Chapter 9 – Blue （February 12）
Waking up in the van usually feels like freedom.
Today, it feels like a hangover without the fun of the party.
I groan, shifting under the heavy pile of wool blankets that creates a small, warm cocoon against the frigid San Francisco morning.
A small, warm weight grumbles against my stomach, and a wet nose nudges my chin.
"I know, Skip," I whisper, scratching behind her ears. "It’s cold out there. I miss the fireplace too."
Skipper burrows deeper, refusing to face the day. I don't blame her. The air inside Betty is biting, a stark contrast to the plush rug and gourmet treats she was enjoying just yesterday. I feel a pang of guilt. I dragged her back to the trenches because I was scared, and now she’s shivering.
"Sorry, partner," I murmur, kissing her head. "It’s just for a little while longer."
I force myself to sit up, the cold air hitting me again as the blankets fall away. My neck is stiff, and the silence of the van feels heavy. It’s just me and the dog. No smell of coffee brewing. No warm, heavy arm draped over my waist. No whirring of Damon's computer fan.
"You wanted this," I croak to the metal walls. "You wanted the edge."
I do have the edge. I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I’m pissed off.
That’s usually the trifecta for a successful con.
But as I slide out of the warm nest, I don't feel sharp.
I feel brittle. I take care of business quickly using the cassette toilet hidden under the bench seat, the unglamorous reality of van life, and then dress in layers, shivering until I pull the heavy coat back on.
"Come on, Sheriff," I say, clipping the leash onto Skipper’s collar. "Patrol time."
We do a quick lap around the block for her to do her business. She does it with maximum efficiency, lifting a paw disdainfully at the wet pavement before scrambling back toward the van. I settle her back in the blankets with a bowl of food and a chew toy.
"Guard the fort," I tell her. "I'll be back soon to take us... somewhere."
I grab my toiletry bag and the bundle of Martha clothes, the grey slacks and the button-up blouse and lock Betty up.
I trudge three blocks to the 24-Hour Fitness where I keep a membership solely for the showers.
The locker room smells of bleach and other people’s sweat, a far cry from the sandalwood and steam of the Airbnb.
I stand under the hot spray for ten minutes, trying to thaw my bones, but the heat doesn't reach the knot of anxiety in my chest.
I dry off and pull on the costume. The fabric is stiff and uncomfortable.
I tuck my red hair up under the itchy brown wig, add the brown contacts and slide the thick glasses onto my nose and then leave.
I walk to the bus stop, keeping my head down against the wind and I let my shoulders slump and change my gait to more of a shuffle the closer I get to the Horizon Wellness office.
By the time I step off the elevator, all traces of the real me are gone.
"Martha!"
Gary’s grating voice beckons me. I turn, plastering on the normal shy, slightly terrified smile that Martha is known for.
"Good morning, Gary. I was going to get started on the reports for today."
Gary is wearing brown from head to toe today and I try not to cringe when he leans against my desk next to me, invading my personal space again.
"Sure, sure," he says, waving a hand. "Big day tomorrow, Martha! Big day! Make sure you have your travel bag ready. The bus leaves at 8:00 AM sharp."
"I’ll be ready, Gary," I say, adjusting my glasses and reaching to turn on my monitor for the day.
He drops a plastic badge on my desk. "Your access card for the estate. Don't lose it or security will skin us both alive."
I stare at the piece of plastic. It looks like any standard key card, an innocent piece of plastic, but it makes my stomach twist. I spent half the night staring at the metal ceiling of the van, replaying the briefing.
The plan relies heavily on this card getting me into the service corridors without flagging a silent alarm.
Damon’s looping the cameras, but he can’t loop a hardwired door log if the system has a secondary encryption he hasn't seen yet.
Trust the team, a voice that sounds like Andre whispers in my head.
Trust no one, my instincts scream back.
If this card has restricted access levels I don't know about, or if it triggers a 'zone violation' alert when I try to enter the executive wing, the heist is over before it starts. I need to know. I look around. Gary is distracted, yelling at an intern about coffee.
I could text Marcus. I could ask him to run the card’s serial number against the system he’s hacked. I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over the encrypted chat app.
No.
