Chapter 8 - The Hangar Raid
The door swung inward with a loud, metallic clatter that shattered the quiet of the hangar.
Inside, the vast industrial space smelled of aviation fuel, hot electronics dust, and cheap coffee. In the center of the room sat a massive folding table littered with laptops, external hard drives, and cooling fans spinning at maximum velocity.
Richard Vance Jr. spun around so fast he knocked his plastic coffee cup off the table, sending dark liquid splashing across the concrete floor.
“What the—?” Richard stammered, his face instantly draining of color as he recognized me standing in the doorway with Thorne’s gun barrel leveled directly at his chest. “N-Nora? What are you doing here? You shouldn't be—this is private property—”
“Step away from the terminal, Richard,” I ordered, my voice cutting through the cavernous space like a whip.
Richard’s eyes darted frantically toward a heavy steel fire exit at the back of the hangar. For a second, his weight shifted as if he were contemplating a desperate sprint into the fog.
“Don't even think about it,” Thorne warned, stepping past me into the room, her badge flashing under the fluorescent overhead lights. “NCIS and Defense Logistics Agency. You are under arrest for unauthorized access to military defense infrastructure and federal wire fraud.”
Richard threw his hands up, backing away from the table until his legs hit a stack of empty crates. He slumped against them, panting heavily, sweat beading across his forehead. “I didn't do anything! Alan ran the whole scheme! I was just a mid-level accountant following corporate directives!”
“Corporate directives issued by a shell company registered under your name and funded by your uncle’s offshore accounts,” I said, walking slowly toward the central table.
I looked down at the primary laptop screen. A progress bar was blinking steadily in the center of the display: Data Deletion in Progress - 87% Complete.
“Damn it!” Thorne shouted, rushing forward to slam her hand onto the laptop keyboard, but the enter key was dead. The screen flashed black, replaced by a clean, corporate logo: System Offline.
Richard let out a nervous, breathless chuckle. “Too late. You can’t prove a damn thing now. The primary server data is wiped clean across three continents.”
I didn't yell. I didn't rush him. I simply reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the master flash drive I had retrieved from Grant’s office safe just hours earlier, and held it up where the hangar light caught its metal casing.
Richard’s smug smile vanished instantly, his jaw dropping open in sheer horror.
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“You think your little cloud wipe matters, Richard?” I asked quietly, stepping right up to him until I was towering over his cowering posture. “My father taught me never to trust a single digital backup without a physical failsafe. And Mr. Blackwood and I cleaned out Grant’s wall safe before you even finished your first glass of scotch tonight.”
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