Chapter 13: FIELD PROMOTION
Reese's dismissal hung in the air like a challenge.
Stay at your desk, hacker.
I watched him walk toward the library's back exit, Bear padding at his heels. Finch was already absorbed in his monitors, tracking surveillance feeds from Morrison's neighborhood. The rhythm of their partnership was seamless—Finch providing intel, Reese executing in the field. A machine of two parts.
And me, apparently relegated to furniture.
I turned back to my workstation and pulled up Morrison's corporate records. If I couldn't be useful in the field, I'd be useful here. Pacific Maritime's network architecture spread across my screen like a spider web of vulnerabilities.
Wait.
The building's security system was air-gapped. No external network access. Finch's research confirmed it—Morrison's office computers were isolated from the internet entirely, accessible only from inside the building.
"Mr. Finch."
He glanced up from his tea. "Yes, Mr. Webb?"
"Morrison's office network is isolated. No external access points. If we want real-time surveillance of his communications, someone needs to plant a physical device."
"I'm aware. Mr. Reese will find an opportunity."
"Reese is watching for the hit team. If he breaks cover to infiltrate the building, Morrison loses his protection window." I pulled up the corporate directory. "But an IT vendor doing scheduled maintenance? Nobody looks twice at those."
Finch's expression shifted—calculation replacing dismissal. "You're proposing to infiltrate Pacific Maritime's headquarters."
"I'm proposing to do my job. Webb's credentials include corporate security consulting. I've done this kind of work before." True enough, if you counted the Whitmore Financial disaster. I'd learned from that mistake. "Forty minutes, in and out. Plant the bug, copy his drive, get clear."
The silence stretched. Finch studied me over the rim of his tea cup, weighing risks against potential value.
"Mr. Reese won't approve."
"Mr. Reese doesn't have to know until it's done."
Something flickered in Finch's eyes. Not quite approval, but something adjacent to it.
"Very well, Mr. Webb. Show me what you can do."
Pacific Maritime occupied floors six through eight of a glass tower in the Financial District. Security was professional but not paranoid—badge readers, cameras, a reception desk staffed by a woman who looked terminally bored.
I approached with manufactured confidence. Clipboard. Tool bag. Vendor badge that said "Meridian IT Solutions"—a company that existed only in corporate databases I'd updated that morning.
"Marcus Webb, Meridian IT. Here for the quarterly server maintenance."
The receptionist barely glanced at my badge. "Sign in. Sixth floor, server room's past the break area."
"Much appreciated."
The elevator was empty. I used the ride to steady my breathing, remembering how badly wrong Whitmore had gone. Different situation. Better prepared. No hired muscle waiting in stairwells.
Focus.
The sixth floor was standard corporate—cubicles, conference rooms, the quiet hum of climate control. I found Morrison's office without difficulty, knocked twice, got no answer.
Good. He's out. Reese is tracking him.
The lock was basic. A bump key from my tool bag handled it in seconds. Inside, I worked quickly—bug planted in the phone base, hard drive cloning software running on his laptop. The system would transfer everything to Finch's servers within the hour.
[BACKDOOR ACCESS: CORPORATE NETWORK]
[DATA TRANSFER: INITIATED]
[ESTIMATED COMPLETION: 23 MINUTES]
I couldn't wait that long. I set the transfer to run autonomously and slipped back into the hallway.
That's when I saw them.
Two men at the far end of the floor, near the emergency stairs. Wrong clothes—too expensive for maintenance, too casual for executives. They were watching the cubicle farm with the patient intensity of predators waiting for their moment.
The smugglers. They're already here.
I ducked into a supply closet and pulled out my phone. The camera was better than Webb's old flip phone—one of my smarter upgrades. I snapped photos through the cracked door, capturing faces, clothing details, the outline of a weapon under one man's jacket.
The message to Reese was simple: Two hostiles, 6th floor Pacific Maritime. Armed. They're not waiting until tonight.
His reply came in thirty seconds: Get out. Now.
