Chapter 14
Sarah's ankle throbbed with each step across the empty parking lot, a sharp reminder that hiking boots and Griff's constant icing couldn't fix four days of accumulated damage.
The massive FBI data facility loomed ahead, all concrete and small windows, designed to protect information rather than impress visitors.
Security lights carved harsh circles in the darkness, leaving deep shadows between them.
Griff led, despite the exhaustion she could see in the set of his shoulders.
They'd driven thirty-two hours with only four hours of sleep in that awful motel.
Her eyes felt like someone had thrown sand in them.
She could only imagine how bad his eyes hurt.
"Security camera, northeast corner," Griff murmured, his breath visible in the cold March air. "Sweeps every forty-five seconds."
Sarah counted it out, watching the camera's slow mechanical turn. In her pocket, her FBI badge sat useless—a piece of plastic that would trigger every alarm in the building if she tried to use it.
"Service entrance," she whispered, pointing to a door she'd used dozens of times when working late. "Maintenance crews use it after hours."
They waited for the camera sweep, then moved to a cluster of bushes near the entrance. Griff studied the door, the parking lot, the pattern of lights.
"Stay here," he said. "Don't move."
"What are you—"
But he'd already melted into the shadows.
Sarah crouched behind the evergreen shrubs, their needles pricking through her flannel.
Her ankle screamed at the awkward position.
Every sound made her heart race—a car on the distant highway, wind rattling a dumpster lid, her own breathing that seemed impossibly loud.
Three minutes. Four. Where was he?
A figure emerged from the darkness, and Sarah nearly yelped before recognizing Griff's walk. Except now he wore a janitor's uniform—navy blue coveralls with "District Maintenance Services" embroidered on the pocket. He carried a mop bucket and industrial keyring.
"How did you—"
"You don't want to know." His expression was grim. "We've got maybe twenty minutes before the guy wakes up and raises the alarm."
"The guy? What guy? What did you—"
He tapped his watch. "Tick tock. More moving. Less talking."
Sarah stood, brushing pine needles off her jeans. "What about me?"
Griff eyed her outfit. The truck stop casual wear that had helped them blend in on the road now looked out of place for a federal building at 2 AM.
"If we run into anyone, you're a ditzy bureaucrat who left her purse inside." He thought for a minute. "You gave me this to let you back in. Play up the Connecticut accent, maybe cry a little. Your car keys were in the purse, you're supposed to fly home for your mother's birthday..."
"I can sell that. What's my name?"
"Your name?"
"If I'm playing a role, I need a name. Jennifer? Brittany?"
"Jennifer. From Accounting."
Griff used the maintenance keycard and the door opened with a soft beep. Inside, the facility hummed with the white noise of a thousand servers breathing in unison. Emergency lighting cast everything in a sickly green glow.
"Guard station is around the corner," Sarah whispered. "Usually one guy, sometimes two."
"Follow my lead. And remember—you're Jennifer from Accounting, slightly tipsy from happy hour, desperate to get your purse."
They rounded the corner. The guard at his desk looked up immediately—definitely not asleep. Mid-forties, alert, hand moving subtly toward his radio.
His eyes narrowed at Griff. "You're not Rodriguez."
Griff kept pushing the mop bucket forward, holding up the badge clipped to his coveralls. "Rodriguez called in sick. I'm covering his shift." He had a slight Hispanic accent now, tired night-shift worker who'd rather be anywhere else. "This lady says she left her purse—"
"Nobody told me about a substitute." The guard's hand moved closer to his radio.
Griff tensed next to her. In a second, he’d grab the guy. But she had a better idea.
She stumbled forward, grabbing the desk edge.
"Oh yay, someone in charge." Her Connecticut accent thickened, words slurring slightly.
"Listen, I know it's late, but I am having the WORST night.
" She fumbled for her FBI badge, dropping it, picking it up upside down.
"Jennifer Walsh, Accounting Services at…. Uh. Not here.” She jerked a thumb behind her.
“I’m an analyst from up the street. I left my purse in that stupid cubicle.
My car keys are in it and my mom's birthday—"
"Ma'am, you can't be here after hours—"
"I KNOW." She let her voice crack—exhaustion and fear making it easy. "But I already gave him fifty dollars—" She waved at Griff, then at the guard, "—or was it you? I had way too much wine at Jerry's retirement thing." She swayed, knocked over the guard's coffee mug.
