“He thinks he is three steps ahead. But he has forgotten one thing.”

“What?” I asked.

“He left his digital footprint on my servers,” Arthur said.

“We have the exact IP address of the monitoring terminal.”

The drive clicked, signaling the download was complete.

I pulled the metallic drive out and handed it to Arthur.

“Let’s go,” he said, taking my hand.

His palm was warm and dry, his grip firm and reassuring.

We walked out of the office and down the dark corridor.

The emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows on the carpeted walls.

We bypassed the main elevators and headed to the rear of the floor, where the service stairs were located.

Arthur swiped his keycard against the reader of the private service lift.

The doors opened, and we stepped inside the utility-grade elevator.

The lift descended into the basement garage with a low, grinding sound.

The air grew colder as we went down, smelling of damp concrete and motor oil.

When the doors opened, the vast basement parking lot was silent and dark.