I should have listened.
Instead, I watched the men split up. One headed toward Morrison's office. The other toward the elevators—toward the floor where Morrison was meeting with his manager.
If I leave, they kill him before Reese can intervene.
Following someone without being noticed is harder than it looks.
The movies make it seem effortless—just hang back, blend in, don't make eye contact. Reality is messier. Crowds shift. Sight lines change. The target glances over his shoulder, and if you're not prepared, you're made.
I'd practiced this. Months of surveillance work, watching numbers, tracking Root's targets. The skills were there, buried under layers of anxiety.
Breathe. Walk naturally. You're just another office drone.
The man heading for the elevators took the stairs instead. I followed at a distance, keeping my footsteps quiet on the concrete steps. He descended to the fourth floor and disappeared through a fire door.
Morrison's calendar had shown a 2 PM meeting in Conference Room 4B. Fourth floor.
He's going for the kill now.
I pushed through the fire door. The hallway was empty except for the distant murmur of a meeting in progress. The assassin was already at Conference Room 4B's door, hand reaching for the handle.
"Excuse me—can I help you?"
The words came out before I could stop them. The man turned. Cold eyes assessed me in a fraction of a second.
"Wrong floor," he said. "Looking for HR."
"Third floor, northwest corner. Easy to get turned around in this building."
He nodded. Didn't move toward the stairs. His hand stayed near his jacket.
He's going to kill me and then kill Morrison.
The fire alarm was twelve feet away. I'd noted it on my way in—a habit now, mapping exits and emergency systems. If I could reach it—
"Thanks for the help." He turned back toward the conference room.
I lunged for the alarm.
My hand closed around the handle just as something slammed into my shoulder—not a bullet, an elbow. He was fast. Trained. But I was closer to the alarm than he was to his weapon.
I pulled.
The shriek split the air like a scream. Red lights strobed. The conference room door flew open, and people flooded the hallway—Morrison among them, looking confused and alarmed.
The assassin hesitated. Too many witnesses. Too much chaos. He vanished into the crowd heading for the exits.
I leaned against the wall, shoulder throbbing, and watched Morrison disappear down the stairs with his coworkers.
That was close. Too close.
My phone buzzed. Reese.
Where are you?
Fourth floor. Lost them in the evacuation. Morrison is safe.
Get out. Meet me at the parking garage across the street. Now.
Reese was waiting by a black sedan, arms crossed, expression unreadable. I expected anger. What I got was worse—evaluation.
"You pulled the fire alarm."
"They were about to kill Morrison in the conference room. I improvised."
"You should have left when I told you to."
"And let them shoot him? That wasn't an option."
Silence. Reese's eyes tracked over me—noting the way I favored my shoulder, cataloging the adrenaline sweat, measuring something I couldn't identify.
"The second man?"
"Lost him in the evacuation. But I got photos of both." I pulled out my phone, showed him the images. "This one was heading for Morrison's office when I spotted them. Probably after his files."
Reese studied the photos. Something in his posture shifted—not friendlier, but less hostile.
"You followed them."
"I gathered intel. There's a difference."
"Not much of one." He pocketed the phone. "They'll regroup. Hit him somewhere else. We need to find their base of operations."
"I might be able to help with that." I pulled up the data transfer notification. "I cloned Morrison's hard drive before things went sideways. Cross-reference his communications with the smugglers' network, we might find a location."
Reese was quiet for a long moment. Then he walked to the sedan's trunk and pulled out two cups of gas station coffee.
He handed me one.
"Terrible coffee," I said, taking a sip. "Worse than the library's."
"Don't insult Finch's tea." But there was something almost like humor in his voice. "You said they'll have a base nearby. Let's find it."
We spread files on the hood of his car, two men who'd met as strangers five days ago, planning a warehouse raid over bad coffee and worse intel.
It wasn't friendship. Not yet. But it was something.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: JOHN REESE]
[TRUST: 18% → 27%]
Progress.
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