re inside Preston’s empire, the lighting shifts from the soft glow of the corridors to virtually none at all.
Cubicles and small offices line the vast space, along with large windows and minimalist decor that create the illusion of transparency while likely offering very little of it in the actual practice.
“His office is at the end,” Mags says, already moving again, but then she hesitates.
I catch it just before another camera sweep. Without thinking, I wrap a hand around her arm, stopping her from moving too soon.
“Wait,” I murmur, my voice hushed beside her ear.
She stiffens immediately, and even in the dark I can see the way she glances at me from her peripheral.
Other than that, there’s no actual reaction to the contact, though I can’t help but notice how she doesn’t shake me off, either.
I don’t know why this pleases me, but I don’t give myself much time to think about it.
As soon as the camera passes, I release her and she moves.
Doesn’t take long to reach our destination. The door is locked, but that’s expected. Mags looks back at me, waiting for what? I don’t know.
“Code, go,” I whisper.
She huffs softly, the sound more amused than anything else. “You’re really going to make me do all the work?”
“Yes.”
Shaking her head, the longer strands of her ashy blonde hair swishing with the motion, she turns back toward the keypad and enters another sequence with practiced ease. This one I can’t see, but the moment the lock disengages, she pushes the door open and makes her way inside.
I follow without hesitation and note that Preston Blake’s office is exactly what I anticipated—expensive, curated, and designed to impress rather than protect. It’s all glass, dark wood, and carefully selected art pieces that probably cost more than the average person makes in a year.
“Do you know where the safe is?” I question, scanning the room out of habit.
My “partner” shakes her head. “If he has one, I’ve never seen it before.”
Of course he has one…
“It won’t be visible, that’s for sure. Men like him prefer the illusion of security.”
“So behind something?” she murmurs, doing her own scan of the room. “What about the painting or the paneling on the far wall?”
I move past her, assessing the layout for any subtle inconsistencies in the design. Doesn’t take me long to find it. “There.” I tip my chin toward a section of the wall just slightly misaligned with the rest.
Mags crosses the room, pressing lightly against the panel until it juts out, revealing the safe embedded behind it.
I can’t even curb the chuckle that bubbles in my throat this time around, shaking my head as I pull my tools from my bag and kneel in front of the lock. It’s not the most advanced system I’ve encountered, but it’s not entirely careless either.
“Can you open it?” she asks.
“Yes.”
That’s it, that’s all I offer before getting to work.
I tune out everything but the mechanism in front of me.
Behind me, she moves restlessly. It’s not disruptive per se, but I’d prefer silence.
Still, I manage to focus enough that in just a few minutes, the final pin clicks into place and the lock disengages.
Mags gasps softly as I open the safe and deftly stow my tools back into my bag. Inside, the contents are exactly what I expected. There’s cash, stacked files, some loose documents, and a selection of items that hold actual value beyond sentiment.
“Take whatever you can carry,” I instruct, stepping aside just enough to give her space. “Nothing unnecessary.”
She sidles up beside me in an instant, gathering wads of cash with a focus so intense, it suggests her motivation is in fact as dire as she voiced while we were still outside.
Filing that away for no particular reason, I take a few stacks myself but leave the rest for her because this—what’s sitting in front of us—isn’t the damage.
It’s the distraction.
Leaving my accomplice to her own devices, I cross the room to his desk and boot up his desktop, retrieving a small drive from my pocket while I wait.
The login screen appears almost immediately and before my fingers so much as graze the keyboard, Mags shuffles over and pushes herself in front of me, inputting a password.
The correct one at that.
“Please tell me he didn’t—”
“He did,” she chuckles, shuffling out of the way. “It’s his birthday with an exclamation point.”
I have no words, especially when no alerts appear. No secondary authentication. No deviation from the expectation that he’s only person to have access to this computer.
Fucking idiot.
With a simple flick of the wrist, I insert the drive. The program runs automatically, designed to quietly do exactly what I need it to do in the smallest possible window of time.
Copy files.
Access stocks.
Extract credentials.
“That’s…not cash,” Mags comments, her voice infinitely quieter now.
“No, it’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
“Preston’s financial ruin.”
She goes silent after that, which I appreciate.
The progress bar completes in under a minute, and just like that, I’m done.
I remove the drive and shut down the desktop, straightening out the keyboard and mouse.
When Preston Blake walks back into this office on Monday, there will be zero indication anyone was here almost seventy-two hours prior.
“Is that it?” she asks as I make my way around the desk.
“For tonight.”
When I return to the safe, I take what remains, selecting only what holds value beyond immediate liquidity. Items that can be repurposed, resold, or used later if necessary.
Layered loss.
Always.
And then I close it, resetting the mechanism as best as possible before replacing the panel with a satisfied smirk stretching my lips.
Phase one: complete.