Chapter 5 - The Lockdown
The handle didn't just turn; it shook as if someone on the other side was trying to force the lock with a crowbar.
Jonah didn't look surprised. He stepped back toward the window, his eyes fixed on the frosted glass panel where a dark silhouette loomed against the hallway lights.
“They’re early,” Jonah murmured.
I didn't hesitate. I swept the encrypted thumb drive off the desk, slipped it deep into my coat pocket, and reached for my phone. Before I could dial Thomas’s direct line, the screen flickered and went entirely black.
No signal. The entire wing had just been dropped behind an electronic Faraday shield—a full tactical communications blackout.
The lock clicked. The heavy steel door swung inward, but it wasn't Thomas Vance standing in the doorway.
It was Grant.
He wasn't wearing his instructor jacket anymore. He wore a dark tactical vest over a black uniform shirt, his service pistol holstered securely at his hip. His knuckles were raw, and a thin line of dried blood ran down the side of his neck from where someone had clearly put up a fight in the hallway.
“Director Vance,” Grant said, his voice dripping with an ugly, calculated calm as he looked past me toward Jonah. “Or should I say... former director?”
Jonah didn't flinch. He squared his shoulders, slipping seamlessly back into the executive posture he had worn for a decade. “You’re making a mistake, Grant. Thomas is already in the east wing with the logbook.”
“Thomas is currently being entertained in the commissioner’s conference room by three state troopers who don't know the difference between an internal audit and a paperwork error,” Grant replied, stepping fully into the office. His eyes flicked back to me, lingering for a second on my jacket where the outline of the thumb drive was barely visible. “And you, investigator... you really should have stayed in the kitchen.”
I kept my hand buried in my pocket, my fingers wrapped tightly around the small plastic drive. “You’re late for your own cover-up, Grant. The logs are already secured.”
“Logs burn, investigator,” Grant said, taking another slow step forward, his hand hovering inches from his holster. “Data files get corrupted during server transfers. And people who wander into restricted wings during an active lockdown... well, accidents happen during training exercises all the time.”
Jonah stepped forward, placing himself directly between Grant and me. It was the first selfless movement I had seen him make all morning.
“Leave her out of this, Grant,” Jonah said, his voice dropping into a hard, commanding register. “The drive is right here on the desk. Take it and get out before Thomas realizes the east wing is isolated.”
Grant laughed—a short, dry sound that lacked any humor. “You still don't get it, Jonah. The drive was never the point. The point was making sure nobody walked out of this building with a complete inventory.”
Grant’s hand flashed down toward his holster.
Before he could draw his weapon, the overhead emergency lights in the hallway suddenly flashed red, and a heavy, automated voice echoed through the ventilation system:
“Facility lockdown initiated. All exterior gates secured. Unauthorized personnel detected in Sector Four.”
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Grant froze, his hand hovering over his sidearm, his eyes darting toward the ceiling as the red strobe lights cut across the office walls.
And in that split second of confusion, the heavy metal door behind Grant swung wider, revealing a figure standing in the shadows of the hallway—someone holding a heavy steel baton, watching us with cold, absolute silence.
