Chapter 8 - The Server Room Infiltration
The underground garage was dark, smelling of exhaust fumes and damp concrete. I parked in a vacant visitor stall, killed the engine, and popped the trunk.
Inside the trunk, beneath a spare gym bag, sat a heavy tactical case containing my standard-issue field gear, a secure satellite jammer, and a sub-compact encrypted breaching kit. I traded my Army-issue overcoat for a dark tactical fleece, slipped the gold signet ring securely onto my finger, and clipped the satellite comms unit to my tactical belt.
According to the Directorate's satellite blueprints, the primary server cluster for Vane Logistics was located on Subbasement Level 3—a floor officially designated as a municipal water filtration annex on public city maps.
I bypassed the main garage elevators, taking the rusted service stairwell down into the concrete belly of the building. The air grew colder, thick with the steady hum of industrial cooling units.
When I reached the heavy steel door marked Authorized Personnel Only, I pulled a small electronic bypass tool from my tactical kit and plugged it into the digital keypad. The green LED flickered, green code scrolled across the tiny monochrome screen, and with a soft click, the heavy locking mechanism disengaged.
I slipped inside, blending into the deep shadows of the long, sterile corridor lined with server racks flashing amber and green lights.
At the far end of the hall, inside a glass-walled terminal enclosure, a figure sat hunched over a glowing monitor, typing frantically.
It was a man in an expensive charcoal suit, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. On the desk beside him sat a secure military field-radio transmitter—the exact model used by high-ranking Directorate officers.
I drew my sidearm quietly, stepped across the raised floor tiles, and pressed the cold barrel against the back of the man's neck.
"Don't move, and don't reach for the panic toggle under the desk," I said, my voice flat, hard, and absolute.
The man froze, his fingers hovering half an inch above the keyboard. Slowly, he turned his head, revealing the sharp, nervous features of junior executive Mark Vance—nephew and chief digital proxy of Victor Vance.
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"Captain Palmer," Mark choked out, sweat beading across his forehead. "You... you shouldn't be here. This is private corporate property."
"This is a federal crime scene, Mark," I corrected, leaning in closer. "And you're downloading classified Directorate asset logs to an off-site server in Zurich. Care to tell me who authorized the clearance?"
