Chapter 6: The Boardroom After Hours
The heavy glass doors of the foundation tower absorbed the sound of the rain outside, leaving only the low hum of the HVAC system and the dull clicking of my heels against polished limestone. I pressed Julian’s spare key fob against the proximity reader beside the turnstile. It blinked a steady, cold green, and the glass arm clicked open.
The lobby was a cavern of dark marble and brushed steel, lit only by the green emergency signs above the exits and the faint city glow cutting through the high windows. I kept my breathing shallow, my trench coat buttoned tightly against the chill that lingered in the air-conditioned atrium. My fingers curled around the small metal edge of Arthur’s flash drive resting inside my coat pocket, heavy and cold.
The express elevator chimed softly upon arrival, its brushed-metal doors parting like a quiet sigh. I stepped inside, pressing the button for the thirty-fourth floor—the executive suite where Julian kept his private terminal and the primary local server node that mirrored the foundation’s off-site financial ledgers. Every second felt magnified, the faint ticking of my wristwatch sounding like a metronome counting down a debt I hadn’t asked to incur.
When the elevator doors slid open on the thirty-fourth floor, the silence was absolute. Thick charcoal carpet muffled my steps as I walked past rows of darkened mahogany desks and glass-walled conference rooms that overlooked the slick, rain-streaked skyscrapers of lower Manhattan. Julian’s office sat at the far end of the corridor, protected by a secondary biometric lock that usually required his thumbprint or private passcode.
I didn't have his thumbprint, but Arthur’s tech contact had provided a narrow bypass strip designed to interface with the manual diagnostic port beneath the digital pad. My hands shook slightly as I knelt on the carpet, aligning the slim plastic filament with the port. I held my breath, counting the silent seconds in my head until a tiny amber light flickered green. The latch released with a muffled, mechanical thud.
I slipped inside Julian’s office, closing the heavy oak door behind me without a sound. The room smelled faintly of expensive cedar, dry-cleaned wool, and the bitter dregs of stale espresso left in a porcelain cup on his desk. I didn’t turn on the overhead lights; instead, I lifted the lid of his sleek, dark-gray workstation. The monitor cast a pale, ghostly blue hue across the angles of my face.
I pulled the flash drive from my pocket and seated it firmly into the USB port beside the keyboard. A prompt blinked on the screen, asking for administrator credentials. I bypassed it using the script Arthur had pre-loaded, and a download progress bar instantly appeared, creeping slowly across the display. 12 percent. 19 percent.
The raw financial records, shell company wire receipts, and diverted endowment assets began funneling onto the tiny drive. I stood over the desk, my eyes darting between the monitor and the heavy glass wall that looked out onto the dark hallway. Every shadow seemed to stretch and shift under the erratic sweep of distant headlights cutting through the rain outside.
48 percent. 65 percent.
A sharp, distinct sound cut through the quiet hum of the room—the crisp clack of rubber-soled boots hitting the limestone floor of the outer corridor.
My heart slammed against my ribs. Security.
I glanced at the progress bar. 78 percent.
The sound grew louder, accompanied by the muffled jingle of keys and the low murmur of voices. They were making their scheduled floor sweep earlier than usual. If they checked the executive suite, the glowing monitor and the open door would seal my fate long before Julian ever learned the truth himself.
89 percent.
Footsteps paused just outside the double glass doors of the adjoining conference room. A beam of white light cut horizontally across the frosted glass panel as a security guard swept a heavy-duty flashlight down the hall.
Panic threatened to lock my limbs, but survival instinct took over. I grabbed my coat, slipped out from behind the desk, and darted silently toward the interior archive room just as the handle of the main office door began to turn. I pulled the heavy fire door of the archive inward, leaving it cracked by a fraction of an inch just as the overhead lights in Julian’s office clicked on.
Through the narrow gap, I saw the uniform of a building guard step into the room. He muttered something into a shoulder radio, his boots shuffling across the carpet dangerously close to the desk. My eyes burned as I stared at the faint glow reflecting off the wall of binders inside the archive.
Come on. Finish.
A faint chime rang out from the workstation—the unmistakable audio cue of a completed file transfer.
The guard stopped, turning his head sharply toward the desk. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice sharp and echoing in the confined space.
May you like
I didn't wait to see him approach the computer. Moving with silent desperation, I slipped out the secondary emergency exit of the archive room, which led directly into the concrete stairwell of the fire tower. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind me just as the guard shouted into the main office.
I didn't look back, running down the dark, echoing steps flight after flight, the flash drive gripped tightly in my hand, until I burst out into the cool, rainy Manhattan night air a full twelve floors below.
