CHAPTER 16 Declan
The heavy steel blast door hits the concrete floor with a sound that vibrates straight up through the soles of my boots.
The lock engages automatically, a series of heavy deadbolts sliding into place with mechanical finality. We are sealed inside a twenty-by-twenty concrete box with a single point of entry.
"Two minutes," the automated voice repeats from the ceiling speaker, its cheerful, synthetic tone completely at odds with the reality of the situation.
"Declan, I can't reverse it," Maeve says. Her voice is tight, bordering on panic, but her fingers are still flying across the keyboard. "The network locked me out. The script is frozen at ninety percent. I can't pull the money, and I can't wipe the logs."
I don't look at the laptop. The digital objective is dead. The only objective now is survival.
I step away from the blast door, scanning the room.
The space is dominated by four rows of massive server racks, their cooling fans humming loudly in the cold air.
The walls are solid concrete. There are no ventilation shafts large enough for a human to crawl through. There are no secondary emergency exits.
It is a perfect kill box.
"Unplug the machine," I instruct, moving toward the center aisle between the server racks.
"If I unplug it, we lose the backdoor entirely!"
"We have already lost it. Unplug the machine, Maeve, and get under the desk."
She looks up from the screen. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the server room washes the color from her face, making the dark bruises on her neck look even more severe.
She processes the absolute certainty in my voice, the fact that I am no longer operating as a partner in a heist, but as a combat operative preparing for a siege.
She doesn't argue. She rips the ethernet cable out of the laptop, slams the screen shut, and drops to her knees, sliding the heavy waterproof casing under the metal desk.
"Stay there," I order, keeping my voice low. "Do not stand up, no matter what you hear."
"What are you going to do?" she whispers, her hands gripping the edge of the metal desk.
I don't answer her. I walk to the far end of the server racks, positioning myself in the blind spot near the right corner of the blast door.
I draw the Glock 19 from my thigh holster, checking the chamber in one smooth, practiced motion.
I pull a spare magazine from my tactical vest and hold it in my left hand, ignoring the dull throb of my torn shoulder.
"One minute," the automated voice announces.
The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the whir of the servers and the rapid, shallow sound of Maeve’s breathing from under the desk.
I close my eyes for exactly two seconds.
I slow my heart rate. I file away the distraction of the woman hiding ten feet away from me.
I cannot afford to think about her fear.
I cannot afford to think about the way her mouth tasted in the penthouse.
If I think about her, I will hesitate. And hesitation in a fatal funnel means death.
I open my eyes. The cold, familiar clarity of violence settles over my mind.
I am not trapped in here with them. They are trapped in here with me.
"Thirty seconds."
I raise the weapon, pointing the muzzle directly at the center mass of the steel door.
The cartel security team will not try to negotiate. They will breach the door, throw a flashbang to disorient whoever is inside, and sweep the room with automatic fire. It is standard tactical doctrine.
I have to disrupt the doctrine.
I step out from behind the server rack, moving to the small, exposed electrical panel mounted on the concrete wall near the door.
It controls the room's environmental systems. I raise the heavy tungsten glass-breaker still clipped to my belt and smash it directly into the plastic casing of the panel.
Sparks shower the floor. The overhead fluorescent lights flicker violently, then die completely.
The server room is plunged into near-total darkness, illuminated only by the faint, pulsing green and blue LEDs of the server racks.
"Declan?" Maeve’s voice cuts through the dark, a thin thread of terror.
"Stay down," I command softly.
I move back to my position in the blind spot, letting my eyes adjust to the low light.
A heavy, metallic clank echoes from the other side of the blast door. The deadbolts are retracting.
I raise the weapon.
The steel door slides upward, grinding against the concrete frame. A harsh beam of white light from a tactical flashlight cuts through the gap, sweeping across the floor.
A small, cylindrical object bounces into the room, rolling across the concrete.
A flashbang.
I turn my head away, squeezing my eyes shut and opening my mouth to equalize the pressure.
The grenade detonates with a deafening, concussive roar. The brilliant flash of white light penetrates even through my closed eyelids, and the shockwave rattles the metal server racks.
