Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Vraag
The school’s Harvest Festival buzzes with activity—classrooms transformed into themed stations, children carrying bags of goodies they’ve won from carnival games racing from door to door, parents crowding hallways with smartphones raised. The chaos creates too many security variables for comfort.
I position myself near the east entrance with clear sightlines to the kindergarten wing.
Someone tried to access that room. More than once.
The earlier attempts remain unresolved. I don’t yet know whether the focus was opportunistic or deliberate, whether the interest was in the location itself or the routines surrounding it. What I know is this: the pattern is not random, and the risk is not theoretical.
And the question I have not yet been able to answer—the one that has been sitting at the back of every perimeter check and every security report I’ve filed—is whether it is the classroom they keep returning to, or the person in it.
Whether Riona Walker is incidental to this threat or the point of it.
I have no evidence that confirms the second possibility.
I also have no evidence that rules it out.
In StoneWatch training, the absence of evidence is not reassurance.
It is simply an open question that hasn’t been answered yet. I don’t like open questions.
StoneWatch training forbids assumptions. You observe. You document. You wait for facts.
And so I do.
I adjust protocols within approved limits. I stay visible. Restraint does not mean inattention.
The carnival atmosphere doesn’t diminish my vigilance. If anything, the crowded corridors and distracted staff heighten my awareness. The mystery figure from the security footage chose their targets strategically. Tonight provides optimal cover.
Grulk appears beside me, colored streamers draped over his maintenance uniform. His expression is sober, his gaze already tracking the movement in the hallway.
“Big crowd,” he says quietly. “Harder to spot what doesn’t belong.”
“It is,” I agree, continuing my scan of the corridor.
“If someone were testing access points, this kind of event would be a good time to try again.”
“That is my assessment as well.”
He nods once, satisfied. “Just here to remind you that I adjusted the east camera angle as you requested,” Grulk continues, lowering his voice. “Full coverage of both the window and the A/V room access point. No blind spots now.”
“Appreciated,” I acknowledge. His skills often hide beneath his informal manner, but HammerFall engineering expertise runs deep.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says, watching a group of exuberant children rush past, “how long do you plan to follow human security protocols that clearly don’t work?”
The question catches me off-guard. “Meaning?”
“They’ve got you doing things the human way,” he says with a shrug. “But StoneWatch methods would guard this place better. Right now, you’re stuck between the two.”
Before I can respond, Principal Winters approaches, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Vraag, could you please check the gym? We have more attendees than expected, and I’m concerned about capacity limits.”
“Of course,” I respond automatically, though it means temporarily leaving my preferred observation post.
As I navigate the crowded hallways, Grulk’s question lingers. Years of integration have meant constant adjustment to human security expectations—less presence, less vigilance, less instinct. And still, there have been two breach attempts.
The gymnasium inspection takes twelve minutes, which is within acceptable parameters, but longer than I’d prefer.
As I return through the east corridor, something stops me.
Not a visible tell—the classroom door is closed, the corridor undisturbed.
It’s something quieter than that. A quality of presence in a room that should be empty.
A sound beneath the ambient noise of the festival that does not belong: faint mechanical work at a lock, patient and deliberate.
Riona’s classroom runs along the exterior wall, windows facing the playground—the same windows that have been tested twice now.
At the back, a connecting door leads to the A/V storage room.
No windows. No exterior access. A box with two ways in: the connecting door from her classroom, and a corridor deadbolt I checked ninety minutes ago.
A quick glance tells me that door is undisturbed.
The corridor door to the A/V room requires a key from both sides.
He couldn't have entered or exited that way.
Which means someone came in through the window.
Which means the only thing standing between him and eighty-seven thousand dollars of equipment is the lock he is currently working.
Integration Protocol 47: Notify administration of potential security incidents before intervention. StoneWatch teaching: When threats breach the perimeter, immediate action preserves life. For once, I choose the latter.
I approach from the side of the doorframe rather than straight on—the angle that keeps me out of sight longest. I open the classroom door without sound.
The room is dark. At the far back wall, a figure crouches at the connecting door, a bypass unit in hand, an open backpack on the floor beside him.
Tools laid out in sequence. He has done this before.
I enter without announcing myself, using my size to fill the doorframe completely. The figure at the connecting door freezes.
“Stop!” My voice carries quiet authority rather than volume. He doesn’t stop. He abandons the bypass unit, grabs the backpack, and lunges toward the window—the only exit that doesn’t put him in a crowded corridor. Professional instinct: same way in, same way out.
But he goes for the backpack first, one hard yank to get it off the floor. Those two seconds are two seconds too many. My hand closes around his forearm before he clears the sill. The intruder twists, showing unexpected training, but orc strength ends the resistance immediately.
“Release me or I’ll scream,” he threatens.
“Scream if you want,” I respond calmly. “Then explain to arriving security why you’re standing in a locked classroom in the dark during a school event.
” He stops moving as he calculates the odds.
I pull him back from the window and push it shut.
I use the moment to assess: Male, approximately thirty years old, athletic build, dark clothing, gloves, and backpack.
I pull the backpack open with one hand while keeping him secured with the other. Equipment visible inside: bolt cutters, small pry bar, and wire cutters. The security panel bypass unit lies where he dropped it on the floor. This was not random vandalism, nor opportunistic theft.
Targeted. Planned. He knew exactly what was in that room and exactly how to get to it.
“Just let me go.” His voice tightly controlled. “Nobody got hurt; nothing’s missing.”
“You targeted this classroom specifically,” I state rather than ask. “More than once.”
His surprise confirms what I suspected. This is our window breaker.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his heart rate spikes. Human deception indicators are remarkably consistent.
I reach past him and flip the light switch.
In the sudden fluorescent glare, he looks at me, all of me, and something shifts in his expression.
Not recognition. He already knew who was holding him.
This is calculation. A professional thief reassessing his odds, deciding that an orc security guard is easier to discredit than a human one.
“Look, this is a misunderstanding. I’m a parent. Got separated from the tour group.”
“Parents don’t carry bypass units for electronic security panels.
” I position him against the wall, using minimal pressure to communicate expectations.
“The A/V storage room contains approximately eighty-seven thousand dollars of equipment. It has no windows and no exterior door. The only way in is through the corridor deadbolt or through this classroom. You’ve been casing this heist for months and thought a busy night with hundreds of people would give you the cover you needed.
A professional approach.” I allow my voice to drop slightly.
“But this school is under my protection.”
Something in my tone or my size communicates beyond words, because the calculation leaves his eyes and something else replaces it.
“I wasn’t gonna hurt anyone,” he says quickly. “Just equipment. Insurance covers it.”
“There are hundreds of children in this building tonight.” The growl enters my voice unbidden. “Their safety is not measured in insurance values.”
The door opens behind us. “Mr. Vraag, have you completed the—” Principal Winters stops abruptly, taking in the scene. “What’s happening here?”
“Security incident contained,” I report, maintaining my position.
“This individual entered through Ms. Walker’s classroom window and was attempting to access the A/V storage through the connecting door.
He carries professional theft tools and a security bypass device.
He is responsible for the previous attempts. ”
Principal Winters reaches for her phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“No need for that,” the man says quickly. “This is excessive. The orc is overreacting to a parent who got lost.”
“Lost parents don’t carry bolt cutters,” I observe, holding the backpack open toward Principal Winters so she can see the contents clearly.
She completes her call without further comment.
A moment later, she says, “Mr. Vraag, the police are on their way. You can release him now.”
“With respect, maintaining secure containment until authorities arrive represents best security practice.”
Her expression tightens. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Integration Protocol 12: Defer to administrative authority in non-life-threatening situations.