Page 61 of Bitter Arrangement

“One’s patrolling the halls, and the other two are in the main monitoring room.”

“Better get moving then.”

I slip on a black surgical mask before hurrying across the parking lot toward the eastern side door. My lock picks are already in my hands as I reach it. A security camera blinks at me, a red light smiling.

“Wave hello,” Alexan whispers.

I smile and wiggle my fingers. “Hello, husband.” The camera moves as if nodding. “Show-off.”

I get the door open with ease and slip into a stairwell. Fong’s office is on the second floor. I head up, going as quietly as I can, and pause on the threshold before moving into a hallway.

The place really does look like any other suburban white-collar office space. There are cubes up ahead in a big open cluster and several conference rooms on the right and the left. I spot a break room and the bathrooms past there.

“Go straight to the cubes. Stay low and reach the hall on the other side. Take that to the end. His office is in the corner.”

I follow Alexan’s instructions. As I hurry, moving quietly, I can’t help but smile to myself. “Remember the first time we met?”

“Remind me.”

“When I broke into your house. This feels a lot like that.”

“I guess it does. Want to detour into an office and get yourself off on a desk for me?”

“Probably not a good idea.”

“But tempting?”

“Keep it in your pants.” I peek at a few of the desks. Children’s photos, calendars with scribbled notes, a little bamboo plant, and other signs of life are scattered all over. It’s hard to imagine actual people clocking in here.

I reach the hall on the other side and pause, listening, but it’s quiet.

“Guard is on the first floor,” Alexan says. “You’re clear. Get going.”

I hurry forward. Most of the doors are locked, though some were left open. I spot standard office layouts: desks, cabinets, and some windows. I reach the end and pause outside of a door with its own reception desk.

The lock is too easy. It’s almost like they wanted me to get in. I slip in and close the door behind me before I stride over to the desk, my heart racing with triumph.

“I’m inside,” I say and start browsing the shelves.

Jeremy Fong is an orderly man. He’s got books on management, books on business, and more than a few on programming. There are also stranger texts: several histories on Rome and a few on the Mongol Empire. There are some personal photos showing the guy I met at dinner with a cute little wife and a couple of young kids.

“Focus. You’re looking for a computer.”

“He’s got a laptop on his desk.”

“It won’t be that one.”

“How do you know?”

“Just trust me. Check the drawers.”

I’m about to tell him off, but I decide to listen for once. I open them up, and sure enough, I find a very small laptop buried under a couple of empty folders.

“I really hate it when you’re right,” I murmur, flipping open the lid. My fingers shake as I slip the thumb drive from my pouch. “What now?”

“Stick in the drive and turn on the power. I’ll do the rest.”

I sit back in my chair and watch the screen flicker as Alexan does his job. A command promptly appears, and text scrolls across. I hear him typing furiously at the other end. More prompts come and go as he does something. I get up and go to the door, listening for the guards, nerves jangling. Alexan murmurs something, sounding frustrated.

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