If I text them, I’m leaning on them. If I lean on them, I get soft. I need to prove that I can handle my own recon. I need to prove to myself that I am still the asset, not the liability. I shove the phone away. I’ll do it myself.
I wait until 12:30 PM and the office population is as thin as it is going to get with most people out for their lunch break and grab an empty water pitcher from the breakroom as my prop and head for the executive elevators. I hit the button for the 12th floor where the executive suites are.
My working theory is that if the card works here without tripping any alarms then it will likely work for the executive wing at the estate.
Thorne likes uniformity and I know the office here and on the estate use the same security system.
If the card readers here flag a 'low-level' employee entering a 'high-level' service area like the executive pantry, they’ll do the same at the vineyard.
The hallway is quiet, the carpet plush enough to eat the sound of my sensible shoes.
I keep my head down, walking with the hurried, terrified purpose of a lowly assistant until I reach the executive pantry.
It’s behind a glass door with a card reader.
I take a breath, glance discreetly up at the camera in the corner and swipe the badge.
Beep. Green light. The lock disengages. I push the door open and take a deep relieved breath. Fucking success. There’s no alarms, no flashing red lights, just the hum of the fridge. The card works. It grants access without a security flag.
I step inside, letting out another sigh of relief. I turn to fill the pitcher at the sink, just to maintain the cover.
"Is the water on the 4th floor not good enough for you?"
The voice is deep, smooth, and laced with menace.
I jump, the empty plastic pitcher slipping from my hand and clattering loudly into the stainless-steel sink as I spin around.
Standing in the doorway, blocking the exit, is Graves, Thorne’s Head of Security and right behind him is his second in command, Tyler Graft.
Graves is wearing a charcoal grey suit that costs more than my annual temp salary, the fabric straining across his shoulders.
He looks like a corporate shark that learned to walk on land, predatory, efficient, and cold.
But it’s Graft that has chills racing down my spine.
I did a deep dive on these guys before I made first contact on this job and what I found on the dark web about Graft’s prior exploits was sickening.
It didn't shock me one bit that Thorne would add a guy like that to her security team.
My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I force my shoulders to hunch, shrinking into myself.
"I... I’m sorry, sir," I stammer, my voice trembling. "The... the… Gary, I mean, Mr. Wilson, he wanted water… ice machine is broken… I thought..."
Graves and Graft step into the room. The door clicks shut behind them.
"You thought you’d come up to the executive suite?" He walks toward me, slow and deliberate as Tyler leans against the door with a flat gaze pinned on me. "You’re the runner, right? The one Gary recommended."
"Yes, sir. I'm Martha." I stare at his polished shoes. "I really... I didn't mean to intrude. I just wanted to do a good job."
He stops inches from me. He smells of peppermint with a hint of gun oil.
"Look at me."
I force my head up, adjusting my glasses with a shaking hand. I widen my eyes, letting them fill with the very real fear I’m feeling as they dart to Tyler and back. This isn't an act. This man is dangerous.
Graves studies my face. He looks at the wig, the bad makeup, the cheap clothes. His eyes narrow, scanning me like a barcode scanner.
"You’re shaking," Tyler sneers.
"You’re scary," I whisper. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day.
He snorts, a cruel, dismissive sound. But it’s Graves that responds. "Good. Fear keeps people honest. And it keeps them from making mistakes."
He reaches out and I flinch, backing into the counter. He grabs the badge clipped to my blouse and lifts it, reading the name, then drops it.
"This card is for special access at the auction," he says. "Not for you to wander around fetching ice water for middle managers."
"I know. I’m sorry. I won't do it again."
"No, you won't. You will be turning in this high-level access card immediately after your duties at the auction are complete. Understood?"
He stares me down for a few beats and then turns on his heel and waves Graft away from the door. His second in command turns as if to follow him out but then spins back and takes two quick steps in my direction. He leans in, his voice dropping to a low, ominous rumble.
"You really don’t want to wander around with this card because if I see you out of bounds again, Martha, firing you will be the least of your problems. I have ways of making people disappear from the workforce entirely. Do not test me."
My blood turns to ice. There is no specific threat of law enforcement, just the heavy weight of a man who knows how to ruin lives without leaving a paper trail.
"Yes, sir. Perfectly."
"Get out."