Contd
Elijah Vega.
My gloved fingers steeple together.
This is right before I lean my finger slightly to the left.
That’s all it takes for half of the foreign mercenaries in black gear tight against their bodies to run off into the shadows like phantoms. In ten minutes, they’ll blow one off cars in the garage and redirect the blaze toward the storage wing. It’s all about the timing. The fire has to look like chaos, something urgent enough to pull security away from the main house. Misdirection at its finest.
I scan the camera feeds mounted on the walls. Cancer, the tech will be stationed in the control room while we sweep the house. He will be scrubbing our footprints: deleting every second of footage that shows how we got in, where we came from, and what we do in the Wing.
Right n
