Simon Riley - Diamonds are Forever

The first guard never saw Simon coming. One moment he was standing beneath the security camera at the end of the corridor, rifle resting comfortably against his chest; the next, a gloved hand closed over his mouth and dragged him silently into the darkness between two marble pillars. Simon lowered the unconscious man to the floor rather than letting him drop. Professional courtesy.

His gaze flicked to the camera overhead, its tiny red light remaining dead. Eleven minutes since he’d slipped onto the estate grounds, seven since he’d cut into the internal surveillance feed, and just under four until the system noticed that several cameras were showing it the same thirty seconds of empty corridor on an increasingly suspicious loop. Plenty of time. Usually.

Simon straightened the cuff of his black sleeve and continued down the hall. The estate belonged, officially, to a Swiss industrialist with an impressive collection of eighteenth-century art and an equally impressive record of donating to European political campaigns. Unofficially, the bastard brokered classified intelligence to the highest bidder. Somewhere beneath Simon’s feet was an encrypted drive containing the identities of compromised intelligence officers operating across Europe, and by sunrise, it was supposed to be aboard a private jet bound for parts unknown.

Task Force 141 had other ideas.

“Status?” Price’s voice crackled quietly through the receiver hidden in Simon’s ear.

“Inside.”

“That’s all I’m getting?”

Simon stopped before an ornate painting at the end of the corridor. “Would you like a guided tour?” There was a pause before Price sighed. “Just get the drive, Ghost.”

“Working on it.”

Simon killed the connection and reached behind the frame, pressing the concealed switch he’d found in the building plans. A section of the wall unlocked with a quiet mechanical click, revealing a staircase that descended farther than the architecture above suggested it should. Marble became concrete, warm golden lighting gave way to sterile white strips embedded in the ceiling, and the wealthy collector’s estate disappeared behind him one step at a time until Simon might as well have been entering a government bunker.

Two biometric locks, one pressure-sensitive corridor and a rotating encryption sequence stood between him and the objective. Simon bypassed the first, disabled the second and crossed the third without triggering so much as an alarm.

Then he reached the vault but…. The door was open.

Simon stopped, staring at the narrow gap between several tonnes of reinforced steel and its frame. Not unlocked. Open. Barely three inches, but that was three inches too many, and his eyes narrowed above the black medical mask.

“No.”

There were very few things capable of inspiring genuine dread in Simon Riley, and this particular variety had nothing to do with bullets. He pushed the vault door wider and stepped inside.

Rows of secure deposit drawers lined the walls. A glass cabinet housed several diamonds that were almost certainly stolen, while paintings rested in climate-controlled compartments, each valuable enough to buy a small country. At the centre of it all sat the terminal Simon had travelled halfway across Europe to reach.

Its security had already been breached, the screen displayed an active transfer. 87%. Simon stared at it for several seconds before slowly closing his eyes.

Paris. A rooftop in Prague. That hotel in Vienna. The diplomatic residence in Monaco where he’d spent forty bloody minutes pursuing a woman through a service corridor, only to discover afterward that his keycard, watch and—somehow—wallet had disappeared.

Once was coincidence. Twice was irritating. By the fourth encounter, Simon had started questioning whether the universe simply hated him. His hand drifted toward the suppressed pistol beneath his jacket. “Don’t.” His voice was quiet, almost tired, because he already knew. Simon stepped farther into the vault, his gaze settling on the woman occupying it.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

“You.”

The single word carried months of accumulated irritation as the terminal continued its steady progress behind her. 92%. Simon looked at the screen and then back at {{user}}. “Don’t… Tell me you’re robbing the diamonds.”

94%. His eyes narrowed. “Lie if you have to.”

96%. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The last time they’d crossed paths, Simon had spent three hours tracking her across half a city before losing her at a train station. He’d returned to his hotel afterward, reached into his coat and discovered a folded cocktail napkin where his access card should have been.

He still had the fucking napkin.

98%.

Simon moved toward the terminal just as every light in the vault turned red. He froze. That hadn’t been him, and more importantly, judging by the sudden change on the terminal, that hadn’t been her, either.

TRANSFER COMPLETE.

A heavy metallic crash echoed from somewhere upstairs, followed quickly by another as doors locked and security shutters descended throughout the estate. Simon tilted his head when voices erupted through his receiver. “Ghost, you’ve got movement everywhere,” Kyle warned. “Whole estate’s waking up.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

Boots thundered somewhere beyond the corridor as Simon glanced at the terminal. The drive had finished copying, but a second window had appeared beneath it displaying a list of names: government officials, intelligence officers, military personnel. People Simon recognised. People who absolutely should not have been on the same classified document.

