Chapter 63 - The Midnight Breach
Mateo moved with quiet, practiced efficiency. Instead of rushing down the main stairs where the hinges might creak, he vaulted lightly over the low terrace rail onto the thick timber trellis of the wisteria arbor, dropping silently onto the turf below. I took the exterior stone staircase, keeping my back pressed against the stucco wall.
As I reached the gravel path, the glass door of the archive slid open with a soft metallic click. A figure dressed in black tactical fleece and a dark ball cap stepped out, clutching a hard-shell Pelican case containing our external backup drives.
"Drop the case," Mateo's voice sliced through the dark like a blade, flat and uncompromising.
The intruder spun around, startled. Rather than dropping the drive, he reached inside his jacket with his right hand.
Before he could draw whatever he was reaching for, Mateo closed the distance in two explosive strides. He drove his shoulder hard into the intruder's chest, knocking him against the stone pillar of the portico. The hard case tumbled from the man’s grip, clattering across the flagstones.
The man scrambled to his feet, pulling a compact stun taser from his coat, the twin prongs crackling with a terrifying blue arc of electricity. He lunged toward Mateo's throat.
I didn't hesitate. Swinging the brass fire iron with both hands, I struck the intruder's outstretched forearm with the solid weight of my entire body.
The crack of metal against bone was followed by a sharp cry of agony. The taser flew into the fountain with a violent splash and a dying sizzle.
Mateo swept the intruder's legs out from under him, pinning him facedown against the wet flagstones with a knee planted firmly between his shoulder blades, twisting his arm behind his back.
"Don't move," Mateo growled, his breath coming hot and steady. "Move an inch and I'll dislocate your shoulder."
Elena switched on the courtyard floodlights from the main kitchen breaker. The blinding glare illuminated the intruder's contorted face.
He was clean-shaven, thirty-something, with the clinical, emotionless look of a corporate private contractor. In his ear, an encrypted micro-transceiver was still buzzing with low static and a voice speaking rapid German.
Paloma picked up the fallen hard case, inspecting the seals. "The drives are safe. He didn't have time to corrupt the local server."
I crouched down near the man's head, staring coldly into his eyes. "Who gave you the codes to our perimeter gate?"
The man clenched his teeth, refusing to answer.
Mateo reached into the man's tactical vest, pulling out a laminated security clearance card. It bore an official visitor badge for the *Consortium des Arts Textiles*, based in Lyon, France—and beneath the logo, stamped in red ink, was an authorization code identical to the corporate account numbers uncovered during the seizure of Eduardo’s luxury shell companies.
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"They're desperate," Mateo said, looking up at me. "They know the patent hearing in Lyon next Tuesday will permanently invalidate their claim if our evidence arrives intact. They didn't come to steal the ledgers—they came to destroy them."
***
