“Hurry, Natalie,” she murmured.

I wedged the flat edge of the crowbar into the narrow gap above the top drawer.

Outside, the heavy rumble of a diesel engine died, replaced by the sudden slam of truck doors.

I threw my weight against the crowbar.

The metal groaned, but the lock held.

“Vance, how much time?” I asked, my breath shallow in the cold air.

“The delete sequence is at forty percent,” Vance said, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

“They’re bypassing the safety overrides from an external terminal.”

I shoved the crowbar deeper into the seam and pulled with everything I had.

The steel screamed as the internal latch sheared off.

The drawer jerked open two inches, spilling old dust into the beam of Eleanor’s flashlight.

I yanked the drawer the rest of the way.

Thick manila folders sat in tight rows, their tabs marked with typed dates.

“Which one?” I muttered, flipping through the files.

“It should have a red spine,” Vance said without looking up from his monitor.

“The master inventory manifest for the defense contracts from 2018 to present.”