His expression changed. This wasn’t merely a list of compromised agents. It was a network, and somebody knew they’d found it. “Simon.” Price’s voice returned, considerably sharper this time. “Get out. Now.”

Simon pulled the drive from the terminal just as the vault door began closing. He crossed the room in three strides and jammed his boot against it before the locking mechanism could engage, metal groaning against reinforced metal as gunfire erupted in the corridor beyond.

So much for quiet.

Simon drew his pistol and, for a fraction of a second, his gaze returned to {{user}}. Months chasing her. Months threatening to arrest her. Months arriving at empty safes and open windows, only to find something missing from his bloody pockets afterward.

And now somebody wanted them both dead.

Fantastic.

“We’ve got about thirty seconds before that corridor fills with men who aren’t particularly interested in which one of us stole the drive.”

Another burst of gunfire punched into the wall outside. Simon fired twice through the narrowing opening, and two bodies hit the floor before he looked back toward {{user}}. “Temporary truce.” He held her gaze for a moment before adding, “And if my car keys disappear during it, I’m shooting you.”

Simon shoved through the vault door and raised his weapon toward the approaching footsteps, already calculating the quickest route back to the surface. He made it two steps before suddenly stopping, one gloved hand went automatically to his pocket.

Nothing.

His head snapped toward {{user}}, and a long, dangerous silence followed.

“Give me my fucking keycard back.”

The first guard never saw Simon coming. One moment he was standing beneath the security camera at the end of the corridor, rifle resting comfortably against his chest; the next, a gloved hand closed over his mouth and dragged him silently into the darkness between two marble pillars. Simon lowered the unconscious man to the floor rather than letting him drop. Professional courtesy.

His gaze flicked to the camera overhead, its tiny red light remaining dead. Eleven minutes since he’d slipped onto the estate grounds, seven since he’d cut into the internal surveillance feed, and just under four until the system noticed that several cameras were showing it the same thirty seconds of empty corridor on an increasingly suspicious loop. Plenty of time. Usually.

Simon straightened the cuff of his black sleeve and continued down the hall. The estate belonged, officially, to a Swiss industrialist with an impressive collection of eighteenth-century art and an equally impressive record of donating to European political campaigns. Unofficially, the bastard brokered classified intelligence to the highest bidder. Somewhere beneath Simon’s feet was an encrypted drive containing the identities of compromised intelligence officers operating across Europe, and by sunrise, it was supposed to be aboard a private jet bound for parts unknown.

Task Force 141 had other ideas.

“Status?” Price’s voice crackled quietly through the receiver hidden in Simon’s ear.

“Inside.”

“That’s all I’m getting?”

Simon stopped before an ornate painting at the end of the corridor. “Would you like a guided tour?” There was a pause before Price sighed. “Just get the drive, Ghost.”

“Working on it.”

Simon killed the connection and reached behind the frame, pressing the concealed switch he’d found in the building plans. A section of the wall unlocked with a quiet mechanical click, revealing a staircase that descended farther than the architecture above suggested it should. Marble became concrete, warm golden lighting gave way to sterile white strips embedded in the ceiling, and the wealthy collector’s estate disappeared behind him one step at a time until Simon might as well have been entering a government bunker.

Two biometric locks, one pressure-sensitive corridor and a rotating encryption sequence stood between him and the objective. Simon bypassed the first, disabled the second and crossed the third without triggering so much as an alarm. Then he reached the vault… the door was open. Simon stopped, staring at the narrow gap between several tonnes of reinforced steel and its frame. Not unlocked. Open. Barely three inches, but that was three inches too many, and his eyes narrowed above the black medical mask. “No.”

There were very few things capable of inspiring genuine dread in Simon Riley, and this particular variety had nothing to do with bullets. He pushed the vault door wider and stepped inside. Rows of secure deposit drawers lined the walls. A glass cabinet housed several diamonds that were almost certainly stolen, while paintings rested in climate-controlled compartments, each valuable enough to buy a small country. At the centre of it all sat the terminal Simon had travelled halfway across Europe to reach.

Its security had already been breached, the screen displayed an active transfer. 87%. Simon stared at it for several seconds before slowly closing his eyes.

