Time to Try Again
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Mathis pulled the car to a stop in front of the run-down motel, eyeing the cracked neon sign flickering overhead. The buzzing hum of the dying light echoed in the otherwise still night. He sat there for a moment, his grip tightening around the access card in his hand. The small piece of plastic felt heavier than it should, the weight of what it meant pressing on him—what he had to do, what he'd have to tell Bree.
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Taking a slow breath, Mathis opened the car door. The crisp air hit his face like a slap, sharp and biting. His boots crunched on the gravel, each step toward Bree's room feeling heavier, like the distance between them had grown in more ways than one. Too long. He had been gone too long.
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When he reached the door, he hesitated, his fist hovering inches from the worn wood. What would she think? What would she say? His mind replayed their last conversation—a mix of anger, worry, and unspoken things neither of them could face. But there was no going back now. He had to keep moving forward. Pushing the door open cautiously, the hinges creaked, echoing like a warning.
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Before he could even speak, the cold glint of metal greeted him. Bree stood at the far end of the room, her gun leveled at his chest. Her eyes—dark, stormy, and filled with something between fury and fear—locked onto his. For a moment, she seemed unsure if he was even real.
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"Mathis!" Her voice cracked, sharp and ragged with a mixture of anger and desperate relief. "Where the hell have you been? I thought something happened... something bad."
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He paused, taking her in. Her hands trembled slightly, but the look in her eyes was hard—harder than before. His smile was small, crooked, and hollow. "Sorry, Bree. Old habit. Didn't realize you were keeping track of me so closely."
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She didn't lower the gun. Her eyes stayed locked on him, as if searching for something, for an explanation that would make it all make sense. "Don't play games with me, Mathis. I was worried. And I don't like worrying."
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Mathis shut the door behind him, the soft click unnervingly loud in the small, dimly lit room. The air was stale, thick with the tension that had been building since their last encounter. "I've been busy," he said, the words heavy in his throat. "Doing what I do best—getting us the edge we need."
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"Busy?" Her voice wavered slightly, the steel of her resolve bending, but the gun remained steady. "What did you do?"
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He tossed the access card onto the motel's battered table, the plastic skidding across the scratched surface. His body sagged with exhaustion as he collapsed into a nearby chair. "I found a way in," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the weight of the last few days catching up to him. "That garbage truck we saw—the one that clears out the computer company's waste every night? They use it to avoid corporate espionage. No third-party services, no trail. If we intercept it before it reaches the building, we can switch out the driver." He gestured to the card. "I've got a key card that'll unlock any door in the place."
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Bree's eyes flickered to the card, then back to him, doubt clouding her features. The gun was still pointed his way, though the fear behind it seemed to wane. "A key card for any door? How the hell did you manage that?"
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Mathis leaned back in the chair, running a hand through his hair. He looked at her—really looked at her. The gun was more out of fear now, not anger. He couldn't blame her. "Trust me, Bree. You don't want to know."
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She holstered the gun but didn't relax, her pacing beginning again. Every step was filled with frustration and unease, her boots thudding softly against the worn carpet. "That's the problem, Mathis. I don't know if I can trust you right now. You've been gone too long, and when you come back, you're throwing key cards on the table like you didn't just disappear without a word."
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Her words cut deeper than she knew, but his face remained impassive. Inside, though, a war raged. He hadn't wanted this. Keeping her in the dark wasn't his choice—it was a necessity. If she knew what he had done to get that card, to get this far, it would only make things worse. It would put her in more danger than she already was.
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"I had to make a call," he said, voice tight. "One I didn't want you caught up in. Things got... complicated."
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Bree stopped, turning to face him. "Complicated? What's that supposed to mean? You're not the same since—since Bram." Her voice softened just slightly, but her eyes remained locked on his. "I get it, Mathis. I do. But we're supposed to be in this together. You can't keep shutting me out."
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The mention of Bram's name felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He flinched internally, but his face stayed cold. "I'm doing what I have to do to make sure we don't end up like him." His voice grew harder, like armor. "That means making choices you won't always like."
