Chapter 12
The rain intensified into a steady, relentless downpour, drumming a chaotic rhythm against the concrete and turning the gutters into rushing streams of muddy water. The girl and the vendor took shelter beneath the stone overhang of a crumbling brick warehouse located just a block away from the towering pillars of the federal courthouse. The cold wind whipped through the alley, biting straight through their wet clothing, but neither of them dared to move toward warmth or safety.
"Look at us," the vendor muttered, shivering violently as he squeezed the water from the hem of his soaked grey t-shirt. "We look like a couple of vagrants hiding from a hurricane. If we try to walk through the front doors of the courthouse looking like this, the marshals will toss us into a holding cell before we can even say the word 'appeal.'"
The girl stared down at her tattered, mud-stained clothes, her face tight with worry. She knew he was right. Federal marshals guarding the courthouse enforced a strict dress code, and two soot-covered runaways carrying a flash drive would instantly trigger suspicion, no matter how explosive the data inside was.
"We need clothes," the girl said, her eyes scanning the quiet, deserted street corner. "And we need a way inside without passing through the front security checkpoint."
The vendor let out a tired, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "What are you suggesting? Break into the evidence locker through the laundry chute? Kid, we just barely survived a corporate death trap. Let's not push our luck trying to crack a federal building dressed like cat burglars."
Before she could respond, the blinding headlights of a dark sedan sliced through the sheets of rain, pulling up to the back loading dock of the courthouse. The rear door swung open, and an elderly man stepped out onto the wet pavement, holding a large cardboard box filled with legal briefs and official court documentation.
It was the elderly street vendor from the afternoon—the man who had accepted Victoria Sterling's hush-money envelope containing the hundred-dollar bills.
The girl froze, grabbing the vendor's arm to keep him silent as they watched the old man struggle with the heavy loading dock door, his stained apron flapping wildly in the fierce wind.
"Wait," the girl whispered intently, her eyes narrowing as she watched the old man drop one of the folders from his box onto the wet ground.
He bent down slowly to retrieve it, coughing into his hand, looking utterly defeated and miserable under the weight of his own guilt.
"What is he doing here?" the vendor whispered, leaning closer. "I thought he took the money and ran."
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"He didn't run," the girl said, a sudden realization dawning in her eyes. "He was working for them as an authorized courier to smuggle documents inside the secure zone. And he just dropped his staff ID badge on the pavement."
As if on cue, the old man hurried inside the loading dock, letting the heavy metal door swing shut behind him, leaving a small, plastic security lanyard dangling from the edge of the industrial door handle, completely unattended in the pouring rain.
