Chapter 6 - The Mainframe Audit
The executive suite of the Varro Security Tower was dark, save for the blue, flickering light of the primary mainframe server rows in the back room. Mr. Hensley stood before a terminal, a heavy leather briefcase open on the floor beside him, his bald head covered in sweat as his fingers flew across the keyboard, deleting the encryption logs from the night of January fourteenth.
"The server requires a secondary administrative key, Hensley," a low voice said from the doorway.
Hensley jumped, his briefcase tipping over as he spun around.
Adrien Blackwell... no, Lorenzo Duca stood in the frame, his cane resting against the steel doorsill. Beside him stood Mia Callaway, her Glock drawn and level, her torn blazer sleeve exposing a thin white line of surgical tape over her arm scratch.
"Lorenzo," Hensley stammered, his hands rising into the blue light. "I... I was just securing the perimeter files. The Ferretti people... they hacked our north node. I was trying to trace the address—"
"The address is written in your routing logs, Hensley," Mia said, stepping past him and tapping the screen with the barrel of her weapon. She didn't look at the keys; her photographic memory had already cross-referenced the deletion sequence he was running with the Varro security manual she had read during her first hour in the lobby. "You didn't trace anything. You just authorized a three-million-dollar transfer from the Ferretti estate's account in Nassau. It’s right here in the pending bin."
She reached out, her fingers executing a four-key override sequence that locked the terminal completely, the screen flashing a bright, red text: ADMINISTRATIVE SUSPENSION: DUCA TRUSTEE OVERRIDE.
Hensley looked at Lorenzo, his eyes wide with the desperate, animal panic of a corporate bureaucrat who had realized the rules no longer applied to his situation. "Lorenzo, please... we’ve been partners for twelve years. I protected your warehouses during the 2018 strike—"
"You were paid to protect them, Hensley," Lorenzo said, walking forward until the brass pommel of his cane rested against the director’s chest, pushing him back into the mesh office chair. "And tonight, you were paid to let my son die. Matteo, clear the drive."
Matteo stepped into the room, a small digital memory stick in his hand. He inserted it into the terminal, his eyes tracking the line of text as the complete database of Varro’s internal communications began downloading into his pocket.
"The Ferretti contracts are all here," Matteo said, looking down at Hensley with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt. "Every bypass code, every guard schedule change for the last three years. He’s been selling our transport routes since the harbor line expansion."
"What are you going to do with me?" Hensley whispered, his face gray against the blue screen.
Lorenzo looked out the high window at the city below, where the first orange light of the January dawn was beginning to paint the clouds over the harbor. "The Varro board will appoint a new director by eight o'clock, Hensley. Miss Callaway has expressed an interest in the compliance department. As for you... I believe the Ferretti family does not like witnesses who fail their assignments."
He turned back toward the door. "Leave him for the marshals, Mia. The Nassau records are sufficient for a federal wire-fraud indictment. Let the state have him before Silvio realizes he’s lost his ledger."
As they walked out into the executive lobby, Mia stopped beside the iron trash can she had tripped over forty-eight hours ago. It had been straightened, but there was still a small, dented line near the base where her heel had struck the metal.
Matteo stopped beside her, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets, his dark eyes looking down at the dent with that slow, curved smirk.
"You know," Matteo said, his voice low and unhurried in the quiet morning hall. "The structural integrity of this lobby is still a bit questionable. Perhaps we should test it again after breakfast."
May you like
Mia looked up at him, her gray eyes narrowing in that stubborn, professional focus. "Mr. Duca, my shift doesn't end for another two hours. Until then, you are still an investment under my protection."
"Then let’s invest in some eggs, Miss Callaway," Matteo said, his hand reaching out to open the glass elevator doors for her. "I know a place near the docks where the coffee doesn't taste like a security risk."
