inDIVISIBLE by Ryan Hunter Page B

hallway, at least that we could see through the narrow window.
    If anything moved out there, we couldn’t hear it over the whining alarm. T opened the door , and I put my hand on his arm. “Wait—which way is the front of the building?”
    T pointed left. I took a deep breath and bolted after him, running to the end of the hallway before cutting right. We made it to the front corner of the building where T took out another camera.
    “Ready?” he asked.
    I nodded and counted back ten doors until we stood outside my father’s office. The door looked just like all the others, a glowing panel on the wall to swipe for entry. T tried the handle before he retrieved a thin piece of plastic from his pocket and worked it between the frame and the door. Seconds later the door p opped open. We rushed inside and closed the door gently behind us.
    A cleaning cart stood near his desk, an assortment of cleaning products scattered atop the cart. A box of rubber gloves was half-empty, and a bin labeled biohazard sat next to the garbage on the bottom tier of the cart.
    My father’s office smelled like ammonia bleach. I moved in further, a blue light from the computer screen lighting the room enough to see the window, our reflections flickering in the glass next to the bullet hole I’d seen from the street.
    I touched the hole, wondering if the bullet that had killed my father had also made this hole ... or if the officer assigned to killing my father had shot twice. I pulled my hand back and stepped away as security officers pulled up to the building on the street just below the window.
    “Backup just arrived,” I whispered.
    T sat at the desk, his fingers hovering over the keyboard—reluctant to push the wrong ones. A sensor reader glowed on the keyboard and a small box flashed on the screen over the glowing background, waiting for a swipe to log us in, but without a sensor, how could we access the files? Even with a sensor it would have to be programmed with the right clearance.
    “There has to be an override,” T said, clicking a few keys to produce dots in the box. I pushed his hands away and bent over the screen.
    “ Don’t—you’ll lock us out,” I whispered.
    T stood and scooted the chair behind me until I sat, focused on the screen—the blank box.
    Security searched for us at this very moment, and I sat without a clue as how to access my father’s computer …
                  My father had an override key. But what would he have used? I closed my eyes and remembered the times in the woods, the talks, the cryptic messages.
    The alarm made it hard to concentrate and I planted my palms over my ears to dim it. Eight keys, I needed eight keys … Nothing would fit except—I prayed T was right about Sofi—and punched in eight keys.
    I didn’t dare look until T squeezed my shoulder. The blue screen barely eased beyond dozens of files, each stacked atop the other. I touched one, dragged the file open and fanned the pages. T leaned over my shoulder, stiffening at the same moment as I did. We looked at each other, opened another file and flipped through the pages, catching the same phrases, same ideas. One more confirmed that my father had not only captured the information from the old PCAs, he’d recorded it in his personal files, just as I’d suspected from the notebooks in my backpack.
                  “There’s one common in all these files,” T said. He touched the screen and the name Oliver jumped out at me.
    “Who do you think he is?” I asked.
    T mouthed the name over and over as he closed out each file.
                  An icon blinked when we got to the desktop, and I clicked it, opening a file I’d never expected to see—anywhere. My father had labeled it: securitymissions/ questionable, a collection of top clearance files my father had hacked from the Alliance computers. I fell back in my chair and looked at T. He scrolled through the files and the titles alone started