When my boss, Victor Kroll, learned I had stage II lymphoma, he didn't offer sick leave.
Victor stepped fully into the vault’s limited light, his face contorted with rage. “Those are mine. What do you think you’re doing?”
Nicolette recovered quickly, clutching the bag of drives tighter. “Protecting your interests, Victor. These files are a liability. Sloan and Moreau are coming for them.”
A lie. A desperate, transparent attempt.
Victor took another step, his shadow looming. “You embezzled from me. You framed Sloan. You think I don’t know?”
Nicolette swallowed hard, her eyes darting to the vault door. “I did what was necessary for the syndicate. You’re losing your grip.”
Outside, an unusual coastal squall had begun. Rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the dockhouse, but the air felt heavy, charged, unlike any ordinary storm. A low, continuous hum filled the vault, making the metal vibrate.
Suddenly, a blinding flash. It wasn’t the usual crack of lightning, but a silent, spherical orb of light, a freak ball-lightning, that materialized directly overhead, just outside the dockhouse roof. It pulsed with an eerie, cold glow.
There was no thunderclap, no heat, just an impossible, silent impact.
The entire dockhouse groaned. Structural beams shrieked. A massive, heavy iron framework, part of the old cargo loading system, tore free from its moorings. It slammed down, directly onto Victor’s legs, pinning him against the concrete floor.
Cold, smokeless sparks erupted from the impact point, an unexplainable phenomenon. Victor screamed, a sound raw and desperate, as dust and debris rained down. Nicolette, momentarily stunned, stared at him, then at the stolen drives in her hand. The exit was clear. She didn’t hesitate.
She bolted.
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