The third installment of the series—each chapter should be readable as a standalone story, but start from the beginning for a little more continuity-cheers!
In the Steal of the Night
James bounced down a maze of service corridors, past a few boutique employees, and over to his hideout. This job was turning into his best ever—too bad it would be his last. The thrill of the cat and mouse while he outsmarted those around him was a hard high to match. But James knew better than most that this life wasn't suited for long term employment—one detail, one slip, one loss of focus would land you dead or worse. This would be his last job; win or lose it had to be—James couldn't afford any more daring heists for the FBI to profile him with.
James swiped into his "forward base," the same break room he had the pleasure of taking Sandi in. With his modifications it was moderately secure and James was ok leaving some of his encrypted data out. But the good stuff was well hidden. He lifted the drop ceiling and crawled into the overhead. After shimmying across a few rafters he gathered the rest of his gear and headed towards the ventilation shaft he had found.
After quickly rigging a rope system, James descended the vertical shaft nearly 100 feet, emptying onto a steel girder. The tunnel he dropped into was pitch black. Pitch black is hard to describe to people who've never seen it. You lose perspective of your own hand relative to space. You can't discern if the breathing you hear is your own, or someone standing still in front of you. You can amble through the darkness, but no better than a blind man who knows he's about to walk off a cliff. That's when your other senses flood in.
Your hearing amplifies; James could hear the blood rushing through his body. Each pulse sounded like a torrent of water breaking against a jetty. His gear rustled as nylon webbing swayed under his weight; his boots creaked and his watch ticked. Tiny patterns of water echoed against the slick black walls. Small animals scurried about and faint whisperings of men's voices lofted so soft that James was convinced he imagined them.
Your sense of smell becomes primary; the smell of damp mold floods in first. Then the pungent odor rotting detritus and excrement—dead fish, mice, refuse. Every now and then a metallic taste rings through the air followed by a waft of oil and degreaser.
James lit his hand torch, a 2000 lumen LED that was guaranteed to illuminate the blackest of nights. The polished concrete walls reflected an iridescent green as they fought to shine through 50 years of slime.
He checked his PDA. The schematic he found showed a vault up ahead, but there was no guarantee that was accurate—whether it was ever there or simply filled in during construction. James knew any slip up would mean no one would find his corpse for centuries—but with great risk there's great reward. He took a deep breath and started forward.
After an eternity of ambling through the eerie tunnel James came across his prize—a 100 ton vault door that sealed a defunct command room from the rest of the tunnels. If he could get access to this room, he'd have free reign over anything stored above it, namely the entire mall—secure transactions, jewelry, banks... even free cable. Time to nut up or shut up.
*Bzzz Bzzz*
"What the..." James felt around his tactical vest for his phone.
The vibrant screen lit up the corridor as it flickered to life.
"Ah, jeeze," he murmured to himself.
"Hey, it's Sandi :) want to meet up? I'm catching the late show at the drive-in," it read.
So much for a lack of distraction he thought. James checked the time before texting back—5 hours should be plenty to finish his work, he thought.
"I can make the midnight show," he typed back
"Sounds good! Text me when you're here :) "
James replaced his cell and refocused on the task at hand. He would have to work fast to keep his date, but in his line of work, speed often caused mistakes. James went back to the old motto, "slow is smooth, smooth is fast."
The vault door was a bomb proof entrance designed to save whoever stole behind it from whatever horrors waited on the outside. Some of the bunkers created in the cold war were wonders of modern engineering. Thankfully, this wasn't one of those wonders; the designers hadn't thought to give the same level of protection to the walls as they did the door. This particular door used a 16-bit encryption key that, at the time, was state of the art. Now it was little more than a magnetic doorstop—but a doorstop that hadn't had power in 50 years, none-the-less. The easiest way inside was through the wall.
Fifty years in the damp environment had softened the rebar reinforced concrete to the point where a decent sledge hammer would chip through it. A cut-off saw with composite blade would make short work of the rebar—but all of that was manpower and time intensive.
"Ain't nobody got time for that," James chuckled to himself as he set his gear down and retrieved a series of rods and detonators from the satchel.
James placed a thermite shape-charge on the wall and wound det-cord down the corridor to a safe alcove. With the spark of a motorcycle battery, the fuse lit and a small THWUMP signaled it was safe to check on his handiwork.
The explosive had burned a 3'x3' hole into the reinforced concrete wall, giving James access to the vault.
Stale air surged into the damp corridor. James consulted his ToxiRAE to ensure the air was still breathable: 20% oxygen, no organic volatiles or LELs. Not ideal, but not a problem for someone in good physical condition. He pressed on.
James crawled into the vault—untouched by humans since the 60's. It was a veritable time capsule of cathodes and cobwebs. A quick scan showed the room to be in decent condition with several desks and outdated electrical panels dotting what was once a bustling command center. James set to work splicing wires and running cables—powering up remote sensors and installing his network into the framework of the abandoned silo. Several hours passed by before his command center was up and running.
With one last flip of a toggle, the room came alive with computer monitors and fluorescent lighting.
Screens flickered to life and his graphic interface displayed every security camera from the mall above. James scanned around until he found the high priority shops—those with assets or transactions in excess of $1 million per month.
The anticipation of the score was palpable in James' chest.
After setting the loop protocols he began scanning the remaining monitors for signs of guard activity. He was surprised to see very little—maybe two or three guards actually patrolling their beat, while the rest remained off screen doing who knows what. This could prove even easier than he hoped.
Of the guards that did patrol, one caught his eye in particular. It was the Hispanic guard from the coffee shop. She was casually roaming through Dick's Sporting Goods, taking time to try each piece of athletic equipment and thumb through the various articles of clothing. After a while she came to a stop and looked around to ensure she was alone.
James leaned forward in his makeshift chair.
She quickly began unbuttoning her uniform shirt and peeling back layers of clothing. After stripping to her bra and panties the guard pulled clothes from the rack and began trying them on. Shirts and shorts and pants—loose cotton and snug lycra.
James stared intently at the monitor—the guard's curves accentuated the latest in sports fashion. Her black hair faded into the background; her firm body shone brightly in the night vision security feed; her muscles rippled through the cool air and her breasts heaved with each breath. She unclipped her bra and allowed her ample chest to bathe in the dark store air.
