Elusion(43)

Looks like I’ll be entering through his lane.

When I slowly reach the entrance to the gate, I pray that the State Department hasn’t deactivated my dad’s passcard. Although we had a memorial service for my father, he hasn’t been declared legally dead yet. There was no HyperSoar wreckage or actual physical evidence that proved he died, nor was there a mayday call or any radio correspondence with him before he was lost on radar. Josh and I did some research and found out that if there’s only a presumption of death, the government can’t disable someone’s account until a year has passed.

So I should be safe.

My eyes rest on the yellow blinking light on the turnstile as I swipe the passcard, practically holding my breath. Suddenly, there’s a shrill beeping noise and I almost lose my grip on the bag of cinnamon buns. Lucky for me, the sound is coming from the middle gate—a woman with an outstanding-ticket tag on her card. In my lane, a green light flashes and the waist-high plastic doors slide open. I exhale a sigh of relief.

Get through the crowd at the executive elevator.

The first leg of the mission accomplished. Had I gone through the regular elevators, the guards might have recognized me, and I would have had to check in. Then they would’ve called upstairs for visitor approval. I couldn’t risk that. The staff might have made me wait downstairs until Patrick was out of his early-morning investors briefing.

I step into the elevator and swipe my card before pressing the button for the seventy-third floor. The green light flashes again.

Approved.

As the doors close, I move toward the back of the elevator, mentally repeating the master plan Josh and I cobbled together.

Get inside Patrick’s office.

Text Josh on my tab and have him coach me through using the QuTap.

Find any and all codes containing 5020.

“Smells good,” a woman says with a friendly wink as the elevator rockets upwards. She’s dressed in a conservative black suit, with an Orexis pin attached to the lapel of her jacket. “Surprise birthday?” she asks.

“More like an olive branch.”

Or a decoy, if I want to get technical.

When the elevator stops and she pushes her way to the front, she cheerfully says, “I’d forgive you, honey!”

The doors close and I step farther into the back. I’m still worried that I will recognize someone—or worse, that someone will recognize me. But as the scene in the lobby proved, faces and names are almost indistinguishable during rush hour.

Sixty-eight, sixty-nine . . .

I can do this. I have to do this.

Seventy-three.

The door opens on a hallway flooded with brightness. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s actual sunlight. The air meter at the Inner Sector station was at negative one this morning, meaning that wind currents are minimal and air quality is good enough that O2 shields aren’t required. On “nice” days like this, I guess there’s no need to run Elusion ads on the glass windows, so they’re crystal clear, exposing a scenic view of the thick, black water of the Detroit River and, beyond it, the towering high-rises on the shore of Windsor, Canada.

As I wander into the waiting area, I’m met with an enthusiastic squeal. It’s coming from Estelle, a receptionist who has worked on this floor for as long as I can remember.

“Regan! What a surprise!” She jumps up from her swivel stool to greet me and brings me in for a big hug, her lilac-scented perfume almost overpowering me. The other receptionist, a young man with a crew cut, keeps his eyes on the InstaComm wall as he barks commands at someone in the office-services department.

“How are you, dear? And how in the world did you get up here? No one called!” Estelle says.

“Oh, I have a VIP passcard,” I say with a shrug.

Not a complete lie, but still, my tongue burns a little when the half-truth slips off it.

“Courtesy of Mr. Simmons, I presume?” she says, with a knowing smile.

My dad’s entire staff, most of whom now report to Patrick, have long suspected a romance between me and my best friend—which is something I must take advantage of if I want to get into his office alone.

“He’s been really stressed lately, so I brought him breakfast,” I say, holding up the insulated bag from the Inner Sector’s best bakery. “I was hoping to surprise him.”

My palms are starting to sweat, and for a second I wonder if I’m really capable of doing this. It’s one thing to think about breaking into an Orexis quantum computer, and another to actually go through with it. I remind myself to act casual. Not that Estelle would ever suspect me of being a corporate spy.

“You’re in luck,” she says with a smile. “His briefing was canceled this morning.”

My heart plummets. Canceled?

Estelle pauses and then sniffs the air. “Did you bring him cinnamon buns? From Mo’s?”

I force a grin and nod, opening the bag, my whole plan unraveling. “Want one?”

“No, save them for Patrick. He’s going to love them!” She peers at the screen on her digital data planner wristband and scrolls through the information, shaking her head in dismay when she’s through. “Good Lord, he got roped into a conference call instead. But that shouldn’t take too long; I could even buzz him in there and let him know you’re—”

“That’s okay, I can wait,” I blurt with excitement. “Would it be all right if I hung out in his office?”