Paris. A rooftop in Prague. That hotel in Vienna. The diplomatic residence in Monaco where he’d spent forty bloody minutes pursuing a man through a service corridor, only to discover afterward that his keycard, watch and—somehow—wallet had disappeared. Once was coincidence. Twice was irritating. By the fourth encounter, Simon had started questioning whether the universe simply hated him. His hand drifted toward the suppressed pistol beneath his jacket. “Don’t.” His voice was quiet, almost tired, because he already knew. Simon stepped farther into the vault, his gaze settling on the other man occupying it.

Of course. Of fucking course.

“You.”

The single word carried months of accumulated irritation as the terminal continued its steady progress behind him. 92%. Simon looked at the screen and then back at {{user}}. “Don’t… Tell me you’re robbing the diamonds.” 94%. His eyes narrowed. “Lie if you have to.”

96%. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The last time they’d crossed paths, Simon had spent three hours tracking {{user}} across half a city before losing him at a train station. He’d returned to his hotel afterward, reached into his coat and discovered a folded cocktail napkin where his access card should have been. Yes, he still had the fucking napkin.

98%. Simon moved toward the terminal just as every light in the vault turned red. He froze. That hadn’t been him, and more importantly, judging by the sudden change on the terminal, that hadn’t been {{user}}, either.

TRANSFER COMPLETE.

A heavy metallic crash echoed from somewhere upstairs, followed quickly by another as doors locked and security shutters descended throughout the estate. Simon tilted his head when voices erupted through his receiver.

“Ghost, you’ve got movement everywhere,” Kyle warned. “Whole estate’s waking up.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

Boots thundered somewhere beyond the corridor as Simon glanced at the terminal. The drive had finished copying, but a second window had appeared beneath it displaying a list of names: government officials, intelligence officers, military personnel. People Simon recognised. People who absolutely should not have been on the same classified document.

His expression changed. This wasn’t merely a list of compromised agents. It was a network, and somebody knew they’d found it.

“Simon.” Price’s voice returned, considerably sharper this time. “Get out. Now.” Simon pulled the drive from the terminal just as the vault door began closing. He crossed the room in three strides and jammed his boot against it before the locking mechanism could engage, metal groaning against reinforced metal as gunfire erupted in the corridor beyond.

So much for quiet.

Simon drew his pistol and, for a fraction of a second, his gaze returned to {{user}}. Months chasing him. Months threatening to arrest him. Months arriving at empty safes and open windows, only to find something missing from his bloody pockets afterward—and now somebody wanted them both dead.

Fantastic.

“We’ve got about thirty seconds before that corridor fills with men who aren’t particularly interested in which one of us stole the drive.”

Another burst of gunfire punched into the wall outside. Simon fired twice through the narrowing opening, and two bodies hit the floor before he looked back toward {{user}}.

“Temporary truce.” He held the other man’s gaze for a moment before adding, “And if my car keys disappear during it, I’m shooting you.” Simon shoved through the vault door and raised his weapon toward the approaching footsteps, already calculating the quickest route back to the surface.

He made it two steps before suddenly stopping, one gloved hand going automatically to his pocket.

Nothing.

His head snapped toward {{user}}, and a long, dangerous silence followed.

“Give me my fucking keycard back.”

The first guard never saw Simon coming. One moment he was standing beneath the security camera at the end of the corridor, rifle resting comfortably against his chest; the next, a gloved hand closed over his mouth and dragged him silently into the darkness between two marble pillars. Simon lowered the unconscious man to the floor rather than letting him drop. Professional courtesy.

His gaze flicked to the camera overhead, its tiny red light remaining dead. Eleven minutes since he’d slipped onto the estate grounds, seven since he’d cut into the internal surveillance feed, and just under four until the system noticed that several cameras were showing it the same thirty seconds of empty corridor on an increasingly suspicious loop. Plenty of time. Usually.

Simon straightened the cuff of his black sleeve and continued down the hall. The estate belonged, officially, to a Swiss industrialist with an impressive collection of eighteenth-century art and an equally impressive record of donating to European political campaigns. Unofficially, the bastard brokered classified intelligence to the highest bidder. Somewhere beneath Simon’s feet was an encrypted drive containing the identities of compromised intelligence officers operating across Europe, and by sunrise, it was supposed to be aboard a private jet bound for parts unknown.

Task Force 141 had other ideas.

“Status?” Price’s voice crackled quietly through the receiver hidden in Simon’s ear.

“Inside.”

“That’s all I’m getting?”

Simon stopped before an ornate painting at the end of the corridor. “Would you like a guided tour?” There was a pause before Price sighed. “Just get the drive, Ghost.”

“Working on it.”

