Intercept those executive security codes before the chance is lost, maybe forever.

The First Hurdle

Hey, I am so so sorry, but I got a request from WAY up the chain at the last minute – they need me to work extra late tonight. We’ll have to reschedule our plans.

There. Five drafts in, you’re finally satisfied enough to push Send.

srsly? oh man that blows – but good u know were your bread is butter right?

You know it. Try to have some fun tonight, and I’ll call tomorrow if that’s OK.

u still talking at me? go make ur boy proud! ;) ttyl

There. Mya dealt with. Now to settle in, buckle down, and figure out how the heck you’re going to intercept that executive level access code. You’re jittery with exhiliration and more than a little anxiety. It’s your job to find holes in corporate security, so seeking out back doors or weak points are no novelty to you. This is a first, however, in poking around to indulge your own curiosity. Before, you were always doing it to help a client out. This time, you’re trying to take something for yourself. It’s a thin line, but you know full well it can be the difference between a client applauding due diligence and a judge sentencing you to fifteen years in a minimum security prison for corporate espionage.

Watching the clock carefully, you sneak out early to walk Mo. Can’t forget the important stuff while you’re busy fudging lines, after all. Nice to have a dog you don’t need to feed, too. After a farewell smooch on his wrinkling snout, you’re back in the car and in the lot right in time to meet Avery Parker to drive her home. She looks stunning as always, though her eyes shine curiously as you approach.

“Did I just see you drive _in _to the lot?” she asks.

“Oh. Yeah.” Crap. She was not supposed to have seen that.

“Forget about me or something?” She chuckles, well aware that you’re both too enamored of your quietly flirtatious drives to leave her behind.

“Hmm? Oh, no, I had to move the car before that parking nazi snuck over and gave me another–”

“Parking nazi?” came a voice from behind you. Your shoulders tense as your turn. Sure enough, there she is. “I’m sorry, protecting Monarch security and keeping temps like you from abusing the system makes me a nazi? That what I’m hearing?”

“Hi, Officer Diamond.” Maybe her full title will be more disarming. “Look, I was only playing around. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Her stern gaze falters, and a thin smile comes over her face. For once, not inspired by having just fucked you over somehow. “Oh. Sorry, guess I was missing context. You meant it friendly-like, I gotcha.” She gives you a playful swat on the arm.

You let out a breath. “Exactly. Just playing is all. You know me.”

Brooklyn laughs. “No, sure, I always hear people playfully call their friends nazis. Heck, my Nana likes to be called Grandma Hitler. ‘Cause we’re so close and all.” You blink and the smile is gone, replaced by icy contempt.

Avery, however, doesn’t share your intimidation with the parking attendant. With a shake of her head, she sweeps past you, saying over her bared shoulder, “I’ll be in the car when you two work out whatever the hell this is.”

Brooklyn doesn’t so much as glance at the other woman. “Look, I’m sorry, OK? It was rude, and uncalled for, and I apologize. Really. I’m sorry. But this is really a bad time, and I need to be going.” That last bit, at least, is no lie. Your first hurdle is to put yourself in the building after closing. Most of the lights go out in less than an hour, and they’re pretty firm about herding their people out of the building. There’s still security, custodial, that kind of thing, but it’s no secret they don’t want their workers, much less their consultants, loitering after hours. Your plan for getting back into the building without having to sign in and out at security has a narrow timeframe, and it’s closing fast.

“You need to be going,” she repeats, shaking her head angrily. “You seem like a pretty busy guy, Saxon. Too busy to update your plates, too busy to park in a legal spot, too busy to signal when making a left turn across two lanes of traffic. That’s right, I saw you coming in just now. Always in a rush.”

“I was? Or I mean, I did? Geez. Sorry. Again. And thanks for letting me know. I won’t do it again. Hand to god.” You start to go around her, but she steps into your path assertively.

“Fuck your hand. Fuck your god.”

“Uh…”

“No, you shut your fucking mouth, Saxon. How long you been working here? Six weeks? Seven? And have you even once tried to talk to me? Not about me, not to toss out more bullshit excuses for yourself, but to me. Like a fucking person.”

“Should I? You gave a pretty strong impression like you didn’t like me.”

“Shut the fuck up. Is there something wrong with me? That it? You got no problem sticking it to little miss corporate Barbie over there. Shit, you’ve fucked custodial. Custodial! You fucking lowlife. VPs, archives, receptionists… You got your fingers in a lot of pies, Willy boy. But you won’t even look my fucking way?”

“Have you been–”

“I said shut up!” she shouts. You look around, but the only other people in the lot are looking at their feet like they want nothing to do with this. “What, I don’t look like some fairy princess? Just because I'm not... not like them!” she thrusts her arm at where Avery is sitting in your passenger seat.

