Chapter 8 - The Confrontation in the Dark
David clutched the heavy steel binder tightly against his chest, his mind racing at light speed. He knew instinctively that if Lieutenant Briggs confiscated File 88-B, it would vanish into an incinerator within five minutes, and he would never see the light of day again.
"You're working for Marcus, aren't you?" David said, his voice hard and steady as he backed up a step against the metal shelving rack.
"Marcus pays for quality security, Cross," Briggs sneered, unsnapping the leather strap of his holster. "And he made it very clear that anyone who goes digging through old corporate archives needs to have an unfortunate 'slip and fall' down the concrete stairs."
Briggs took another step forward, drawing his service weapon, the matte-black metal catching the pale emergency lights overhead.
"Drop the binder, David. And let's make this painless."
David didn't drop it. Instead, he gripped the heavy steel ring binder with both hands, his eyes fixed on Briggs' footing.
Before the lieutenant could raise his weapon to a firing stance, David lunged forward—not toward Briggs, but straight into the metal shelving rack beside him, slamming his shoulder against the upright support beam with all his body weight.
*CRASH.*
The massive, twelve-foot-tall shelving unit groaned under the sudden impact, tipping forward in a domino effect that sent thousands of heavy cardboard archive boxes cascading down like an avalanche of paper and cardboard.
Lieutenant Briggs shouted in surprise, stumbling backward as a mountain of dusty legal files buried his legs, knocking his service pistol out of his hand and sending it skittering across the concrete floor into the darkness.
David didn't look back. He sprinted down the aisle, clutching File 88-B to his chest, his boots pounding against the concrete as he bolted toward the emergency service exit at the far end of the basement.
Behind him, Briggs roared with fury, thrashing his way out of the paper avalanche. "Stop that inmate! Security breach in subterranean sector four!"
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Sirens began to wail throughout the facility, flashing red emergency lights painting the concrete corridors in stark, urgent strokes.
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