Chapter 11 - The Trojan HorseThe polished marble floors of Vanguard Data headquarters reflected the frantic energy of a billion-dollar acquisition. Men and women in tailored suits rushed past, clutching tablets and folders, oblivious to the fact that the company’s founder had just walked through the front doors.
Owen kept his head down, wearing a dark baseball cap and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses he’d bought at a convenience store. He didn't need a disguise to fool the biometric scanners; he needed it to fool the human guards stationed at the checkpoints.
He moved purposefully toward the rear of the lobby, bypassing the main security gates where Marcus was currently chatting up a young receptionist. Using a cloned RFID badge, Marcus slipped effortlessly through the turnstiles, blending into a group of mid-level managers heading for the central elevators.
Owen, however, took a different route. He slipped down a maintenance corridor, arriving at a heavy steel door marked RESTRICTED ACCESS: IT MAINTENANCE. He pulled a small, homemade descrambler from his pocket and pressed it against the keypad. Three seconds later, the light flashed green.
He stepped into the dimly lit service shaft. In the center was the executive express elevator—a private car designed to take the CEO from the underground parking garage directly to the penthouse boardroom without stopping.
Owen stepped inside and plugged a USB drive into the elevator's diagnostic port. His laptop had already rewritten the building's access protocols, but he needed manual control to ensure Greg hadn't changed the physical overrides.
Ping.
The elevator recognized his master credentials. The display read: WELCOME, MR. BELL.
"It's good to be home," Owen muttered, hitting the button for the 60th floor.
The car shot upward in silence. As the floor numbers ticked higher—20, 30, 40—Owen felt his pulse thrumming in his ears. He wasn't just a coder anymore. He was a widower, a father driven to the edge, armed with a crowbar and absolute, terrifying clarity.
On his burner earpiece, Marcus's voice crackled to life. "I'm on fifty-nine. The stairwell to the penthouse is guarded by two of Greg's private security guys. Ex-military by the look of them. They aren't building security."
"Stand by," Owen whispered, watching the floor indicator hit 55. "On my mark."
At 11:54 AM, Owen pulled out his phone and accessed the backdoor he had planted in the building's mainframe half a decade ago. He navigated to the environmental controls.
"Mark," Owen said.
With a single tap, Owen triggered the localized fire alarm in the penthouse kitchen, adjacent to the boardroom. Instantly, the shrieking wail of the alarms echoed through his earpiece, followed by the hiss of automated halon gas suppressants deploying.
"The guards are moving to investigate," Marcus reported, his voice tight. "I'm moving up."
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The elevator hummed as it slowed. Floor 59. Floor 60.
The doors slid open, revealing the luxurious, mahogany-paneled antechamber of the executive boardroom. Owen gripped his crowbar, stepping out onto the plush carpet. The alarm was deafening, but it was exactly the cover he needed. It was time to show the world exactly who Greg really was.
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