An alert showed that the server room door had just been opened.

Someone was inside the house, accessing the network.

I looked at the live feed on my screen.

The camera in the hallway showed Gavin’s assistant, carrying a silver briefcase.

He was heading toward the server rack.

“He’s wiping the drives,” I whispered.

Sarah put the car in gear, her tires spinning in the wet gravel of our driveway.

The headlights of the security SUV stayed in our rearview mirror until we cleared the iron gates.

I stared at my phone screen, watching the digital feed of my own home.

The assistant in the silver jacket was systematic.

He was pulling the solid-state drives directly from the server rack and dropping them into his briefcase.

With those drives gone, the original timestamped code that proved I built the foundation of Rourke Regional Mobility would be lost.

“He’s destroying everything,” I said, my voice barely a whisper against the hum of the car’s heater.

“He’s trying to,” Sarah said, her eyes fixed on the dark, winding road ahead.