Chapter 8 - The Digital Footprint
The administrative annex after hours was a maze of quiet cubicles, hushed carpeting, and expensive mahogany desks.
Vance stood guard outside the glass doors of the chief operating officer’s office, while I knelt beside the central IT terminal at the end of the hallway. My fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing the rudimentary screen-saver lock with a backdoor administrative override code I’d picked up during a previous hospital software migration.
“You’re entirely too good at this for a cardiac nurse,” Callum observed, leaning against the doorframe of the dark office, watching me with an amused tilt of his head.
“When you work night shifts in a major metropolitan trauma center, you learn how to fix things yourself when the IT department goes home,” I muttered, my eyes glued to the glowing green text scrolling down the monitor. “Got it.”
A comprehensive access log popped up on the screen, detailing every electronic badge swipe in the building over the last forty-eight hours.
“Look at this,” I said, pointing to a highlighted line item at 6:14 AM that morning. “A master override badge was scanned at the third-floor maintenance substation—the exact panel controlling Room 304’s oxygen feed.”
Callum stepped closer, his shoulder brushing against mine as he leaned over the desk. The subtle, clean scent of cedar and rain cut through the smell of office toner. “ Whose badge ID is that?”
I clicked on the user profile linked to the serial number.
The name on the screen flashed in bold letters: Director of Facilities, Marcus Vance. (No relation to the enforcer).
“Marcus,” I whispered. “He’s been the head of facilities here for twelve years. He answers directly to the chief administrator—the same administrator Malcolm threatened yesterday.”
Callum’s expression didn't change, but the air around him dropped ten degrees. He reached into his coat, pulled out his phone, and dialed a single digit on speed dial.
“Vance,” Callum said into the phone, his voice a smooth, lethal hum. “Grab Marcus from his office on the fifth floor. Bring him down to the basement storage bay. Quietly.”
He hung up before the other man could reply.
I stood up from the terminal, wiping my hands on my scrubs. “You’re not going to involve campus security or local police?”
“Local police take hours to file a report, and hospital administrators know how to bury liability under ten layers of corporate insulation,” Callum said, turning his dark eyes toward me. “My father almost died because some pencil-pusher wanted a bribe. I prefer a more direct form of accountability.”
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“Callum, we need proof that holds up legally, or Malcolm will just claim it was a rogue employee,” I warned, stepping closer to him.
“We’ll get the proof,” Callum murmured, reaching out. For a second, I thought he was going to touch my arm, but his hand stopped just short, falling back to his side. “And then we finish this.”
