Chapter 10
Clara didn’t panic. Years of boardroom negotiations and high-stakes corporate maneuvering had taught her how to mask her fear behind a mask of absolute authority. She slowly straightened up, keeping her hands visible, and turned to face the two enforcers as they closed the distance.
"You’re trespassing in a restricted zone, lady," the taller of the two men said, stepping close enough for Clara to smell stale tobacco and cheap cologne. "Turn around, hand over that gadget, and walk away before we make this unpleasant."
"Do you know who owns this pier?" Clara asked, her voice cutting through the drizzle with a cold, steady clarity that made both men pause. She reached up and pushed back her hood, letting the yard light illuminate her face. "My name is Clara Sterling. This is my property. And the two of you are standing on stolen ground."
The enforcers exchanged a quick, uncertain glance. While they clearly worked for Richard Vance, the Sterling name still carried immense weight across the entire harbor district.
"Ms. Sterling," the first man said, his tone shifting from aggressive to cautious. "Mr. Vance said you’d stay out of the way. He didn't expect you to go wandering around industrial yards in the middle of the night."
"Richard Vance has no jurisdiction here," Clara replied, stepping forward rather than back, asserting her dominance. "And if you value your employment—and your freedom—you will step aside and let me access my father’s terminal. Because the moment federal marshals arrive to execute the asset seizure warrants, anyone found obstructing a corporate audit will be going down for conspiracy."
The enforcers hesitated. They looked at each other, weighing the empty promises of Richard Vance against the very real, terrifying prospect of federal felony charges. The shorter man shifted uncomfortably, his hand moving away from his belt.
Before either man could make a move, Clara’s decryptor let out a sharp, triumphant beep. The digital keypad clicked, and the heavy iron door of the vault swung open with a dull, echoing creak.
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Clara didn't wait for their permission. She slipped past them into the dark, damp interior of the vault, slamming the iron door shut behind her and sliding the heavy manual deadbolt into place. The enforcers slammed their fists against the exterior metal, shouting threats, but the thick vault walls muffled their voices into a distant, harmless hum.
She clicked on a heavy-duty flashlight, illuminating the interior. Rows of dusty analog server racks, filing cabinets, and an old-fashioned terminal workstation sat in the center of the room. Clara hurried to the terminal, wiped the dust off the mechanical keyboard, and powered it on. The green monochrome screen flickered to life, displaying a login prompt that hadn't been touched in five years.
