Tuesday arrived with grey skies and a cold wind that swept through New Greenwich's streets. Ray woke early, his body tense with anticipation, and found he couldn't eat the breakfast that had been prepared. His stomach was twisted in knots, his mind running through the plan over and over, looking for flaws they might have missed.
105:14:17:39.
Still so much time. But in a few hours, that could all be gone.
The warehouse was quieter than usual. Everyone knew what was happening today, and the weight of it pressed down on them all. People spoke in hushed voices, moved with careful deliberation, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile calm.
At 16:00, the teams began their final preparations.
Greta, Marcus, and Vin gathered their equipment for the distraction—weapons that looked dangerous but were actually modified to be non-lethal, time capsules filled with minimal amounts they could afford to lose, masks to hide their identities. Their job was to look like a serious threat without actually becoming one. To draw attention without getting killed.
"Remember," Greta told her team, her voice steady and commanding, "we're not there to win. We're there to be seen, to make noise, to give Ray and Sylvia their window. Thirty minutes of chaos, then we vanish. Nobody plays hero."
Marcus caught Ray's eye across the warehouse. They hadn't spoken much since Marcus had arrived—both of them too focused on preparing, too aware that this might be the last time they saw each other. Now Marcus walked over, his expression serious.
"I should thank you," Marcus said. "For the ten hours. I paid you back through the network, but I never said it properly. You saved my life."
"And now you're risking it to save others," Ray replied. "I'd say we're even."
"Maybe." Marcus extended his hand. "If this goes wrong tonight, if we don't make it out... it was worth it. Just so you know. Better to die fighting than to die counting seconds on a factory floor."
Ray shook his hand firmly. "It's not going wrong. We planned for everything."
"Plans never survive contact with reality. You know that." Marcus smiled slightly. "But I believe in what we're doing. That has to count for something."
At 17:00, Martha gathered the vault team—Ray, Sylvia, and herself—in the war room for final checks. Ray wore a new suit, even more expensive than the one he'd stolen days ago. This one had been specifically tailored with hidden pockets for carrying time capsules. Sylvia was dressed in business attire, the kind of outfit she'd worn a thousand times for her father's functions. Martha wore a maintenance worker's uniform she'd acquired somewhere.
"Remember the sequence," Martha said, pointing to the vault plans one final time. "Sylvia enters first using her credentials. Security will wave her through—she's family. Ray, you follow thirty seconds later. You're her guest, a potential business partner she's showing around. They'll scan your time, see the century, and assume you're legitimate."
"And if they question why I'm going to the vault level?" Ray asked.
"You're not. Not directly. You're going to the archives on sub-level two, which is one floor above the vault. Completely legitimate destination for a business meeting." Martha traced the route with her finger. "I enter through the service entrance ten minutes after you, using a forged maintenance pass. I reach the archives, 'accidentally' trigger a minor electrical fault that will require investigation, and that gives us our excuse to access the maintenance areas."
"Which connect to the vault level," Sylvia finished. "We take the maintenance stairs down, use my father's biometric data to bypass the first security door, and then..."
"Then we pray the ring key works," Martha said bluntly. "Because if it doesn't, we'll have approximately ninety seconds before backup security arrives to investigate why someone's trying to access the vault."
"Comforting," Ray muttered.
At 17:30, Caron called everyone together in the main warehouse space. Twenty resistance members, all of them aware that tonight could change everything or end everything. He stood on a crate so everyone could see him, his weathered face grave.
"Some of you are going into danger tonight," Caron said, his voice carrying across the space. "Some of you are staying here to protect this sanctuary. All of you are part of something bigger than any individual. We've been fighting for years with small victories and constant losses. Tonight, we take a real shot at the system."
He paused, looking at Greta's team, then at Ray and Sylvia.