"I'm so sorry." She grabbed tissues from the desk, dabbing ineffectively at the spreading coffee, making it worse. "I'll clean it, I'll—"
The guard stood up, trying to save papers from the coffee flood. "Ma'am, stop—"
"I'm such a disaster." She sobbed, hoping she wasn’t over-selling it. "My boyfriend dumped me because I'm a mess, and now I can't even remember where I left my stupid purse, and I'm going to miss my flight home—"
"Okay, okay." The guard looked desperately at Griff, who shrugged with practiced indifference. "Where were you working?"
"7-B. No wait, 7-A? I can't—" She hiccupped. "Seventh floor?"
"This building only has three floors, ma'am."
"See? I told you I'm a disaster." More sobbing.
The guard rubbed his face. "Rodriguez—or whoever you are—take her to the second-floor offices. Check 2-A through 2-C. Five minutes, then out."
"I'm scheduled to clean 1A through E. I’m not supposed to leave my section," Griff said, still in character.
"I'll note it in the log. Just... get her out of here." He was still trying to save his paperwork from the coffee. "And ma'am? Your badge."
Sarah had started to walk away. She turned back, snatched her badge from the desk where she'd "forgotten" it, knocking over his pencil holder in the process. "Sorry, sorry!"
"GO," the guard said.
They moved past the station, Sarah maintaining her stumbling gait, Griff pushing his bucket with the bored efficiency of someone who dealt with far worse than drunk bureaucrats regularly.
The moment they rounded the corner, Sarah dropped the act and moved swiftly despite her ankle. No cameras beyond the front hallways. The price one paid to create unfettered access to data.
"We’re at 15 minutes and counting," Griff murmured.
"Server Room Seven is this way." Sarah led them through hallways she knew by heart. The maintenance keycard worked on the server room door too.
Inside, the temperature dropped fifteen degrees. Sarah was at the terminal immediately, fingers flying across the keyboard. No badge needed for internal access—she knew the system passwords and the backdoors IT never bothered to change.
"Downloading now," she said, inserting her flash drive.
The progress bar crawled forward. 23%. 31%. 42%. Every jump forward seemed to take an hour.
"Five minutes," Griff said from the door. "The janitor won't stay unconscious forever."
The routing logs were all here—account numbers, transaction IDs, a digital trail of corruption. But encrypted, coded. She'd need time to decode it all, but the raw data was transferring.
67%. 73%.
A new file appeared in the system—uploaded recently. Priority flagged. Sarah clicked it while the main download continued.
She gasped.
“What?” Griff was behind her in an instant.
She tapped the screen. "A whole series of payments scheduled for next week. All with the designation CS—Charleston Summit."
She kept scrolling, her horror growing. Then at the bottom, added three days ago: "SW-Priority-Active."
"That's me," she whispered. "Sarah Winters. They put a price on my head three days ago."
"Download it all," Griff ordered.
"Already on it." The progress bar hit 87%.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Not the casual pace of a guard's rounds—these were moving with purpose.
"Company," Griff said. "How much longer?"
"Thirty seconds." 92%. 94%.
The footsteps stopped right outside their door. The handle rattled.
Griff sprinted for the door on silent feet, weapon in hand. He put a finger to his lips.
She nodded, fisting her hands in frustration.
96%. 98%.
A radio crackled through the door: "Control, this is Morrison. Checking Server Seven. That maintenance guy and the drunk lady never came back out."
100%.
She yanked the flash drive free, shoving it deep in her pocket. The door handle turned.
"Window," Griff hissed.
Sarah looked at the narrow window, barely wide enough for a person. "That's a twenty-foot drop—"
The door burst open. The guard—Morrison—had his hand on his weapon. His eyes widened seeing them.
"Don't—" he started.
Griff moved faster than Sarah's eyes could track. The guard crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
"He'll be fine," Griff said, dragging him inside. "But his supervisor will check when he doesn't report back. We've got maybe two minutes."
They slipped out of the server room. Alarms hadn't started yet, but it was only a matter of time. Sarah led them through a different route—longer but avoiding the main guard station.
"Emergency exit," she whispered, pointing to a door marked with red. "It'll trigger alarms—"
"No worries. We’re already on borrowed time." Griff pushed the bar.
The alarm shrieked instantly, red lights flashing. They burst into the loading dock area. Shouting erupted. Doors slammed. More alarms joined the cacophony.
"Run," Griff commanded.