I don't wait for the ringing in my ears to stop. I pivot back toward the door, my eyes open.
Three men pour into the room, wearing heavy tactical vests and carrying short-barreled rifles. They are moving fast, expecting the occupants of the room to be blinded and deafened by the grenade.
They don't expect the room to be dark.
The lead man hesitates for a fraction of a second, his flashlight sweeping wildly across the empty center aisle.
I fire twice.
The suppressed rounds hit him square in the chest plate. The armor stops the penetration, but the kinetic impact drops him to his knees, knocking the wind out of him.
I shift my aim instantly, targeting the exposed gap between the second man’s helmet and his vest. I pull the trigger.
The second man falls backward into the hallway, his rifle clattering against the concrete.
The third man realizes the threat isn't in the center of the room. He pivots toward my corner, raising his weapon. He fires a blind burst of automatic fire. The bullets tear through the metal casing of the server rack inches from my head, showering me in sparks and shredded plastic.
I drop to a crouch, moving laterally beneath his line of fire. I fire three rounds into his thigh and pelvis.
He screams, his leg giving out, and collapses against the doorframe.
I don't stop moving. I step out from the blind spot, closing the distance before the man on his knees can recover from the chest impacts. I kick the rifle out of his hands, grab the back of his tactical vest, and drive my knee into his face.
He goes limp, slumping onto the concrete.
The entire engagement lasts less than eight seconds.
The ringing in my ears begins to fade, replaced by the chaotic sound of the alarms still blaring in the hallway outside.
I step over the unconscious man and move to the doorway, checking the corridor. It’s empty. The first response team was only three men.
"Clear," I say, my voice rough from the cordite and dust in the air.
I turn back into the server room. The green and blue LEDs cast a sickly light over the bodies on the floor.
"Maeve."
She doesn't answer immediately.
Panic, sharp and cold, spikes in my chest. I walk quickly down the center aisle toward the desk.
"Maeve," I repeat, my voice louder.
I find her huddled under the metal desk, her hands clamped tightly over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut. She is shaking violently, her entire body curled into a tight, defensive ball. The concussive force of the flashbang in the enclosed space must have terrified her.
I holster my weapon and drop to one knee. I reach under the desk, my hands wrapping around her wrists, gently pulling them away from her ears.
"It's over," I say softly. "Look at me."
She opens her eyes. The pupils are blown wide, swallowing the dark irises. She stares at me, her chest heaving, struggling to process the fact that the shooting has stopped.
"Are you hit?" I ask, my hands moving quickly over her arms, checking the dark fabric of her tactical jacket for any sign of blood.
"No," she gasps, her voice trembling. "No, I'm okay. The noise... it was so loud."
"It was a stun grenade. It's designed to disorient, not kill." I pull her out from under the desk, helping her to her feet. "We have to move. They will send a secondary team when this one fails to report in."
She nods, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. She leans down and grabs the heavy waterproof casing containing the laptop.
I guide her toward the door, keeping my body between her and the men on the floor. I don't want her looking at them. I don't want her adding more ghosts to the spreadsheet in her head.
We step out into the hallway. The alarm is still blaring, a relentless, grating noise.
"The maintenance tunnel," I say, pointing toward the heavy steel door we used to enter the sub-basement.
We run toward it. I grab the handle and pull.
It doesn't move.
I pull harder, bracing my boot against the concrete wall for leverage. The heavy steel door is completely locked.
"The electronic bypass," Maeve says, her voice rising in panic.
She points to the small card reader on the wall.
The LED light is glowing a solid, angry red.
"When the security sweep triggered the lockdown, it must have severed the local power to the external doors.
The bypass device won't work without a current. "
I stare at the red light.
We are locked out of the sewer. The only way out of the sub-basement is the primary elevator bank at the end of the hallway, which leads directly up to the lobby.
"We have to take the elevator," I state, turning away from the maintenance door.
"Declan, the lobby will be swarming with security," she argues, grabbing my arm. "If we take the elevator up, we're walking straight into a firing squad."
"If we stay down here, we die in a concrete box." I look down at her hand gripping my arm. "I will clear the lobby."