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I had no idea how long I had, or what it would entail to get myself into the ductwork in the first place, so I needed to hurry.
The floor made my heels click far too loudly, clomping like the sound of my heart in my ears, making me sure that someone was going to hear it, and come to get me.
But no one came.
And the access to the storage room was where I knew it was supposed to be.
The door to access it was heavy and loud, but I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t something anyone but me would hear, not with the racket going on in the club.
The space I moved into was dark, having no source of outside light, and any that had been inside had long since burned out.
I felt my way around the space, only stopping when I felt for the tab in the ceiling, then pulling the creaky ladder down inch by inch, trying to keep it as quiet as possible.
I kept my shoes on as I made my way up, only removing them at the very top, not wanting them to make any noise as I got into the ducts.
Taking slow, deep breaths to steady myself, I crawled across some narrow, slippery metal beams before I came to what I was seeking. The end of the elbow of the ductwork, the end that my friend assured me would pull off so HVAC guys could access the inside if they needed to.
With that, I pulled it off, the metal biting into my fingertips, then I climbed in, surprised how tight the space was when it looked so huge.
My friend had failed to warn me of something else about the ducts.
That the metal was unpredictably sharp in places, cutting into my hands and legs as I crawled, making me have to press my lips together to keep from crying out as I felt the blood start to trickle down my skin, likely mingling with all sorts of nasty shit accumulated in the ductwork throughout the years.
Thankfully, I’d had a recent tetanus shot.
But I was going to need to clean the shit out of my wounds to avoid infection.
I’d only crawled maybe a yard or so when I heard it.
The sound of male voices.
Surprisingly close, given how high the ceilings were.
But the ductwork had lots of little vents into each room, so that was likely why the voices carried.
Holding my breath, I climbed as close as I dared to their sounds, then reached for my recording device, and turning it on as I held it to the vent.
My heartbeat was thrumming so hard in my ears that I honestly didn’t hear a fucking thing they were saying. I didn’t need to. Nor did Iwantto. I couldn’t imagine these assholes would be saying anything I wanted to hear. I just needed to get as much of a recording as possible, then get my ass safely back out of this place.
That was it.
The job would be done.
It wouldn’t be my fault if the client didn’t get anything useful out of the recording. That wasn’t the agreement.
I don’t know how long I sat there, arm outstretched, muscle starting to twitch with the strain.
My wounds on my hands and legs had their own pulse now, a throbbing sensation that paired with the burning of open, dirty cuts.
It would all be worth it,I had to remind myself.
Especially if my client was going to make a move on these guys because of the information I’d gotten for him.
When the male voices drifted off, I turned off the device, tucking it safely away.
I waited, wanting to be sure no one was left behind, possibly hearing me as I started to move again, this time more clumsily than before, since I was backing up, unable to see where I was going, or what was behind me.
I knocked over one of my shoes at the end of the ductwork, making my pulse shoot into overdrive as I waited, making sure no one heard and came running.