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For a moment, her hardened expression faltered. The anger was still there, but beneath it, he saw the worry. The fear. "And what if one of those choices gets you killed? What if you disappear one day, and I never hear from you again?" Her voice was barely a whisper now, the vulnerability in her tone undeniable.
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Mathis stared at the card on the table, the silence between them thick, suffocating. He'd always been the one to take risks, to charge ahead. But now, he wasn't just risking his life—he was risking hers. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, laced with the weight of unspoken fears. "If that happens, it'll mean I failed. But I'm not planning on failing."
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Bree shook her head, her shoulders sagging, the fight draining from her slowly. "You better not. I can't afford to lose anyone else."
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They stood in that thick silence, the room feeling smaller with each passing second. Mathis finally stood, breaking the stillness. "We don't have much time. If we're going to pull this off, we need to move. Are you in?"
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She hesitated, her eyes narrowing, searching his face for any sign of deception. Finally, she nodded. "I'm in. But don't think for a second that I won't be keeping an eye on you."
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Mathis chuckled softly, but the sound was hollow. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
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The hours passed quickly as they prepared for the night ahead. They both dressed in dark, sleek attire, the kind that blended into the shadows. Bree's outfit hugged her form, her movements sharp and precise as they exited the motel. Mathis couldn't help but glance her way, the tension between them unspoken but palpable.
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The car rolled silently down a deserted road, the looming corporate building in the distance casting long shadows. Mathis checked his watch. A green garbage truck appeared in the rearview mirror, its headlights piercing through the darkness.
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"It's time," Mathis said softly, his voice low but steady. "You ready?"
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Bree didn't respond immediately, but when she turned to face him, her eyes gleamed with determination. She stepped out of the car, standing on the side of the road and waving as the truck approached. The driver slowed down, his face illuminated briefly by the headlights.
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"Miss, you alright?" The driver, an older man with a bushy mustache, leaned out the window, concern lacing his voice.
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Bree put on her best act of helplessness, eyes wide, her voice trembling just enough. "My car broke down, and my phone's dead. I must have taken the wrong exit... Can you help me?"
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The driver, too kind for his own good, put the truck in park and climbed out. "Let's see what the problem is."
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As he walked over to the car, Mathis moved silently behind him, his gun already drawn. The man didn't see it coming. With a swift motion, Mathis pressed the barrel against his back.
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"Stay quiet," Mathis whispered, the cold steel of the gun sending a shiver through the man. "We just need your truck."
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The man stiffened but didn't resist. Bree quickly bound his hands, her movements efficient, though there was a glint of unease in her eyes as she gagged him.
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"Sorry," she whispered, her voice soft, as if to reassure herself as much as him.
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With the driver secured in the back seat, Bree took the wheel of the car, turning off onto a side road. Mathis climbed into the garbage truck, his fingers tight around the steering wheel as he pulled away, following Bree to a secluded spot.
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The older man's eyes were wide with fear, darting between Mathis and Bree. Mathis looked him over, his tone calm but commanding. "We're not going to hurt you. We just need the truck for a few hours. Nod if you understand."
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The man gave a shaky nod.
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"Good," Mathis continued. "Do we need to show an ID at the checkpoint?"
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Another nod.
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"And there's a main gate with a guard?"
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The man nodded again, sweat beading on his brow. Mathis studied him carefully. "You'll stay here, and once we're done, we'll let you go. Understood?"
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The man nodded once more. In one swift motion, Mathis struck the man's neck, rendering him unconscious. He glanced over at Bree, who was watching, her face set in determination.
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"It's time," Mathis said, climbing into the driver's seat of the garbage truck.
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Mathis gripped the steering wheel of the garbage truck tightly, the hum of the engine reverberating through the quiet night. Bree was just ahead in the car, the taillights barely visible in the distance as she drove toward the corporate building. The shadowy form of the facility loomed larger, its perimeter dotted with dim lights and high fences topped with razor wire. Mathis flicked his gaze toward the rearview mirror, seeing the unconscious driver slumped in the back seat of their car, safely out of sight. He exhaled slowly, focusing on the task ahead.
