The edge of the wood dug into my lower back.

My flashlight fell from my hand, rolling across the floor and casting long, erratic shadows up the walls.

Julian grabbed the ledger with his free hand.

He tore a handful of pages from the binding with a loud, sickening rip.

“Let go!” he hissed.

I drove my elbow into his ribs.

He gasped, the air escaping his lungs in a sharp wheeze.

He dropped the torn pages, and they scattered across the floor like dead leaves.

I twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him down toward the cold concrete.

“It’s over, Julian,” I said, breathing heavily.

“It isn’t,” he croaked, his cheek pressed against the floor. “You think Rachel planned all of this?”

I froze for a fraction of a second.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She’s a pawn,” Julian muttered. “A convenient distraction.”

“Who is running the terminal?” I asked, tightening my grip on his wrist.

“Ask the person who signs my paycheck,” he said.

A sudden sound echoed from the corridor outside.

It was the heavy, rhythmic thud of security boots on the stone stairs.