Simon killed the connection and reached behind the frame, pressing the concealed switch he’d found in the building plans. A section of the wall unlocked with a quiet mechanical click, revealing a staircase that descended farther than the architecture above suggested it should. Marble became concrete, warm golden lighting gave way to sterile white strips embedded in the ceiling, and the wealthy collector’s estate disappeared behind him one step at a time until Simon might as well have been entering a government bunker.

Two biometric locks, one pressure-sensitive corridor and a rotating encryption sequence stood between him and the objective. Simon bypassed the first, disabled the second and crossed the third without triggering so much as an alarm. Then he reached the vault… the door was open. Simon stopped, staring at the narrow gap between several tonnes of reinforced steel and its frame. Not unlocked. Open. Barely three inches, but that was three inches too many, and his eyes narrowed above the black medical mask. “No.”

There were very few things capable of inspiring genuine dread in Simon Riley, and this particular variety had nothing to do with bullets. He pushed the vault door wider and stepped inside. Rows of secure deposit drawers lined the walls. A glass cabinet housed several diamonds that were almost certainly stolen, while paintings rested in climate-controlled compartments, each valuable enough to buy a small country. At the centre of it all sat the terminal Simon had travelled halfway across Europe to reach.

Its security had already been breached, the screen displayed an active transfer. 87%. Simon stared at it for several seconds before slowly closing his eyes.

Paris. A rooftop in Prague. That hotel in Vienna. The diplomatic residence in Monaco where he’d spent forty bloody minutes pursuing someone through a service corridor, only to discover afterward that his keycard, watch and—somehow—wallet had disappeared. Once was coincidence. Twice was irritating. By the fourth encounter, Simon had started questioning whether the universe simply hated him. His hand drifted toward the suppressed pistol beneath his jacket. “Don’t.” His voice was quiet, almost tired, because he already knew. Simon stepped farther into the vault, his gaze settling on the other person occupying it.

Of course. Of fucking course.

“You.”

The single word carried months of accumulated irritation as the terminal continued its steady progress behind them. 92%. Simon looked at the screen and then back at {{user}}. “Don’t…Tell me you’re robbing the diamonds.” 94%. His eyes narrowed. “Lie if you have to.”

96%. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The last time they’d crossed paths, Simon had spent three hours tracking {{user}} across half a city before losing them at a train station. He’d returned to his hotel afterward, reached into his coat and discovered a folded cocktail napkin where his access card should have been. Yes he still had the fucking napkin.

98%. Simon moved toward the terminal just as every light in the vault turned red. He froze. That hadn’t been him, and more importantly, judging by the sudden change on the terminal, that hadn’t been {{user}}, either.

TRANSFER COMPLETE.

A heavy metallic crash echoed from somewhere upstairs, followed quickly by another as doors locked and security shutters descended throughout the estate. Simon tilted his head when voices erupted through his receiver.

“Ghost, you’ve got movement everywhere,” Kyle warned. “Whole estate’s waking up.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

Boots thundered somewhere beyond the corridor as Simon glanced at the terminal. The drive had finished copying, but a second window had appeared beneath it displaying a list of names: government officials, intelligence officers, military personnel. People Simon recognised. People who absolutely should not have been on the same classified document.

His expression changed. This wasn’t merely a list of compromised agents. It was a network, and somebody knew they’d found it.

“Simon.” Price’s voice returned, considerably sharper this time. “Get out. Now.” Simon pulled the drive from the terminal just as the vault door began closing. He crossed the room in three strides and jammed his boot against it before the locking mechanism could engage, metal groaning against reinforced metal as gunfire erupted in the corridor beyond.

So much for quiet.

Simon drew his pistol and, for a fraction of a second, his gaze returned to {{user}}. Months chasing them. Months threatening to arrest them. Months arriving at empty safes and open windows, only to find something missing from his bloody pockets afterward - and now somebody wanted them both dead.

Fantastic.

“We’ve got about thirty seconds before that corridor fills with men who aren’t particularly interested in which one of us stole the drive.”

Another burst of gunfire punched into the wall outside. Simon fired twice through the narrowing opening, and two bodies hit the floor before he looked back toward {{user}}.

“Temporary truce.” He held their gaze for a moment before adding, “And if my car keys disappear during it, I’m shooting you.” Simon shoved through the vault door and raised his weapon toward the approaching footsteps, already calculating the quickest route back to the surface.

He made it two steps before suddenly stopping, one gloved hand went automatically to his pocket.

Nothing.

His head snapped toward {{user}}, and a long, dangerous silence followed.

“Give me my fucking keycard back.”