"Then how do you propose we gain entry?"
"The old-fashioned way." I select two thin metal picks from the case and insert them into the lock, feeling for the pins with practiced precision. This isn't the first time I've picked a lock—my college roommate lost her keys so frequently that I eventually learned the skill out of pure self-preservation—but it's definitely the first time I've done it while committing corporate espionage with an Orc warchief breathing down my neck. "Just give me a minute."
Knox positions himself to watch the corridor while I work, his body angled to intercept any threat that might approach from either direction. My picks scrape against the pins inside the lock, searching for the precise angle that will convince this door that I have every right to enter.
The first pin clicks into place. Then the second. The third is stubborn, fighting against my manipulation, and I have to take a slow breath and force my hands to remain steady even as the clock in my head continues its relentless countdown. Four pins. Five. The tension wrench turns smoothly in my grip, and the lock releases with a soft, satisfying snick that feels like victory.
"We're in." I push the door open and slip inside, Knox following close behind, and we pull it shut just as the distant sound of returning footsteps reaches my ears. The guard is doubling back, and we've made it with seconds to spare.
Hoffstead's office is exactly what I expected from a man who mistakes excess for elegance. The space is cavernous, easily three times the size of the cramped room Knox and I have been sharing, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline. The furniture is all dark wood and leather, chosen more for its imposing aesthetic than any practical comfort, and the walls are lined with built-in bookshelves that hold leather-bound volumes arranged by color rather than subject. I doubt Hoffstead has read a single one of them. They're props, set dressing for the image of cultured sophistication he's desperately trying to project.
"The vault is behind the bookshelf on the east wall." I orient myself quickly, using the window view to confirm the cardinal directions. "Third shelf from the left, behind the green volumes."
Knox is already moving toward the indicated location, his sharp eyes scanning the spines of the books with tactical precision. He reaches the shelf and runs his fingers along the edge, searching for the hidden mechanism that will reveal the vault behind.
"Here." He presses something I can't see, and a section of the bookshelf swings outward with a soft hydraulic hiss, revealing a recessed alcove containing exactly what we came for. The vault door is smaller than I expected. A digital keypad glows softly beside it, accompanied by a small screen displaying a prompt for an eight-digit access code.
"Can you open it?" Knox asks, stepping aside to give me room to work.
"That's the plan." I approach the vault and study the keypad, noting the model and manufacturer from the small logo stamped into the lower corner. It's a Meridian X-7, top-of-the-line commercial security, with rotating encryption and anti-tamper protocols that would take a professional safecracker hours to bypass. Fortunately, I'm not planning to crack theencryption. I'm planning to exploit a vulnerability that the manufacturer doesn't know exists.
The screen of my tablet fills with scrolling code as my custom software goes to work, probing the vault's security system for the backdoor that my research suggested should exist.
"What are you doing?" Knox has positioned himself near the door, splitting his attention between the corridor outside and my progress with the vault.
"Every Meridian security system installed between 2015 and 2019 has a manufacturer's override code built into the firmware." My fingers fly across the tablet screen, navigating through layers of encryption that would be impenetrable to anyone without the right tools. "It's supposed to be a failsafe for situations where a client forgets their access code and gets locked out of their own vault. The override is undocumented and theoretically known only to Meridian's senior technicians, but one of those technicians got fired last year for selling client data and decided to post the algorithm online as revenge."
"Your human corporations are remarkably vulnerable to betrayal from within." Knox sounds almost impressed. "Among my people, such treachery would be punished by blood feud lasting seven generations."
"Yeah, well, we just have HR write a strongly worded letter and update the LinkedIn profile to 'seeking new opportunities.'" My software chirps softly as it locates the hidden subroutine I'm looking for, and I allow myself a small smile of triumph. "Got it. Give me another thirty seconds."
The override algorithm is elegant in its simplicity, a mathematical sequence based on the vault's serial number and the current date that generates a unique access code valid for exactly sixty seconds. I feed the parameters into my program, hold my breath as it processes the calculation, and watch as an eight-digit number appears on my screen.
I enter the code into the keypad with steady fingers, and the vault emits a series of soft beeps that sound almost melodic in the tense silence of Hoffstead's office. The digital display flashes green, there's a heavy mechanical thunk as the locking bolts disengage, and the vault door begins to swing open on well-oiled hinges.
"Magnificent. You breach enemy fortifications as easily as breathing."
"Flattery later." I turn back to the vault, my heart pounding with anticipation. "Let's see what Hoffstead's been hiding."
The interior of the vault is smaller than I expected, barely large enough to accommodate the fireproof document box that occupies most of the space. I reach in with both hands and carefully extract the box. The lid is secured by a simple brass clasp, and when I flip it open, I find exactly what we came for.
Ledgers. Dozens of them, bound in plain brown covers, each one labeled with dates and account numbers written in cramped, precise handwriting that I recognize from the documents we recovered during the hostile takeover. These are the original records, the paper trail that Hoffstead thought he'd hidden well enough to avoid detection. They document every shell company, every fraudulent transaction, every dollar that flowed through his network of fake subsidiaries and offshore accounts. This is the evidence we need to prove that his claim on our shareholders is built on a foundation of financial crimes.
"We found them. Knox, we actually found them. This is everything. The phantom stock purchases, the falsified audit reports, the kickbacks to the board members who voted to support his takeover. It's all here."
Knox crosses the room in three long strides and peers over my shoulder at the ledgers, his breath warm against my cheek. I watch his expression shift as he scans the pages, recognitiondawning as he connects the numbers to the financial crimes we've spent weeks trying to prove.
"These records bear witness to treachery of the highest order. "Hoffstead has not merely sought to defeat us. He has corrupted the very rules of engagement. He has made a mockery of the commercial battlefield."
"Which means we can destroy him." I begin carefully photographing each page with my tablet, creating a digital backup that we can use even if something happens to the original documents. "We take these to the SEC, to the FBI, to every regulatory agency with jurisdiction over financial fraud. Hoffstead won't just lose the takeover. He'll lose everything. His company, his reputation, his freedom."
Knox's hand settles on my shoulder, a warm and grounding weight that anchors me to the moment even as my mind races ahead to imagine the implications of our victory. We're going to win. After weeks of scrambling, of fighting defensive battles against an enemy who seemed to hold all the cards, we finally have the weapon we need to turn the tide.
"We must move quickly. The guard will return soon, and we cannot risk being discovered with this evidence in our possession."
"Right. You're right." I close the document box and tuck it under my arm, already mentally mapping our exit route. "We go back the way we came. Down the stairs, through the service corridor, out the back entrance. My car is parked three blocks east. We can?—"
The sound is deafening, a shrieking wail coming from everywhere at once, bouncing off the walls and ceiling until the entire office vibrates with its fury. Red emergency lights begin strobing in the corridor outside, painting the world in flashes of crimson that feel like panic made visible.
