Chapter 15 - The Penthouse Trap
We dragged the unconscious guard into an empty utility closet and locked the door behind us. I stepped up to the massive mahogany doors of Thomas’s private office, pulling a small electronic bypass device from my pocket that Nora had wired together from an old security console.
The red LED light blinked twice, turned solid green, and the heavy biometric lock clicked open.
We slipped inside. The office smelled of expensive leather, aged bourbon, and old money. Behind the massive glass desk, a wall-mounted monitor displayed real-time campaign fundraising numbers ticking upward by the tens of thousands.
I dropped into the leather executive chair, plugged our encrypted drive into Thomas’s secure terminal, and began downloading the master database of offshore accounts.
“Hurry,” Nora whispered, standing by the door with her pistol drawn, listening to the muffled murmurs of the gala down the hall. “We only have a ten-minute window before the guard’s relief patrol checks this floor.”
“The files are massive,” I muttered, watching the progress bar crawl across the screen: 42%... 53%... 68%...
Suddenly, the office door clicked.
The door swung open, and District Attorney Thomas Vance stepped inside, holding a crystal glass of scotch. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in utter disbelief as he saw me sitting behind his desk, illuminated by the cold blue light of the terminal.
Thomas didn't scream. He didn't call for security. A slow, cold smile spread across his immaculate, handsome face.
“Well, well,” Thomas chuckled softly, setting his glass down on the edge of the desk. “The ghost of Manhattan returns. I heard the feds had you locked away in a high-security box in upstate New York.”
“The feds are remarkably easy to fool when you know who’s paying their salaries, Thomas,” I said calmly, keeping my hands resting flat on the desk.
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Thomas’s gaze flicked to Nora standing by the door, then back to the computer screen showing the active download progress bar. His smile vanished, replaced by a flash of pure, predatory panic.
“You’re downloading the Zurich partition,” Thomas hissed, his hand dipping inside his tailored suit jacket toward a concealed shoulder holster. “You really are a stupid, arrogant bastard, Mateo. Did you honestly think you could walk into my office and walk back out?”
