CHAPTER FORTY
SYLVIE
Once I’m in the coal room, which is small and boxy and composed of musty brick, I wedge myself into the corner and scale the wall, bracing my back on one wall and using my feet on the other.
The transom window that overlooks the hallway outside the bunker is my way in.
It allows me to bypass the guards, provided they don’t hear me.
They’re standing at the end of the hall, on the other side of the door.
The commotion from the rest of the crew is our method of keeping them occupied.
Part of the plan is to remove both transom windows.
The second one provides access to the escape route within the walls.
It should lead all the way to the wine cellar, but more importantly, we discovered it goes to the storage room that is our B route.
It’s not an ideal exit because it’s so close to the crowd, but it’s still an out.
So, I’m removing both ahead of time. An extra minute now could be a life-saving minute later.
I balance myself and dig into my backpack that is situated on my chest, the scents of damp soil and wet cardboard permeating the stale air.
First, I attach a suction cup to the glass that is also tied to my bag.
That way, the window doesn’t crash to the floor when I cut it.
Next, I drag a glass cutter—a handheld tool with a rotating steel disk—along the outside rectangle, soothed by the zipper-like sound that accompanies the scoring.
It’s not hard, but it does require firm pressure, so from this perched-near-the-ceiling position, all my muscles are engaged.
After I make it all the way around, I push on the glass until it pops free and I can yank it back with the suction cup.
Then I take sandpaper and file it down quickly to prevent any injuries.
I deposit that piece on the ground; send a quick text, telling them what I’m doing and that I need the B route cleared; and repeat it all on the other window.
I breathe a little easier once I know Tessa will be able to alert me to any issue with leaving that way, but then I nearly choke when the glass from this transom window comes close to slipping.
“Shit,” I hiss as it clanks against the wall on the other side.
That’s a bumble we can’t afford. If it shattered, there would be guards on me in an instant. And I’d be …
No. Don’t go there.
Taking ten seconds to meditate, I gather the glass and leave it behind before boosting myself back up, throwing a towel over the sanded entry point, and climbing through.
By the time I drop to my feet in the hallway, I have a few nicks and cuts, but nothing to worry about.
Because of the two coded door entries and other security precautions, this area and the bunker I’ll be entering are not covered on the security cameras.
I suspect that’s to ensure there isn’t a firm record of who comes in and out, which I suppose could be used against them.
It’s nonstop pandemonium on the comms, which is music to my ears. I scurry to the door to the target bunker, punching in the code that the guys obtained. It flashes green, so I open it, aware that my first order of business is to deal with the heat sensors.
There are two, each located just inside the threshold.
They are small, rectangular boxes with a slightly curved lens on the front—passive infrared sensors.
Their job is to sense my body heat. But their reach doesn’t travel beyond the door.
So, I grab my mini liquid nitrogen canister to cool the temperature-detection mechanisms, jump to grip the top of the door casing, and carefully press the lever to spray, avoiding any contact with my skin.
It shoots out of the long nozzle. First at the one on the right, then at the one on the left.
I hang there for a minute, glaring at them. The only way to test it is to move, so here goes nothing.
I drop, hold my breath, store the liquid nitrogen, and move forward.
When nothing happens, I turn my mic back on and report over the comms for confirmation. “Everything is looking nice and cool.”
“Copy that. Same on our end,” Liam replies.
Huffing out a cleansing breath, I finally take in the rest of the room.
There are filing cabinets, but I don’t have time to peruse those.
There’s also a big data computing system—tall cabinets with hard drives and lots of blue lights.
And now it makes sense; this is likely something that is rented to multiple clients. High-dollar lethal clients.
I shut the door, in case someone comes down the hall, and move to the station that has a monitor hooked up to it.
I studied a lot about USB-based hardware authentication devices over the past several months, so it doesn’t take me much time to determine where to insert the three keys.
Once they’re in, a delightful ding resounds with a greeting and question: Welcome, Dominion! What would you like to do today? Input new files. Review files. Send files. Download all files.
I insert the high-capacity USB drive and click Download All Files as my heart thrashes against my sternum and a timer pops up.
“Seven minutes,” I report.
“All is good on our end,” Wells responds. “Stay your post.”
It’s then that I notice the raucous commotion filtering into my ear from the wine cellar and from Axel and Zara. The Noires are wreaking havoc, and I’m holding my breath.
Six minutes.
Almost there.
