Almost no natural light penetrated beyond a few steps into the internal corridors. A pair of night-vision goggles, set to low-light amplification, took care of that detail. Besides allowing her to navigate with confidence, the LLAMPS headset would let her pick out the telltale filigree of laser-based tripwire systems. She hadn’t seen any when she’d passed through here during the day, but that wasn’t to say that there were none on site.

Caitlin moved as quickly as she could, wary of raising the alarm via a clumsy footfall that would echo around such an empty building. She had plotted out a course avoiding the front desk, where she knew the two nightwatchmen were now on duty. But, naturally, there was no guarantee the guards weren’t stalking the halls at the same time as her. If they were any good at their job, they’d be doing so at random intervals.

Pushing her senses out ahead of her, reaching for the finely balanced mental state that her teachers in Japan had explained to her as mind-no-mind, Special Agent Caitlin Monroe moved deeper into the heart of Blackstone’s keep.

At one point she halted. The arrhythmic footfall of a man carrying a slight limp was moving towards her. A moment later, a flashlight beam stabbed out and played over a fire extinguisher at the T junction just ahead of her. She did not reach for her weapon, since it was unlikely that the man was aware of her presence. More likely, he was just ticking off a spot check. The flashlight seemed to cut out before she heard the faint click of the guard switching it off. His footsteps shuffled away.

Her heart rate slightly elevated, she waited until she could be certain he was gone before resuming her intrusion.

A simple laser trap guarded the next intersection, but she cleared the single line of light with a leap that mirrored a basic crescent kick with a midair twist. Again, she landed silently.

Flitting past the door to Blackstone’s office, Caitlin catalogued the security fixtures. She had no intention of entering, but her training called forth the Pavlovian reaction.

A few heartbeats later, she stood outside McCutcheon’s office. A small green LED confirmed Vancouver had subverted the PIN lock. Taking the gel-form thumb print, she pressed it against her own digit and laid both on the receiving plate.

Nothing.

She tried again.

Nothing. Not even a red light to indicate a failed match.

Frowning, she stared at the device as if to bid it to her will through sheer force of personality. Then a more rational response kicked in. She licked the gel, feeling the ridge lines of McCutcheon’s thumb print at the tip of her tongue.