Chapter 57
57 I’m in no shape to fight. My side aches from fractured ribs, and the duct tape Bradley used to stabilize them itches like crazy. I have a third-hand handgun with a twelve-shot magazine and one in the chamber, plus enough plastic explosive to make a suicide vest worthy of the name. No partners, no backup, and no extraction plan. And I’m locked in a coat closet used as a datacenter. So it’s flight. The infrared goggles show the outside wall arching up into the ceiling, meeting the interior wall maybe twelve feet overhead. The air conditioning ducts are pitch black shafts, still oozing cold even half an hour after I’ve cut the power. They’re big enough for a beagle, but not a basset. There’s no back door. Flight is out. Which leaves—hide. The three jam-packed server racks are wedge
- Writer