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The plan was simple, but simplicity never meant safe. They needed access inside the building, and the garbage truck provided the perfect cover. The checkpoint was coming up fast.
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Mathis pressed a button on the dashboard, and the truck rumbled slightly as the hydraulic system lowered the back—a necessary adjustment to match the usual height of trucks making routine deliveries. He glanced down at his clothes, the reflective vest the driver had been wearing now draped over his dark attire. His hands tightened on the wheel, not from nerves, but from the calculation of risk.
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A voice crackled through the radio clipped to the dashboard. It was Bree, calm but with a trace of that ever-present tension. "I'll be in position by the gate in two minutes. Are you good?"
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Mathis kept his voice low. "Yeah. Remember, if anything feels wrong, pull back. Don't push it."
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There was a slight pause before Bree responded, her voice steady. "I know."
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As he approached the main gate, the guard stationed there stepped out of his small booth, holding up a hand to stop the truck. Mathis slowed the vehicle to a crawl, his heart rate steady. The guard, a middle-aged man with a thick jacket and an annoyed expression, walked up to the driver's side window.
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Mathis rolled it down, giving the man a weary but neutral look. "Evening."
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The guard gave him a once-over, his flashlight bouncing from the truck's logo to Mathis's face. "You're running late."
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Mathis grunted, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, got stuck behind a broken-down car. Took forever to get moving again."
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The guard sighed and checked a clipboard hanging from his belt. "You know the drill. ID?"
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Mathis handed over the driver's ID card he'd lifted earlier. The guard barely glanced at it, clearly more interested in getting the job over with. He turned toward the gate, waving at another guard to open it.
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As the barrier began to rise, Mathis caught a glimpse of Bree in his peripheral vision. She was slipping along the perimeter fence, staying just out of sight behind a stack of crates. Her eyes flicked toward him for a moment, their silent communication clear: All clear, for now.
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The guard handed back the ID without a word, and Mathis gave a curt nod, driving through the gate as it fully opened. The facility's yard stretched out before him, a maze of loading docks, service entrances, and security cameras. The hardest part was yet to come.
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Once inside, Mathis parked the truck near one of the loading bays, keeping the engine running in case they needed a quick exit. He spotted Bree in the side mirror as she moved toward him, keeping to the shadows until she reached the truck's blind spot. She tapped the side twice—a signal. Mathis stepped out, meeting her at the back of the truck.
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Bree's face was set, but her eyes were sharp with focus. "There's a security patrol every fifteen minutes, and the cameras sweep the yard every seven. We need to get in and out before the next rotation."
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Mathis nodded. "And the entry point?"
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Bree glanced toward a small service door at the far end of the building. "I'll handle the lock. Once we're in, we stick to the lower levels. The server room should be there."
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Mathis took a deep breath, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "Bree... you sure about this?"
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She met his gaze with unwavering resolve. "I am."
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A silent tension lingered between them, unspoken but palpable. Finally, Mathis broke it, his voice firm and controlled. "I'll handle the servers. You find out what you can at the main office. Let's move."
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They slipped into the shadows, the key card clutched tightly in Mathis's hand. As he swiped it at the service door, it slid open with a soft, reassuring hum.
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Glancing around the deserted space, Mathis abandoned Bree and stealthily approached a nearby door. The air was thick with the scent of industrial cleaner, mixed with the faint mustiness of space without much activity. He could almost taste the dust on the back of his tongue as he cautiously eased the door open, its hinges emitting a barely audible creak. Peering into the grand foyer he and Bree had traversed just moments earlier, Mathis noted the gleaming marble floors and the lingering aroma of recently polished wood, starkly contrasting with the cold, sterile corridors of the building's lower levels.
