Ready or not, here I come.
I don’t turn on the light as I crack open the door and step into the dark office. Moonlight shines through the wall of glass on my left, bright enough to illuminate the shape of a cubicle and — finally! — a computer console. My fingers tap impatiently against the shiny wood desk as I wait for it to power on.
Ten minutes.
When the home screen loads, I’m confronted with a password-protected login. I plunk myself into the leather swivel chair and punch in a quick series of commands to toggle the computer’s terminal window. Green code text flows across the console as I type a few keystrokes to bypass the security system. For anyone who knows even the smallest amount of code, it’s shockingly easy to access a “private” computer account.
Thanks for that, Microsoft. It makes my job a hell of a lot easier.
Once I’m in, I reach into my bra and fish out the flash drive that’s been digging into my ribcage all night. It’s still warm from my body as I pop it into the USB port and wait for the sluggish system to recognize the hardware. A glance at my watch makes my pulse skyrocket.
Seven minutes.
It takes only seconds for the virus I built to worm into the Lancaster Consolidated network, but that’s only phase one of my plan.
Infect.
Retrieve.
Escape.
I don’t have time to weed through mountains of computer data to find the financial files I need, so I copy the entire hard drive. The lightning-fast 512 GB storage stick cost more than my monthly rent payment, but at times like this it really comes in handy. Any self-respecting hacker needs one.
Well, that, and an endless supply of candy and caffeine.
My fingers tap nervous rhythms against the shitty particleboard as I wait. This office clearly doesn’t belong to one of the executives. A lower-level manager, perhaps, or an accountant. That’s fine, though — every computer in this building is on the same network, like Christmas lights on a string. Crack one fuse, you’ve cracked them all.
Easy.
So long as you don’t get caught, that is.
If I end up in jail for this shit, I will personally kill Luca.
The file transfer takes a long time. Too long.
My gaze flips back and forth between the data percentage bar, inching closer to completion at a glacial place, and the face of my watch, where minutes dwindle from five to four to three. By the time the computer pings to signify the transfer is complete, I have less than two minutes to get back to the bathroom, whip off this dress, and change into my catering uniform.
Ejecting the thumb drive, I shove it back into my bra and power off the computer as fast as possible. I’m already reaching for my hair clip as I rush out of the office and hurry down the hallway, hoping like hell Miriam doesn’t have a shit-fit when I’m a few seconds late, or beat me to death with that stick she’s got shoved up her ass.
Doubtful.
I’m nearly back at the bathroom, so close to escape I can practically taste it, when a loud male voice rings out and stops me in my tracks.
“Hey! You! What are you doing out here? This area is off limits to attendees.”
Fuck.
3
The Savior
I pivot slowly to face the two security guards striding toward me, their matching gray suits ill-fitting, their faces set in identical expressions of displeasure. I don’t know where Lancaster drummed these guys up, but they could be Schwarzenegger stand-ins on the Terminator set. Their muscles have muscles; their necks seem to have disappeared entirely.
“Are you boys talking to me?” I ask, doing my best bimbo impression. My voice is so high and bubbly, I’m sure the dolphins at Boston Aquarium are on high alert. I force my dark blue eyes wide, channeling I’m-just-an-innocent-piece-of-arm-candy vibes.
I see the slight shift of their expressions as they take me in. Their gaits slow from angry strides to strolls as they come to a stop a few feet from me.
“Miss, this area is off-limits,” the one on the right says, eyeing me skeptically.
“Oh.” I make a pouty face. A sultry shake of my head sends tendrils of hair spilling over my bare shoulders in a gold curtain. I arch my back slightly, shamelessly using my B-cups to their best advantage as a humph sound escapes my pursed mouth. “Well, no one told me that. The party is just so boring, I thought I’d stretch my legs.” I contort my face into mask of alarm and make my voice so breathy, Marilyn Monroe would be impressed. “I’m not… I’m not in trouble, am I?”
If only I had a stick of gum to chew, the Barbie illusion would be complete.
The men glance at each other and I see them silently dismiss me as a viable threat. Which is a good thing because, seriously, I have about twenty seconds before Miriam notices my absence and sounds the alarm.