“I don’t know what this is, but I’m going to leave,” you state swiftly. This time, you don’t have a choice but to brush past her and hustle toward your car. Avery’s watching, concerned, and suddenly you see her eyes go so wide that it freezes you in your tracks.

Brooklyn is right behind you. A swift jerk unclasps the baton at her belt, and suddenly, it’s no longer a punchline hanging at the hips of a homely butch meter maid with a chip on her shoulder. Now it’s in her hand. It’s a weapon. You take a step back. “I’m hot, dammit! I’m fuckable! Aren’t I? Aren’t I?! I’M FUCKING GOOD ENOUGH!”

She raises the baton high. You stumble back, arms raised into protective positions. It arcs to your right, however, and instead of landing on you, it slams into the rear windshield of your car. A thick spiderweb of cracks forms. She smacks it again, again. As you yell for her to stop, Avery darts out of the car, fleeing off into the lot. Soon the windshield is shattered inwards, a spray of broken glass in and around the vehicle.

“That’s a citation, Mr. Saxon,” she says with sudden, icy calm. Then she swings again, and this time it’s a taillight. “That’s a citation.” The other one follows. “Another citation.”

“Knock it off, Brooklyn! What the fuck is wrong with–”

She turns, and now there’s a switchblade in her other hand. A staccato steel on steel noise, and the blade is out. She deftly spins it around and drives it into your tire. “Would you look at that? Another citation.” She rounds to the far side and your car sinks again with a hiss of released air.

You stand by, stunned and horrified, as she lashes out again and again. When you try to call the police, she’s on you in a second, slapping the phone out of your hand and giving you a look that leaves no question how she’ll feel if you retrieve it. As Monarch employees continue filing out of the building, a crowd gradually forms to watch the deranged security guard singlehandedly demolish your vehicle. You can hardly believe how strong she is too, smashing in windows, kicking off the side view mirror, then climbing in to start cutting up the interior.

Someone, evidently, made some calls. A few minutes later, a pair of security guards wearing her same uniform emerge from the building at a hustle. They shout for her to drop her knife and baton and come out, brandishing tasers. Somehow moved by the woman’s obvious psychotic break, you implore them not to hurt her.

“He’s in violation of the parking code!” she howls, driving her blade into the steering wheel. The blare of the car horn drowns out the shouting. In seconds, they’re going to incapacitate her.

Instead they stop, lowering their tasers. You hadn’t heard her shouting, but suddenly Aubrey Merriman is there, approaching the driver’s side of the car. Rather than rush to protect the CEO’s righthand woman, however, they allow her to walk right up to the open door of your car and bend over to address its occupant.

You tense, waiting to see her stumble back, her throat slit or face bashed in. You even yell for her to watch out, the woman’s crazy, she’ll–

But the two are talking. About what you can’t hear over the horn, but they’re talking. A minute later, and Aubrey stands up and extends her hand. Brooklyn’s muscled forearm extends from your vehicle and accepts it. When Aubrey helps her to her feet, she is unarmed, the baton left behind on the seat and the switchblade still plunged into the steering wheel. As Aubrey gently guides her away from the car, one of the security guards retrieves both weapons, and you can hear again.

Aubrey makes no announcement. She simply clasps the hand of her security guard – former, anyway – and leads her back toward the building. You’re closer to the scene than anyone, and the two pause to regard you. Brooklyn’s eyes are still filled with that crazed malevolence, but Aubrey’s are quiet, austere.

“I’m sorry that this happened, Will. We’ll take care of this. Make it right. Call yourself a ride and go home. Mr. King and I will handle Ms. Diamond.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. Really, what would you even say? Recriminations, apologies, questions… none of it has any place in this moment. The crowd parts to let them into the building. The doors are still open as they begin to murmur at one another about what they saw, what it could mean. If they know what any of that was, they’re way ahead of you.

You see familiar faces. Amy gives you a sad wave from across the way before going back inside herself. Avery returns, asks if you’re all right, and politely informs you she’ll be handling her own transportation tonight and henceforth. As people break up and start getting in their own vehicles, you even see Ingrid arrive, still gorgeous even in her beige coveralls. She looks between you and your vehicle in curiosity and horror before heading inside to begin her evening shift. You almost miss Mya hurrying to her own car, eager not to be associated with spectacle of that sort. Others, too, familiar and friendly faces of people you haven’t yet had romantic entanglements. They regard you with sympathy, but respect your insistence that you need your space.

After all, that code is still going out in a few hours, and you still mean to get your hands on it. You’ll be damned if that parking nazi bitch is going to stop you.

TO BE CONTINUED…

“Brooklyn” rendered by Prospass.