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Quickly and quietly, Mathis made his way to the main gate in the basement, the heavy scent of damp concrete growing stronger with each step. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a harsh, sterile glow over the space. As he approached the gate, he could hear the distant echo of water dripping somewhere, amplifying the eerie silence. If anything went wrong, Bree would have sent a signal by now, he thought, a wave of anxiety briefly cutting through his focus.
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He carefully opened the gate, the cold metal cool against his fingers, and scanned the guard station for any additional personnel. To his surprise, only one guard was present, just like the last time he had been there. The guard's uniform was slightly rumpled, a half-eaten sandwich resting on the desk beside him, the smell of processed meat and stale bread hanging in the air. Mathis paused, his mind racing as he assessed the situation. "They must have stationed multiple guards outside, thinking no one could get in here," he thought, the tension in his body heightening.
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As Mathis walked through the dimly lit alley, the scent of damp concrete and the acrid odor of old oil seeped from the ground. He spotted a discarded trash bag overflowing from a nearby can, the sour stench of rotting food and damp paper wafting toward him. An idea sparked. He grabbed the bag, its plastic slick and cold in his hands, and approached the guard, carrying it casually over his shoulder. The guard, noticing Mathis, straightened up and eyed him warily, his hand instinctively moving toward the holster at his waist.
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"Apologies, but we don't allow rubbish disposal in this area," the guard said, his tone firm, the faintest hint of suspicion in his voice.
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Mathis stopped in front of the guard, feigning confusion. "No trash allowed?" he asked, his voice carrying just the right amount of bewilderment as he shifted the bag on his shoulder, the contents rustling inside.
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Circling the guard, Mathis pretended to search for a trash bin, his eyes darting around as if trying to find a suitable spot. The guard watched him closely, his gaze narrowing. Then, in a sudden, fluid motion, Mathis lunged, seizing the guard from behind. The smell of sweat and fabric softener hit him as he locked his arm around the guard's throat, cutting off his air. The guard's eyes darted in panic, his struggles growing weaker as Mathis tightened his grip, feeling the man's pulse race beneath his forearm. Finally, the guard went limp, his body sagging against Mathis. He gently lowered him to the floor, the guard's breath coming out in shallow gasps, then hurried to the main door leading to the computer room.
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Inside, the room buzzed with the hum of servers and the whir of cooling fans, the cool, recycled air carrying the faint smell of ozone and warm electronics. The walls were lined with metal racks, filled with blinking lights and tangled cables, the heartbeat of the facility. Mathis quickly inserted a mini USB stick into the nearest terminal, its port warm from continuous use, and initiated the download, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency over the keyboard.
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As he kept watch at the door, Mathis glanced at his watch—15 minutes had flown by, the seconds ticking away too quickly for comfort. The countdown is on, he reminded himself, feeling the urgency press on him like a weight in his chest. He focused on the computer screen, watching the progress bar inch forward, counting the seconds until the download was complete. The mainframe powered down deliberately, the cooling fans winding down with a sigh, and the system began rebooting, the scent of burnt plastic lingering in the air.
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Suddenly, a high-pitched noise pierced the silence. The computers flickered, sparks flew from the electronics, and the sharp smell of singed wires filled the room. Then, everything went silent. Mathis's heart raced as he scanned the room one last time, hoping that Brillo had done his part. If he hasn't, we're screwed.
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Without wasting a moment, Mathis dashed out of the computer room, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the familiar garage. The air was heavy with the smell of motor oil, burnt rubber, and exhaust fumes, mingling in a thick, almost suffocating cloud. As he scanned the area, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, a knot of worry tightened in his chest. Bree had been gone too long. The usually sharp tang of gasoline in the air seemed to sharpen his senses, heightening his awareness of every shadow and sound.
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Mathis's mind raced through possibilities. The garage's silence felt oppressive, each second stretching into an eternity as he searched for any sign of Bree. He noticed a discarded walkie-talkie on the floor, its screen cracked. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Where the hell is she?
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and then Add to home screen.