“We’re going to catch him,” I said, trying to reassure myself as much as him.

He didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator as the numbers ticked downward.

The elevator stopped at the sub-lobby, and the doors slid back.

The hallway was dimly lit, the fluorescent tubes overhead flickering with a faint hum.

We walked quickly toward the archive wing, our footsteps echoing loudly on the polished concrete floor.

As we neared the corner of the hallway, we heard a muffled, angry voice.

It was Martin.

He sounded strained, his breathing heavy as he spoke to someone on his cell phone.

“I don’t care about the risk,” Martin was saying, his voice echoing in the corridor.

“I have the full schematics for the Riverfront Development right here in my hand.”

“Meet me at the back alley entrance in ten minutes with the cash.”

My father stopped, holding his hand out to keep me behind his shoulder.

We peered slowly around the concrete corner.

Martin was standing by a metal filing cabinet, a large leather duffel bag sitting open on the floor.