Chapter 3 - Infiltrating The Lockwood
The back alley behind The Lockwood smelled of damp garbage, stale grease, and falling snow—an environment Wren had navigated every night for four long years. But tonight, she wasn't walking in through the employee entrance wearing her standard black apron and non-slip service shoes. She wore a heavy thermal jacket over dark clothes, an earpiece tucked discreetly beneath her wool beanie, and a bruised determination that far outweighed the throbbing pain in her fractured ribs.
Parked two blocks away in the shadows of an abandoned meatpacking warehouse, Callum sat inside a nondescript surveillance van beside Agent Miller, watching the building’s thermal feeds through hacked city traffic cameras. His voice in her ear was steady, calm, yet simmering with an undercurrent of protective tension. ""Security rotation changes at 2:15 AM. You have exactly seven minutes while the alley guard walks the perimeter toward the front valet. Wren, if you see anyone in that corridor, you turn around immediately. I am not losing you twice.""
""I know the floorboards that creak, Callum,"" Wren whispered softly, ducking beneath the fire escape as the heavy metal door clicked open. A junior line cook stepped out to dump a bucket of dirty mop water, shivering violently before stepping back inside and letting the latch fall. Before the bolt could engage, Wren slid the tip of a reinforced steel wedge into the frame, catching the lock silently.
She slipped into the narrow hallway bathed in dim fluorescent light. The ambient murmur of late-night dining room jazz filtered through the double swing doors leading to the kitchen, carrying the familiar scents of garlic, seared steak, and expensive red wine. Her heart hammered against her bruised chest, but she forced her breathing into an even, rhythmic calm. She ascended the service staircase, keeping her weight on the outer edges of the stairs where the wood was reinforced by iron brackets.
Reaching the second-floor executive landing, she found the corridor completely deserted. Julian’s office was situated at the far end, behind a paneled door with frosted glass bearing the gold-leaf lettering: Director of Hospitality Operations.
""I'm at the door,"" Wren murmured into her collar mic.
""Thermal shows no movement inside the office,"" Miller’s voice cut through the static. ""The digital keypad was installed yesterday. Callum, do you have the bypass code?""
""Julian uses our grandfather’s naval service serial number for everything out of sentimental arrogance,"" Callum answered instantly. ""Try 4-4-0-9-1-2-Star.""
Wren entered the digits. The keypad beeped once, a green LED flashed, and the heavy lock disengaged with a dull thud. She slipped inside, shutting the door behind her without letting the handle rattle. The office was decorated with ostentatious luxury: plush velvet armchairs, crystal decanters of bourbon, and large modern paintings masking the walls. Behind the massive mahogany desk sat a personal safe built into the lower shelving.
Moving quickly, she opened Julian’s desk drawers, searching through receipts, operational schedules, and wine inventory lists. In the bottom drawer, tucked beneath a stack of high-end cigar boxes, her fingers struck textured leather. She pulled it out. It was a green pocket notebook, its edges worn, filled with handwritten shipping container serial numbers, dates, and payout amounts running into the millions.
May you like
Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of polished Italian leather shoes echoed from the hallway outside. Heavy footsteps, accompanied by low, familiar voices, were approaching rapidly.
""Wren, move!"" Callum’s voice exploded through the earpiece. ""Two heat signatures heading down the corridor. It’s Julian and Kellner!""
