CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
He mumbles something about disorganization, but thankfully doesn’t follow.
I dash up nineteen flights of steps, my adrenaline pumping by the time I reach the landing.
That’s when I set the security loop in motion via my handheld PC.
I had it prerecorded for this floor, and since I’ll only be about ten minutes and the cleaners haven’t reached this level yet, it should be fine.
Slipping through the open door with the backpack vacuum on, in case one of the cleaners deviates from the lower floors, I dart down the hall toward the entrance to the headquarters for a premier shipping company.
They have two floors below this, too, but this is where all the company bigwigs work.
I’m headed to the president’s office, Beatrice Shaeffer.
The primary entry point requires a card reader—a security measure that is absurdly vulnerable despite it appearing robust. I could have used the cleaner’s one-night-access card that they’d been granted from security.
That was my original plan. But it records which offices are entered at what time, and that poses an issue since I’m going in hours before they’ll reach this level.
Instead, I made my own. Two weeks ago, when the CEO and CFO were in New York at a business lunch, I reserved a table near them and swiped one of their wallets.
It was a nice perk that they essentially came to me.
I used an RFID card reader to scan the company card so I could clone one for myself before returning the wallet without notice.
It works as planned, and I dart for Beatrice’s corner office.
She’s a little more paranoid about her own area, which is secured by a fingerprint.
Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t think like a thief.
She also posted a professional picture of herself on the company website from when they received an enviable award.
Her palms were up in it, and the definition was fantastic.
That was enough for me to create a mold that should gain me access. I guess we’ll see.
I pull out the 3D replica that I made—much like I did with Peter’s—slip it on over my gloved index finger, and hope for the best. A glorious beep resounds, so I let myself in, pocket the fingerprint replica, and scour her office for what I’m looking for.
The space is striking—coffered ceilings, two walls of glass to show off the twinkling city, whitewashed hardwood floors, wainscoting, and camel-colored velvet furniture. Chic cozy cottage. I bet she likes design. It’s her taste in something else that’s important though.
Beatrice contacted a security company last year, shortly after the convention, and inquired about options for safes and such.
She’s an art enthusiast, which I appreciate, and based on some of the solutions the company has offered to other clients and her purchases in the past eleven months, I have a hunch.
The instant I spot the Van Gogh, I know.
Every cell of my body sings out in exultation.
I might not be thrilled to be shackled to this obligation with E, but I can’t deny the elation that courses through me when my skills are proven.
Maybe that is compounded by staring at a masterpiece my father would have drooled over.
My mother still would. If it wouldn’t compromise my mission, I’d take it as a souvenir. I’ve certainly earned it.
Greed equals ruin.
Sighing, I set the backpack vacuum down, drag a chair beneath the painting, stand on the arms, and run my finger along the frame—made to look vintage when it is anything but.
There is a barely discernible seam at the very top-left corner.
She did good. Only someone stalking her for a year for the purpose of snagging this key would think of it.
It would be easiest if I could take the frame off the wall, but it’s wired into the stud with an alarm on it.
While I could dismantle that, it’d only up the risk of a possible footprint of me being here.
And more than anything else, it’s imperative that she isn’t suspicious.
Otherwise, my final job will be treacherous.
So, I climb on the back of the chair, use the ridges on the wall to scale it, and grip two beams on the coffered ceiling.
Once I wedge myself tight to where I feel balanced and capable of reaching, I explore the area of the frame.
There’s a box that slides out from it, which I’m able to do with one hand.
It requires her fingerprint again, and thankfully, I can easily access my pocket to grab the mold.
As quickly as I can, I open the small compartment, obtain the USB-based hardware authenticator, pluck the dummy from my fanny pack to replace what I took, and lock and slide the box back into the frame.
Before I can jump down, that access-granted beep that had me rejoicing minutes ago has acid sloshing in my stomach.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Since there isn’t time to hide anywhere, I brace myself within the square of the coffered ceiling.
It’s an area that’s about three foot by three foot, so I’m able to flatten myself and push against the beams for leverage.
Without the lights on, I stand a chance.
But what are the odds that they don’t turn the lights on?
It’s also not a position I can hold indefinitely.
What if they decide to buff these floors now?
Maybe they’re simply opening the office doors up here to assess what they need to clean. That might be fast.
If it’s the cleaning crew, I’d probably be better off dropping down and acting like I’m just getting started. Something inside me screams not to do that though.
There isn’t anything that betrays my entering, except … the chair. I can’t do anything about that being moved, but I suppose it could appear that it belongs there.
For the split second before the door opens, I wish I could use this bracelet to send a distress signal to Cash. That’s a turn of events I wasn’t expecting.
“In here,” someone whispers when the door opens, gesturing with some cleaning apparatus. “C’mon.”
Blood flow whooshes against my eardrums so loudly that it’s like I’m stranded on the rooftop in a storm. My heart thrashes my sternum. Sweat beads my hairline. And my muscles ache from the strain.
I hold my breath, careful not to expel a single sound.
The city lights bathe the person in shadows and a myriad of distorted colors. I can’t determine what they look like, though the silhouette appears masculine. What I do notice is that the person isn’t holding a cleaning tool.
That’s a gun.
My chest trembles as another person—this one much beefier—creeps inside. Their movements are slow and deliberate. They’re searching for something or someone.
My mind races with options. Or lack thereof. This office is huge, but it’s twenty floors up with the only exit being where these intruders are lurking. Trying to reach my burner while holding this position is unwise. And I don’t carry weapons.
The floor creaks, and time stills. Decisions are made for me.
Coal eyes latch on to the chair in suspicion. The barrel of the gun rises, and the sound of a sharp clap rings through the air. A silencer.
Another shot is fired.
And I jump.