Page 24 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
I tuck one gun into the waistband of my pants and leave the room. The elevator takes me to the first floor. All the cameras in the building are in the security room on this floor. I make my way along the corridor, glancing over the glass railing and into the entrance lobby below. Passing the door to the security room, I glance at the camera above it before moving along to the bar. Glasses tinkle and the low hum of conversation rises like a swarm of bees. The bar juts out on a mezzanine floor that reaches to the front of the building, a wall of glass divides it from the void of space that lingers above the lobby. There’s one table in the corner, up against the glass, with a direct line of sight to the security room. I’ve been sitting here for several hours each afternoon, watching the shift changes.
I order a drink and sit, waiting until I see the guard approach the door for his shift. He clutches a coffee cup in one hand as he fumbles for a key card. Rising to my feet, I take my phone from my pocket. I stare at the screen and stride down the corridor, walking right into the new security guard. His coffee spills over both of us, and he leaps away from me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say quickly.
The middle-aged man looks angry but quickly wipes it from his face and replaces it with a polite smile. “It’s okay.”
“Look, here’s some money for a new coffee. Sorry about your shirt.” I hand him a ten euro note, gesturing toward the grey uniformed shirt that now has a huge brown wet patch on the front.
“It’s fine.” He waves me off. “I’m more concerned about your suit.”
“I insist. You can’t work with no caffeine.” I thrust the money at him, and he hesitantly takes it.
“Thank you.”
“No, no. My fault. It’s the least I can do.”
With a nod, he wanders off. I wait until he’s rounded the corner and approach the security room, presenting the card that I swiped from his pocket. The little light on the handle turns green, and the door clicks open.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I have an evening of beer and TV planned.” The guy sitting in front of the bank of monitors stretches and pushes to his feet, but he doesn’t make it as far as turning to face me.
Closing the distance, I wrap an arm around his throat and wrench him back against my chest. He struggles, legs flailing as he claws at the material of my suit jacket. Finally, he goes limp, falling unconscious. I drop him to the ground and drag him to a desk at the back of the room, tucking him beneath it. I have small windows of time and too many people around to do a better job of this.
I remove the USB drive from my pocket and slide it into the port of the main computer. I then delete the recordings from the cameras both in here and outside in the corridor. I scan the monitors until I find several showing the emergency exit stairwell. There’s one elevator that goes to the penthouse, and it’s operated via private key card. However, the emergency stairwell runs from the ground floor to the penthouse. It’s alarmed with movement sensors and cameras, but not for long.
At the bottom of the screen are numbers, presumably relevant to floors. I find number 30-33 and locate the camera in the computer system. The file from the drive uploads, and there’s a tiny flicker on the screen as the program takes the last twenty minutes of footage and loops it. Next, I find the alarm systems and disable them for the stairwell.
Snatching the USB drive, I get up and leave the room, dropping the stolen card right outside, where I ran into the guard. I pass him coming back with his fresh coffee. He smiles at me as I pass.
“Sorry again.”
I have a small window. The other guard will wake up within the next half an hour, maybe more. Then the alarm will be raised. I take the elevator back up to my room and change quickly, holstering a handgun to one leg and a knife to the other. I palm my other gun and exit the room, glancing up and down the corridor. The emergency door is illuminated at the end of the short hall, a bright green exit sign above it. On a deep breath, I grab the handle and twist, shoving it open. My lungs freeze, and my heart beats a little harder as I wait anxiously for an alarm to start blaring. It doesn’t. Without emergency lighting, the stairwell is dark and dingy. Icy air drifts up thirty-three floors of concrete steps. I climb up one level and pause outside the door that leads to the penthouse. In theory, these doors should open from this side, in case a fire crew ever need to get in. However, with high-risk individuals, security often dictates that they are locked. I test the handle, hoping there’s no-one on the other side. I can be as precise as possible, but there’s always an element to this job that is unpredictable. I can’t guarantee anything, and risks are inevitable. The handle doesn’t give, so I take a small device from my pocket. It’s an electromagnet that will slide the locking mechanism back. Again, anyone standing on the other side of that door is going to see the latch jolt out of place.
