Chapter 8 - The Prototype
Robert's suit was soaked, his breathing ragged.
"Step away from the terminal," he gasped, raising the heavy flashlight like a club.
"You can't stop us, Robert," I said, stepping between him and Natalie. "The police know everything. They have the audio recording."
"Audio recordings can be thrown out in court," he spat, taking a step closer. "But if this contract doesn't go through, I'm ruined. I need that money, Ellen. I've leveraged everything on this deal."
"You built your whole life on my back," I said, my voice steady despite the terror thrumming in my veins. "My design. My father's company. My mother's life."
Dr. Miller stepped forward. "It's over, Robert."
Robert swung the flashlight. It struck Dr. Miller's shoulder, sending the old man crashing into a glass partition. The glass spider-webbed with a sickening crunch.
"No!" Natalie screamed.
Robert grabbed me by the arm, his grip bruising my skin, and hurled me toward the conference table. I hit the edge hard, the old blueprints scattering across the floor.
He lunged for the computer terminal.
"I just need to hit deploy," he muttered, his bloody fingers reaching for the keyboard.
I looked at the floor. Among the scattered blueprints was the heavy, tarnished silver key.
It must have fallen out of his pocket during the struggle.
I scrambled across the floor, my fingers closing around the cold metal just as Robert hit the 'Deploy' button on the screen.
Insert physical key to confirm deployment, the screen flashed.
Robert patted his pockets frantically. He looked down and saw the key in my hand.
"Give it to me, Ellen," he demanded, stepping toward me.
"Mom, throw it!" Natalie yelled.
I didn't throw it. I stood up, gripping the key tightly.
"You always said I wasn't good with little projects, Robert," I said, walking toward the server tower that hummed against the back wall.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
I looked at the exposed motherboard through the server's acrylic casing. The cooling fans whirred aggressively.
"I remember exactly how electrical currents work," I said.
I jammed the heavy silver key straight through the cooling grate, wedging it directly across the exposed power supply nodes of the main server rack.
Sparks showered the room like fireworks.
The server let out a high-pitched whine, followed by a loud pop. The screens went entirely black. The hum of the hard drives ground to a violent halt.
The dead-man's switch was dead. The production order was fried.
Robert screamed, lunging for me, but the sound of heavy boots echoed in the hallway.
"POLICE! GET ON THE GROUND!"
Four armed officers stormed through the shattered doors. Before Robert could even raise his hands, they tackled him to the carpet, pinning his arms behind his back and slapping steel cuffs on his wrists.
I stood panting, staring at the smoking server rack.
Agent Reynolds stepped into the room, lowering his weapon. He looked at the fried machine, then at me.
"Nice work, Mrs. Whitaker," he said softly.
May you like
I looked down at Robert, his face pressed into the carpet, his legacy destroyed by the woman he had spent thirty-five years trying to make small.
"It's Ms. Whitaker," I corrected.
