Life-Threatening

Fuck.

     Rolling back over, he pressed a clammy hand to his forehead, mind racing and fingers subtly shaking. His phone sat unevenly on its receiver, a faint dial tone humming in the air.

     He'd arrived home late last night, sometime around three. That was the only reason he hadn't been awake to answer the phone. By the time it roused him it had already reached the answering machine, a robotic "Leave your message after the--" having caught his semi-conscious attention. As it was, his mind had yet to comprehend the situation and he had only caught the final snippets of a relatively short conversation, ending with a smug "and I know what you did!"

     That had sufficiently horrified him into wakefulness. Seb lay back in bed shocked. He didn't need context to understand what the man meant.

Fuck.

     Three months of planning, he thought to himself. Three months and all for shit.

     He'd made sure to enter the office from a side door, hours after closing when nobody--not even those on the night shift or the stray maintenance worker--would notice him. He'd worn all black, in compliance with the hacker/spy stereotype often outlined in films. He'd wiped away fingerprints, worn soft-soled shoes, ensured Lea disabled all security cameras.

     Seb found Baker's office quickly, his stop-watch registering three minutes thirty-eight seconds. Once overriding the locking mechanism, he made it inside. Sliding over to the filing cabinet beside the desk, he'd opened it using both a pen-knife and several strategic blows on its front.

     Snatching every file in sight, Seb re-locked both the cabinet and door then sauntered out, unseen.

     Guess I was wrong about that, he murmured.

     Turning his head, he stared at the documents piled on his nightstand. He groaned.

     Just my luck that Maron, of all people, knows.