Chapter 6 - Inside the Hive
The interior of the Apex warehouse smelled of stale coffee, machine oil, and cheap tobacco. Rows of high metal shelving stacked with crates and shrink-wrapped pallets stretched into the gloom, forming a labyrinth of industrial maze-work.
Upfront, near the administrative offices, a pair of overhead fluorescent lights buzzed loudly, casting a jaundiced yellow glow across a makeshift breakroom table where two men were sitting.
I melted into the shadows behind a stack of shipping crates, adjusting my grip on my weapon as I closed the distance.
"I'm telling you, boss is pissed," the first guard—a thick-necked guy in a black tactical vest with an Aegis patch on the shoulder—was saying, leaning back in his plastic chair and tossing a crumpled paper cup toward a trash can. "We were supposed to clean out the house completely. Not just send a message."
"Message was loud enough," the second guard muttered, dragging on a cigarette despite the indoor no-smoking sign. "The kid's old man is some pencil-pusher. What's he gonna do? File a complaint with corporate HR?"
"Yeah, well, Miller wants the flash drive secured before local cops stumble on anything real. If the feds get wind of those shipping manifests, we're all doing twenty years in a federal penitentiary."
I didn't wait to hear the rest.
Stepping out from behind the crates, I crossed the concrete floor in three silent strides before they even registered the change in air pressure.
The second guard started to turn his head, his eyes widening as he caught the silhouette of my tactical helmet, but my hand was already moving. I grabbed the back of his tactical vest, slammed his face straight down into the Formica table with a sickening crack, and caught him as he slumped unconscious to the floor.
The thick-necked guard scrambled for his sidearm, his hand reaching for the holster on his hip.
"Don't," I said.
My voice wasn't loud, but it carried the absolute, freezing weight of an executioner's verdict.
He froze, his fingers hovering half an inch from his pistol grip, sweat instantly beading across his forehead as he looked up into the barrel of my Sig Sauer.
"Who... who the hell are you?" he choked out.
"You texted my daughter," I replied softly.
The color drained entirely from his face. "Vance? You're... you're supposed to be at the hospital."
"My daughter is in good hands. Now, you're going to answer three questions for me. Answer correctly, and you get to wake up with a headache. Answer incorrectly, and this conversation ends right here."
"I don't know anything! I was just following orders—"
"Question one," I interrupted, pressing the barrel an inch closer to his temple. "Where is the man who gave the order?"
"Office... upstairs. Miller. Miller is in the back office."
"Question two. Where are the backups of the stolen files?"
"Main terminal, server room down the hall on the left. Password is encrypted, but Miller has the hard-key on his desk."
"Question three," I said, my gaze locking onto his eyes with terrifying intensity. "Did anyone else touch my daughter?"
"No! Swear to God, man! Just Jones and Miller! Jones hit her once when she tried to grab the phone, and Miller... Miller told him to back off before it went too far! We just wanted the drive!"
I studied him for a long, agonizing moment, reading every micro-expression, every twitch of his facial muscles. He was telling the truth.
"Good," I whispered.
May you like
Before he could react, the heavy rubber butt of my pistol came down sharply across the side of his temple. He collapsed sideways, joining his partner on the concrete floor.
I stepped over them, adjusted my grip on my weapon, and walked down the dark hallway toward the back office. The war had just reached the command tent.
