Page 84 of Reckless: Corruption

“Or we execute fallback protocol and rendezvous at extraction point Bravo,” I counter, earning an approving nod from Ryker and an eye-roll from Jinx that somehow manages to be both dismissive and fond.

“Finn, facility status?” Ryker asks as we slip from the vehicle into the night.

“Consistent with intel,” Finn replies, the sound of typing accompanying his words. “Minimal security, standard patrolpatterns. East entrance shows blind spots between camera feeds. Theo’s got it covered.”

“I’ve looped camera three,” Theo confirms, his voice temporarily stronger, focused on the task at hand despite his body’s demands. “You have a thirty-second window... mark.”

We move as one unit, three shadows flowing from cover to cover with the precision of long practice. Ryker takes point, his movements so silent I have to focus to track him. Jinx covers our flanks, that predator’s grace making him appear almost liquid in the darkness. I bring up the rear, data equipment secure in my pack, every sense heightened by adrenaline and the lingering effects of Mona’s latest chemical adventure.

The facility’s exterior is deliberately mundane—concrete and steel disguised as a storage warehouse, the kind of forgettable architecture that doesn’t invite second glances. Up close, the walls radiate cold, as if the building itself is trying to repel warmth and life. The lock on the east entrance takes me forty-three seconds to bypass—longer than I’d like, but Sterling security has always been top-tier.

“We’re in,” Ryker murmurs as the door clicks open. “Finn, interior layout?”

“First hallway clear. Take second left, then immediate right.” Finn’s voice carries the focused precision of someone compensating for physical weakness with mental acuity. “Server room should be third door on the right. Unmarked. And from what I’m seeing in their power grid, it’s drawing significant resources—consistent with a quantum processing array.”

His analysis proves spot-on as we proceed through dimly lit corridors, each step measured and deliberate. The scent of industrial cleaner and recycled air fills my lungs, sterile and artificial—the same antiseptic emptiness as Sterling Labs. My body remembers too well what happened there, muscles tensing involuntarily at the association. The phantom sting ofAlexander’s knife ghosts across my skin, memories bubbling up like malware from a corrupted drive.

A warm hand finds the small of my back, steadying me. Jinx, his touch uncharacteristically gentle as he reads my discomfort with uncanny accuracy. He doesn’t speak, just offers that point of contact, grounding me in the present rather than trauma’s echo. A silent reminder, you’re not facing this system breach alone.

The gesture fills me with unexpected warmth—not just comfort, but belonging. This time, I’m not infiltrating Sterling territory as a lone hacker. I’m part of something stronger.

“Guards approaching,” Theo warns through our comms, his voice dropping to a strained whisper. “Two, moving west to east. Duck into the supply closet on your left.”

Ryker moves immediately, hand signaling us to follow. The closet is barely large enough for the three of us, my back pressed against shelves of cleaning supplies as Jinx and Ryker position themselves protectively around me. The sharp tang of bleach mingles with their scents—Ryker’s cedar and steel, Jinx’s cherry tobacco and gunpowder—creating an oddly comforting cocktail. In the darkness, I can feel Jinx’s elevated heartbeat, the predator in him straining for release.

“Easy,” I whisper, fingers finding his wrist. His pulse jumps beneath my touch, rapid and strong. “We’re good.”

His nod is a movement I feel rather than see, but the tension in him notches down slightly. Beside us, Ryker remains impossibly still, only the steady rhythm of his breathing confirming he’s even there.

“Clear,” Theo announces after what feels like eternities compressed into seconds. “Guards have passed your position.”

A soft groan follows his words, quickly muffled. “Theo?” Finn’s voice carries quiet concern.

“Fine,” comes the tight response. “Heat spike. Continuing monitoring.”

We slip back into the corridor, resuming our progress toward the server room. When we reach the door Finn identified, I hand my pack to Jinx and drop to one knee, examining the electronic lock. The cool floor seeps through my tactical pants, grounding me in the physicality of the moment as my mind races ahead through algorithms and probabilities.

“Biometric?” Ryker asks, voice barely a whisper.

I study the panel, noting the fingerprint scanner and keypad. “Two-factor. Nothing we didn’t plan for.” From my pocket, I produce a small device of my own design—a hybrid between an electromagnetic pulse generator and digital skeleton key. “Cover me. This is like picking a lock while someone’s still inside the house.”

While Ryker and Jinx position themselves to block any line of sight from the hallway, I attach my device to the fingerprint scanner. The small screen flickers to life, running through thousands of fingerprint patterns per second while simultaneously testing numerical combinations. The familiar rhythm of hacking settles over me—the world narrowing to this digital puzzle, this electronic lock that stands between us and what we need.

“This facility was commissioned six months ago,” Finn reports in our ears, his analytical mind at work despite his illness. “Primary user access would be assigned to senior researchers. I’m cross-referencing Sterling Labs employment records with known biometric signatures...narrowing parameters now. Try sequence 4587-alpha. That should match Dr. Whitmore’s access pattern.”

I adjust my device accordingly, impressed by Finn’s deduction. “How did you?—”

“Standard Sterling security protocol,” he explains, the slightest hint of pride in his tone. “Researcher access follows predictable patterns based on clearance levels. Whitmore would be highest tier, given what he’s working on.”

The scanner beeps softly, the lock disengaging with a gentle click that sends a rush of satisfaction through my system. “We’re in,” I murmur, retrieving my device and pushing the door open. “Nice work, Finn. You just saved us from a brute force marathon.”

“Just doing my part,” he responds, but I catch the pleased note beneath his exhaustion.

The server room is smaller than expected, barely the size of a decent bedroom. Racks of equipment line the walls, blinking lights casting eerie blue-green shadows across smooth concrete. The air hums with electronic life and artificial cooling, warmer than the corridors, vibrating with data and purpose. This, at least, feels familiar—the digital heartbeat of a system built to hold secrets.

“Start the download,” Ryker instructs, taking up position near the door. “Jinx, perimeter check.”

While they secure our position, I move to the main terminal, connecting my specialized tablet designed to bypass Sterling security protocols. My fingers know this dance by heart—the digital battle of probe and defense, attack and counterattack. Each keystroke feels like coming home to the person I was before Sterling, before the virus, before pack bonds complicated everything.

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