Securing Her Truth (Secure & Sacred #4)

1. Stella

STELLA

The cold night air bites at my skin, but it’s the adrenaline that really has me shivering.

I stand in the deep shadow of an alleyway across the street from Aegis Security headquarters, staring up at the sleek, glass-and-steel monolith.

It looks less like an office building and more like a high-tech fortress designed to keep the rest of the world at bay.

I’ve studied the structure inside and out online, but it’s admittedly more intimidating in person.

The height and square footage were just numbers on my screen.

Now they’re staring me in the face, telling me I’ll never accomplish my goal.

Or maybe I’m projecting a lifetime of people making me feel small and worthless.

Yeah, that seems more likely than walls that judge me.

Still, I’m not one to back down from a challenge, especially when it’s this important.

I feel like my career, and therefore everything I’ve built, rides on me getting this story.

Being an investigative journalist has been my dream job since before I even knew what it meant.

And now I’m here, in an alley, alone and staring up at the building I’m about to break into.

Time to get into character.

I pull my long, wavy chestnut hair back, gathering the unruly strands and weaving them tightly into a neat, practical braid. It’s my version of putting on armor. When I’m in full reporter mode, there’s no room for distractions.

My mind flashes to my miserable, dead-end desk job at the Colorado Free Press. I can still hear my stubborn, short-sighted editor, Mike, yelling at me, tossing my hard-earned research into the trash, and calling my investigation into the Shadow Syndicate "conspiracy theory nonsense."

Mike is in his sixties, but looks at least a decade older, probably because of his proclevity for cigars and scotch.

He likes to remind me that “back in the day” things were simpler.

Men ran the newsroom and had the freedom to treat themselves to a drink when they earned it.

This usually rolls into a rant about how the “precious snowflake” owner of our current building banned smoking within 250 feet of the office complex. Apparently, that’s when freedom died.

As if dealing with all that misogyny wasn’t enough, the man wants me to write fluff pieces about local bake sales, not exposing a dangerous criminal network.

But a lifetime of surviving the foster care system taught me two things: nobody is coming to save you, and nothing is more satisfying than proving people wrong.

So, I’m doing this entirely off the books… Which sounded like a much better idea when I was sitting in front of my computer. Not so much now that I’m here. You can do this, I tell myself, hoping I’ll believe it soon.

The adrenaline pulsing through my veins is a paradox that’s simultaneously thrilling and absolutely terrifying. My fingers tremble slightly as I check my gear. This is either the most brilliant investigative journalism move of my career, or it is monumentally, spectacularly stupid.

Taunting voices from my past fill my head for a moment, the cacophony of cruel laughter mixing with all the foster parents who tried to silence me and dim my curiosity.

Fuck them. I may be the youngest reporter at the Colorado Free Press, but I’m going to break this story and get sweet vindication from everyone who told me I wasn’t good enough.

Taking a deep breath, I push the doubts and insecurities aside before making my move.

The infiltration goes surprisingly smoothly, a testament to the three weeks I spent obsessively studying the building’s digital blueprints and tracking the guards' rotation schedules.

I bought the schematics off a sketchy dark-web forum for a chunk of my savings, but seeing the side service door unlock exactly when the guard turns the corner makes every penny worth it.

I slip inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind me. My heart hammers violently against my ribs, a frantic rhythm echoing in my ears. I blend into the shadows, moving down the sterile, dimly lit corridors.

A shot of triumphant dopamine courses through me as I easily bypass all the standard security checkpoints thanks to the cloned key fob I programmed myself.

That was the one part of my plan I wasn’t sure would work, but I’m ridiculously giddy that I was able to figure it out.

I’ve always thought of myself as a writer, using my pen instead of a sword and all that.

Turns out, I can have weapons and a pen when I’m investigating a lead.

I finally locate the main executive office, expecting a standard locked filing cabinet or a digital terminal I'll have to bypass. Something routine. Something manageable.

The door opens and closes with a soft whisper, allowing me to sneak inside undetected. I palm the tactical flashlight strapped to my belt, ready to whip it out and start scouring files and decoding the evidence.

The beam of light spills out over a panel of servers behind a glass door, which is locked.

I reach for my key fob, but it isn’t enough this time.

Shit. I have a thumb drive with a virus in it that will copy the information on these servers and send it to my laptop.

I just need a way to break this lock and–

A sharp click echoes through the silence, indicating that the door is locked from the inside.

My breath freezes in my lungs and my stomach drops to my toes.

I try keeping perfectly still, but my muscles tense and tremble as I await my fate.

The ambient hallway light vanishes, plunging the executive office into deep shadow.

I try blinking a few times to get my bearings in the darkness, but it does little to fight off the panic closing my throat. I have to stay strong. I didn’t make it this far into my investigation just to bail at the first sign of trouble. Okay, maybe like the fiftieth sign of trouble, but still.

A massive, imposing silhouette blocks the exit.

He’s huge, with broad shoulders that seem to span the entire width of the doorframe.

The man is a towering physical presence that syphons all the oxygen out of the room.

A cold spike of raw fear pierces through me, but right on its heels comes a dangerous, familiar wave of curiosity.

Who is he? What is he hiding? Is he part of Aegis?

The Shadow Syndicate? A double agent? A triple agent?

Is that a thing, or did I just see that in a spy movie?

My inquisitive nature has served me well in the past, pushing me to find the truth where others ran away. Now, however, it has gotten me into real, undeniable trouble.

The air in the office is dead still, quiet except for the low, rhythmic hum of servers and computers blinking in the dark.

Standing here in the pitch black, looking at the human mountain trapping me inside, I come to a swift conclusion.

In hindsight, this was definitely a stupid move.

Not brilliant. Just incredibly, deeply stupid.

I stare at the intimidatingly large wall of muscle with intense, dark eyes, and briefly consider bashing him over the head with my flashlight.

Though, the more I look at his chiseled body, the more I think my tactical flashlight might shatter on impact.

I took a litany of self-defense classes when I aged out of the system, but I’m positive none of the moves I learned would work on this beast of a man.

The silhouette takes a step forward, making my knees shake and my head throb.

It takes all of my strength not to collapse at his feet, but I won’t let this man win that easily.

I’ve been fighting against people like him my whole life, people who use their size and power to intimidate and manipulate. But I’m not going down without a fight.

His movement is slow, purposeful, and entirely predatory. I swear my heart is about to pound its way right out of my chest, the sound deafening in the quiet room.

Then, he comes right at me, closing the distance in a terrifying blink.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact, and suck in one huge, desperate breath.