"Philippe Weis and people like him have built an empire on manufactured scarcity. They've convinced the world that poverty is natural, that some people deserve centuries while others die for hours. Tonight, we prove that's a lie. Tonight, we take what they stole and give it back to those who need it."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"Whatever happens," Caron continued, "know that you're on the right side of history. That future generations will remember this moment. That every second you've spent fighting mattered."
He stepped down from the crate, and the crowd dispersed to their positions. The distraction team headed for their vehicle. The vault team prepared to leave in separate cars to avoid attracting attention.
Ray found himself alone for a moment, checking his equipment one final time. The picks in his pocket. The communication earpiece, nearly invisible. The modified scanner that would let them copy data from the vault's system. Everything was ready.
"Ray."
He turned to find Martha standing behind him, her expression more open than he'd ever seen it.
"I wanted to tell you something before we go," she said quietly. "About my son. The one who died in Dayton."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. His name was David. He was twenty-six when his clock ran out. He was trying to get to a hospital because he'd been injured at work, but he couldn't afford transport and the hospital was too far to walk." Martha's voice remained steady, but her eyes were distant. "He died three blocks from help. Three blocks. Because he had forty-three minutes and the toll to cross into the medical district was an hour."
Ray felt his chest tighten.
"I tell you this because I want you to understand what you're fighting for," Martha continued. "Not abstracts. Not ideology. Real people with real lives who deserved better than a system that let them die for want of time." She placed a hand on Ray's shoulder. "Henry Hamilton saw in you what I saw in my son—someone who refused to accept that the world had to be this way. Don't let him down."
"I won't," Ray promised.
Martha nodded once, then walked away to prepare.
At 17:45, Sylvia approached Ray in the parking area behind the warehouse. She'd already gotten into character—her posture was different, more arrogant, more entitled. The perfect imitation of a wealthy young woman who'd never questioned her privilege.
"Ready?" she asked.
"As I'll ever be."
"Good. Because once we walk into that building, we're committed. No turning back, no second thoughts." Sylvia's hand found his briefly, squeezed. "Thank you for doing this. For being willing to risk everything."
"Thank you for showing me there was something worth risking it for."
They got into Sylvia's car—a sleek vehicle that screamed wealth and status—and began the drive toward central New Greenwich. The Weis Building loomed in the distance, lit against the darkening sky, a monument to the system they were about to rob.
Ray checked his clock: 105:14:12:03.
In thirty minutes, the distraction would begin.
In forty-five minutes, they'd be inside the vault.
In an hour, they'd either be heroes or corpses.
The drive took fifteen minutes. Sylvia parked in the building's underground garage, in a spot marked with her family's name. They sat for a moment in the silence, both of them gathering their courage.
"My father is in his office right now," Sylvia said, checking her phone. "His board meeting starts in ten minutes. Once it begins, he won't leave for anything short of a catastrophe."
"Which Greta is about to provide."
"Exactly." Sylvia took a deep breath. "Let's go rob my father."
They exited the car and walked toward the elevator bank. Other people moved through the garage—employees heading home, executives arriving for evening meetings. No one gave them a second glance. They looked like they belonged.
The elevator rose smoothly through the building. Ray watched the numbers climb: 5... 10... 15... 20. The main lobby was on the 25th floor, an ostentatious display of wealth and power. When the doors opened, they stepped into a space of marble and glass, with the Weis company logo gleaming on every surface.
Security checkpoint ahead. Two guards, both armed, both with scanners ready.
"Miss Weis," one of them said, smiling. "Good evening."
"Hello, Marcus," Sylvia replied smoothly, using the guard's name. "This is Ray Turner, a business associate. I'm showing him the archives for a potential partnership."
"Of course. If you could both present your arms for scanning?"
They did. Ray held his breath as the scanner read his clock.
105:14:09:47.
The guard's eyebrows rose slightly. "Impressive balance, Mr. Turner."
"Family inheritance," Ray said, as they'd rehearsed.
"Very good. You're cleared for sub-level two. Have a good evening."
They were through.
