Chapter 13 #2
The stairwell is a brutalist concrete affair, all sharp angles and unforgiving surfaces, and our footsteps echo slightly despite our best efforts at silence.
I take the stairs two at a time, my thighs burning as I push the pace, acutely aware of Knox climbing just behind me with an ease that makes my struggling lungs feel deeply inadequate.
By the time we reach the fourth floor landing, I'm breathing hard and there's a stitch forming in my side that I aggressively ignore.
Knox, of course, isn't even slightly winded.
"I'm fine," I hiss before he can say anything. "Just give me a second."
"Take as many seconds as you need." He positions himself between me and the door, his body angled to shield me from any potential threat on the other side.
"We have approximately four minutes before the pressure sensors reactivate, according to your calculations.
That is ample time to catch your breath. "
I want to argue, but my lungs are staging a mutiny and my legs feel like they've been filled with sand, so I settle for glaring at him instead while I gulp air and wait for my heart rate to return to something resembling normal.
The brief rest gives me a chance to review our plan one more time, running through the sequence of actions we'll need to execute with split-second precision once we step through this door.
Hoffstead's private office is at the far end of the executive floor, past a reception area and a conference room and a gauntlet of glass-walled offices belonging to his senior partners.
The vault is hidden behind a false panel in his bookshelf, because apparently the man watched too many spy movies in his formative years and decided that cliché equals security.
The biometric lock requires both fingerprint and retinal verification, which is impossible to bypass physically.
But I know for a fact that the Meridian security system he uses has an undocumented firmware vulnerability, and I've spent the last three days writing the exact patch of custom code we need to exploit it.
"Ready," I say finally, straightening up and squaring my shoulders.
Knox nods once, his expression shifting from protective concern to focused intensity. He reaches for the door handle, pauses, and looks back at me one last time.
"Whatever happens in there, know that I am proud to fight beside you."
The words hit me somewhere in the vicinity of my solar plexus, warm and heavy and unexpected. I just nod and gesture for him to open the door.
The executive floor is even darker than the service corridor, lit only by the ambient glow of the city filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows that line the outer wall.
The carpet is thick and expensive, swallowing the sound of our footsteps as we move quickly through the reception area.
I keep my eyes on the path ahead, navigating by memory and by the faint outlines of furniture visible against the window-glow, while Knox maintains position at my shoulder like a , deadly shadow.
We pass the conference room without incident.
The senior partner offices are dark and empty, their occupants long since departed for the comfort of their suburban homes and their illusions of legitimate success.
I see Hoffstead's door at the end of the corridor now, a heavy mahogany slab absorbs what little light exists in the space around it.
"Wait." Knox's hand closes around my arm, pulling me to a stop. His grip is firm but gentle, and I can feel the tension vibrating through him like a struck chord. "Something is wrong."
I freeze, straining my senses for whatever has triggered his alarm.
For a long moment, I hear nothing but the soft hum of the climate control system and the distant rumble of traffic from the street far below.
Then, gradually, I become aware of something else—a faint, rhythmic sound that doesn't quite fit the ambient noise of an empty building.
Footsteps. Coming from somewhere behind us.
We flatten ourselves against the wall of the nearest office, pressing into the shadows cast by a filing cabinet that juts out from the corner. The footsteps grow louder, closer, accompanied now by the soft crackle of a radio and the jingle of keys on a belt loop.
Security guard. Making rounds ahead of schedule.
I hold my breath and count the seconds, my mind racing through contingency plans that range from marginally plausible to completely insane.
The guard's flashlight beam sweeps across the corridor we just vacated, painting long shadows on the carpet, and I catch a glimpse of a heavyset man in a uniform moving with the shuffling gait of someone who's been on his feet too long and wants nothing more than to finish his shift.
He pauses at the conference room door, shines his light through the glass, and my heart stops completely as the beam passes within inches of where we're hidden.
Knox's hand tightens on my waist. His breath is warm and steady against my hair, and I can feel the tension coiled in his muscles, ready to spring into action if the guard comes any closer.
But the man just grunts, apparently satisfied that the conference room is empty, and continues his patrol in the opposite direction.
His footsteps fade gradually into the distance, and I don't let myself breathe again until I can no longer hear the jingle of his keys.
"That was not on your schedule," Knox murmurs against my ear, and I can hear the thread of concern beneath the accusation.
"Hoffstead must have increased patrols after the board meeting.
" I ease myself out of Knox's embrace, immediately missing the warmth and solidity of his body against mine, and peer around the corner of the filing cabinet to confirm the corridor is clear.
"He knows we're coming for him. He's getting paranoid. "
"Paranoia is the mark of a defeated enemy." Knox moves to my side, his movements fluid and silent despite his bulk. "He senses the walls closing in. He is scrambling to protect what little remains of his crumbling empire."
"That scrambling is going to get us caught if we don't move faster." I check my mental timer and grimace at the numbers. We've lost precious minutes hiding from the patrol, and the window for safe movement is shrinking rapidly. "Hoffstead's office. Now."
We cover the remaining distance at a quick jog, caution giving way to urgency as the seconds tick down.
The mahogany door looms ahead of us, and I'm already mentally rehearsing the sequence of actions I'll need to perform once we're inside.
Knox reaches the door first and tries the handle, his hand dwarfing the polished brass knob, and his jaw tightens with frustration when it refuses to turn.
"Locked," he growls. "Stand back. I will—"
"You will not break down this door." I shoulder past him and kneel in front of the lock, pulling a slim leather case from my back pocket. "That's exactly what Hoffstead is expecting. He's probably got pressure sensors on the frame that will trigger the moment the door is forced."
"Then how do you propose we gain entry?"
"The old-fashioned way." I select two thin metal picks from the case and insert them into the lock, feeling for the pins with practiced precision.
This isn't the first time I've picked a lock—my college roommate lost her keys so frequently that I eventually learned the skill out of pure self-preservation—but it's definitely the first time I've done it while committing corporate espionage with an Orc warchief breathing down my neck. "Just give me a minute."
Knox positions himself to watch the corridor while I work, his body angled to intercept any threat that might approach from either direction. My picks scrape against the pins inside the lock, searching for the precise angle that will convince this door that I have every right to enter.
The first pin clicks into place. Then the second.
The third is stubborn, fighting against my manipulation, and I have to take a slow breath and force my hands to remain steady even as the clock in my head continues its relentless countdown.
Four pins. Five. The tension wrench turns smoothly in my grip, and the lock releases with a soft, satisfying snick that feels like victory.
"We're in." I push the door open and slip inside, Knox following close behind, and we pull it shut just as the distant sound of returning footsteps reaches my ears. The guard is doubling back, and we've made it with seconds to spare.
Hoffstead's office is exactly what I expected from a man who mistakes excess for elegance.
The space is cavernous, easily three times the size of the cramped room Knox and I have been sharing, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline.
The furniture is all dark wood and leather, chosen more for its imposing aesthetic than any practical comfort, and the walls are lined with built-in bookshelves that hold leather-bound volumes arranged by color rather than subject.
I doubt Hoffstead has read a single one of them.
They're props, set dressing for the image of cultured sophistication he's desperately trying to project.
"The vault is behind the bookshelf on the east wall." I orient myself quickly, using the window view to confirm the cardinal directions. "Third shelf from the left, behind the green volumes."
Knox is already moving toward the indicated location, his sharp eyes scanning the spines of the books with tactical precision. He reaches the shelf and runs his fingers along the edge, searching for the hidden mechanism that will reveal the vault behind.