Page 57 of Turn the Tide
Thirty seconds to upload. She pulled the drive from the port and noted the time.
The IT department would notice glitches immediately. Within ten minutes, they’d flag a massive problem, without being able to pinpoint the source. Under the company’s vigorous security protocol, the building would be locked down.
Ashley had to make it out the front doors before then.
She’d later be blamed. Or, rather, Anna Kruger would: a twenty-nine-year-old, blue-eyed, brown-haired apprentice employed nine weeks.
Once the alarm sounded and the tactical security team—recruited from German Special Forces—realized she was the culprit, they’d be on her faster than a pack of rabid junkyard dogs.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip as she replaced the steel cover, tucked the screwdriver back in her bra, and stowed both devices in her shoes’ hollow heels.
Vaulting off the chair, she yanked Hoffmann’s door open and hustled past Marie’s desk. Smoothing down her clothes with clammy hands, she noticed a loose shoelace she’d have to tighten after she made it to the safety of her desk.
She looked up and staggered to a cold halt on the threshold.
Tim stood in the hall, holding two pieces of cake. She read the set of his jaw, the burn of his narrowed gaze.
Her stomach dropped in a way that made her want to retch. Evidence of what she’d done was on her. If Tim called the Rottweilers in security—the mercenaries who only appeared civilized in their black sport coats—they would tear apart her clothing, rip through her shoes, perform a body-cavity search, interrogate her. They’d find proof of corporate espionage, and then Ashley was on her own. No internal backup. No exfiltration team waiting on the street.
The CIA would disavow any knowledge of her and this mission, and Anna Kruger would be on her way to a German jail cell.
“What were you doing in there?” Tim looked over her shoulder, and she couldn’t remember if Hoffmann’s door had sealed shut.
Ashley’s mouth grew dry as sandpaper. She could barely work up any spit.
“Marie went to the bathroom looking sick. I left a note letting her know I don’t mind running to the pharmacy if she needed something,” Ashley replied, careful to hide any defensiveness. “She was so nice earlier, for once, helping me with this disaster.” She pointed to the faint blue ink stains on her shirt.
He nudged her aside, stepping into the office. Ashley’s gaze flew to Hoffmann’s door, training on the red locked light.Thank God, but not a single muscle loosened in relief.
Tim glanced at Marie’s desk.
Not a surprise he checked, regardless of their blossoming phony friendship. The company had a robust Big-Brother-is-always-watching program. Everyone was subjected to routine briefings.If you see something awry, question it, and notify your nearest security officer at once.
Ashley had left the yellow sticky prominently displayed. A-rule number one. “If I’d offered to her face—”
“The iron gatekeeper would’ve turned you down flat and soldiered through.” Tim’s features softened, and he handed her a scrumptious-looking piece of cake.
Acid bubbled in her gut. “Thanks. You’re so sweet.” She mirrored his rising smile and took the slice. Her hand trembled so badly a marzipan rose fell from the buttercream icing.
His gaze dropped to the plate shaking in her grasp.
An electric sense of urgency pounded in her chest.
“I need a cigarette.” She walked into her office and set the plate on the desk. “I’ve been trying to quit, but I need to pop out for a smoke.” She swiped her purse, holding it up, although there were no cigarettes inside.
“Mind if I join you.” A statement, not a question. “Let me grab my jacket.”
Ashley broadened her smile, her mind scrambling for an excuse. “I’m going to head down, and I’ll meet you outside.” She snatched her wool trench from the coat hook.
“I’ll just be a second,” he said, flouncing off to his office.
Ashley ignored him and rushed toward the elevator, doing her best to appear composed and impassive as a doll. She stabbed the button to summon a car and tied her shoelace.
This was the busiest time of day, especially with a birthday celebration. She pictured a herd of employees packing into the elevator, riding up one level, and funneling off onto the floor at a sloth’s pace—blowing her window to escape.
She made a beeline for the stairs.
The beasts in black blazers monitored the stairwell. Flying down like a bat out of hell would draw unwanted attention. She pumped her arms at a ninety-degree angle and kept her head aligned with her spine, power racing down five flights as though this were a mini cardio session.