Sylvia led Ray to another elevator bank, this one requiring a keycard she produced from her purse. The elevator descended: 20... 15... 10... 5... Ground... Sub-1... Sub-2.
The archives level was quieter, dimly lit, rows of filing cabinets and data storage units stretching into the distance. A few people worked at terminals, but no one looked up as Sylvia and Ray walked through.
"Martha should be here in eight minutes," Sylvia whispered, checking her watch. "We wait in the back section, out of sight."
They moved deeper into the archives, Ray's heart pounding so hard he was sure everyone could hear it. This was really happening. They were inside the Weis Building, beneath millions of years of stored wealth, about to commit the biggest robbery in the resistance's history.
Ray checked the time: 18:02.
Any minute now, Greta's team would hit the Milltown branch.
Any minute now, all hell would break loose.
And they'd be trapped in the building when it happened.
---
Greta checked her team one final time. They sat in a stolen van three blocks from the Milltown time bank branch, weapons ready, masks prepared, adrenaline building.
"Remember," Greta said, "we hit hard and fast. Make it look real. Threaten the employees but don't hurt anyone. Take whatever time capsules are in the visible safe—shouldn't be more than a year total, but it needs to look like we're serious. Then we're out."
Marcus adjusted his mask. "What if Timekeepers arrive faster than expected?"
"Then we improvise. But our intelligence says response time to this branch is seven to nine minutes. We'll be gone in six."
Vin, silent as always, simply nodded and checked his weapon.
Greta looked at her watch: 17:59:30.
"Thirty seconds. Everyone ready?"
Her team affirmed.
"Then let's give New Greenwich something to panic about."
At exactly 18:00, they burst through the doors of the Milltown branch.
---
In the Weis Building, Ray heard it first through his earpiece—Greta's voice, tense and sharp: "We're in. Distraction is active. You have your window."
Alarms began sounding in the distance, muffled by the building's thick walls but unmistakable. Somewhere above them, security would be mobilizing, responding to news of an active robbery. Philippe Weis would be getting the call, demanding his best people handle it immediately.
Martha appeared from a service corridor, exactly on schedule, wearing a maintenance uniform and carrying a toolkit.
"Electrical fault in section seven," she announced loudly, for anyone who might be listening. "Need to check the power junction on sub-level three."
Sylvia nodded at her, playing along. "We'll come with you—I want to show Mr. Turner the full facility."
They took the maintenance stairs, descending one more level. Sub-level three: environmental systems, power distribution, and at the far end, behind multiple security doors, the vault.
Martha led them through corridors Ray had memorized from the plans. Left turn, thirty meters, right turn, security door. She pulled out the forged access card, and Ray held his breath.
The card reader beeped.
Green light.
The door opened.
They were in the secure zone. Past the first layer of protection. Two more to go.
"Vault's sixty meters ahead," Martha whispered. "Second door requires biometrics. Sylvia, you're up."
They approached the next security checkpoint—a massive steel door with a biometric scanner beside it. Sylvia placed her hand on the scanner, and Ray saw her jaw tighten as the system analyzed her fingerprints, her palm print, her DNA.
For five agonizing seconds, nothing happened.
Then: green light. The door's locks disengaged with heavy clanks.
"It worked," Sylvia breathed. "My genetics matched my father's closely enough."
They stepped through into a small antechamber. And there, at the far end, was the vault door itself. Circular, reinforced steel, with a single keyhole in its center.
The ring key. The final obstacle.
Sylvia pulled out her phone, showing them the photo of her father's ring. "I had a copy made based on this. It should work, but..."
"But there's only one way to find out," Martha finished. She pulled a ring from her pocket—an exact replica of Philippe Weis's family heirloom, created by a forger who'd charged them three months of time.
Martha inserted the ring key into the vault door and turned.
Ray held his breath.
Clicks. Mechanisms engaging. The sound of locks older than the modern time system disengaging.
The vault door swung open.
And Ray saw, for the first time, what real wealth looked like.
---