Welcome, Dominion increases my hunch that Peter and the keyholders are Kratos. That would be the original meaning from the Greek root.
Five minutes.
Since I’m alone in this room with my thoughts, bits and pieces of conversations I’ve had start to flit through my mind. Mainly Peter’s.
“Your father and I had some associates in common. Our connections went way back, like a six-degrees-of-separation thing. We ran in the same circles, had similar interests, parallel goals, but I only knew of him. By the time I was more involved with the associates he’d worked with, he was gone.
But everything conveyed about him revealed that he was … impressive. It was a loss.”
There’s a whisper in my mind, insisting that’s important.
Four minutes.
Each second stretches into what feels like eternity. While I’m waiting, I scour the files to see what the importance of this information is.
It allows me to open the primary file, which is similar to an address book. There are countless names, lists of transgressions, codes and contacts and time with the organization. I sift through it, attempting to grab ahold of whatever I can.
“Tango Texas has been called to his room,” Wells announces, referring to Peter Fairfax since he’s from San Antonio.
No more names. We’re all being more cautious in the eleventh hour.
While Zara stood as a formidable lookout, Tessa ransacked Peter’s room.
Cash had swiped Peter’s neighbor’s key card at breakfast and passed it to her.
The balconies were close enough that she was able to climb over.
She didn’t take anything, not even the dummy USB key that I’d left behind at Peter’s residence when I stole the real one.
The entire ruse was simply so we were all accounted for at the time of speculation.
It will be clear this evening, when the USB keys don’t work, that someone tampered with them.
With Peter’s room having been ransacked, it should appear as though the keys were switched today—while I was with him and all the Noires were present in the main resort.
So, hopefully, no one suspects us. Of course, since Peter knows my past, he might speculate anyway.
“Where are we on time?” Liam presses.
“Three minutes,” I mutter, though my thoughts are firmly embedded in what I’m reading.
“Eyes on all four of my tangos,” Gage reports.
“Security has scattered,” Ty says. “One tango unaccounted for.”
Cash, Maddox, Jax, and Tatum continue to unleash mayhem in the wine cellar with security attempting to coax them out. It has all the makings of billionaire mischief, so the guards are probably more annoyed than alarmed. I’d laugh if I wasn’t preoccupied.
I move through the names, initially catching Beatrice Shaeffer and Elliot Spencer.
Then Nigel Dryden.
E is in here too? Does he know that? Why would he be lumped in with the people he’s robbing?
I can’t make sense of it, until I do. “It’s a coup.”
“Say again,” Wells orders.
“It’s a coup,” I repeat. “They’re all in here. Well”—I search for Peter, to no avail—“not all, but both sides. There is no X.”
I have no idea whether my cryptic code is discernible, but by the exasperation that follows, I think it is.
“Fuck,” Liam hisses.
It is both the mother lode and a death sentence.
Two minutes.
We’re robbing Kratos and double-crossing one of their members. E must be trying to take over the organization for some reason. I bet he can taste the power. I hope he drowns in the poison of us plundering it.
“It was a loss.” That was what Peter said. He was telling me that he was part of an organization my father was involved with or expected to be involved with.
My father wasn’t killed because the FBI approached him. He was killed because he wouldn’t work for Kratos.
Why isn’t Peter in here then? He’s one of the keyholders, so he should be.
One minute.
“Ready to wrap up,” I inform them as I close out the program.
“We’ve got a lot of movement,” Ty chirps back. “Get to the agreed-upon exit as quickly as possible. We’re going to extract you right to the boat. Three minutes out.”
The seconds tick by, and my lungs burn with the intensity of every inhale, exhale, the path back to the coal chute illuminated in my mind.
“I was just going for a walk,” Tessa utters, but it doesn’t sound like it’s for us. She’s in distress.
“What do you want with the storage room, sweetheart?” a deep voice growls.
“I don’t think the resort owners or Minds of Our Time will appreciate you smashing me against the wall and clasping my wrists,” she says, so sweet and unaffected that it nearly sounds like she’s bored.
Her feigned innocence and threat to report it to the authorities is a brilliant method to confuse whoever has her. It’s also for our benefit.
My stomach flops. Message received.
“Lucky for me and unlucky for you,” the foreign voice snipes, “I’m not with the resort or the convention.”
Kratos.
“Get the fuck out of my way!” Maddox roars as the computer beeps, signaling the download is complete.
I grab the drive and the keys, hustling out of there. “I can be there in a minute.”
And absolute madness ensues.