Chapter 5: Digital Fortitude
The red progress bar on the amber monitor ticked from eighty-four to eighty-five percent. In the cramped office, the air grew thick with the smell of ozone and overheated vacuum tubes from Arthur’s archaic terminal. Maya stood by the shattered front window, peering cautiously through the jagged gap. A matte-black van had blocked the entrance of the alley, its doors sliding open with a metallic rattle. Three more operatives stepped out, each wearing reinforced vests and carrying heavy-duty breaching tools.
They weren't just corporate goops anymore; they looked like private contractors with overseas combat experience. The lead man pointed toward the clinic’s door, issuing silent hand signals to his subordinates.
“Eighty-nine percent,” Arthur whispered, his voice cracking with exhaustion. “The encryption handshake is holding, but their firewall is attempting a reverse trace. I’m routing the signal through three proxy servers in Europe to keep them off our digital scent.”
Maya turned away from the window, her mind racing. Physical defense would only buy seconds against a squad of professional mercenaries. She needed to create a diversion that would force them to hesitate before storming the office. Her eyes landed on the old metal filing cabinets lining the wall. Each one was packed with decades of unorganized municipal paperwork, tax forms, and housing dispute briefs—hundreds of pounds of dry, highly combustible cellulose.
She rushed over to the nearest cabinet, wedged her heavy tactical flashlight into the handle, and threw her weight against it. With a metallic shriek of tearing metal, the drawer slid completely out, spilling cascades of paper across the floor. She repeated the action with the second cabinet, creating a massive, knee-deep drift of loose paper right beneath the interior doorway.
“Ninety-four percent,” Arthur chanted, his eyes glued to the percentage counter as if willing it to move faster with sheer willpower.
A heavy thud shook the outer wall as the mercenaries slammed a steel battering ram against the clinic’s reinforced side door. The doorframe splintered, the deadbolt screaming as wood gave way to brute force. The second blow blasted the door inward, sending splinters flying like shrapnel across the waiting room.
“Ninety-seven percent! Almost there, Maya!”
Maya pulled a small plastic lighter from the pocket of her black sweatpants—an old relic she carried for camping trips—and flicked the wheel. A small, steady flame materialized in her palm. She knelt down beside the drift of paper, her dark braids falling forward over her shoulders.
“Ninety-nine percent… Complete!” Arthur yelled, slamming his hand down on the wooden desk in triumph. “The files are in the federal inbox! The audit logs are secured!”
Without a second wasted, Maya touched the flame to the edge of the paper drift. Within seconds, a ring of orange fire caught hold, crackling hungrily across the dry documents. Thick, grey smoke billowed upward toward the drop ceiling, instantly triggering the building’s antiquated fire sprinkler system. Water hissed from old brass nozzles, drenching the room in a freezing downpour.
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As the first mercenary stepped through the smoking doorway, coughing violently from the dense smoke and blinded by the overhead deluge, Maya grabbed her heavy backpack from the desk. She vaulted over the back window frame just as the sprinkler alarms shrieked across the entire block, plunging the room into chaotic pandemonium.
***
