Chapter 12 Archives Room Inferno
# Chapter 12: Archives Room Inferno
Midnight found us outside Winton Pierce's law offices in the financial district—a gleaming tower of glass and steel that housed Pierce, Goldstein & Associates on the thirty-eighth floor. The building's nighttime security was formidable but not impenetrable, especially with the access card I'd cloned during my previous visit.
"Remember the plan," I whispered to Elliot as we approached the service entrance. "Twenty minutes max. If we get separated, meet at the backup location."
He nodded, adjusting his maintenance uniform—a disguise that, combined with his cart of cleaning supplies, should allow him to move through the building without suspicion. I was dressed similarly, my hair tucked under a cap, face deliberately unmemorable.
The service elevator required both a keycard and a code, but the security panel yielded to the electronic bypass device I'd acquired through less-than-legal channels. As we ascended, Elliot scribbled in his notebook:
*Cameras?*
"Loop feed activated before we entered," I assured him. "They're seeing empty corridors for the next forty minutes."
The elevator opened onto a darkened floor. Emergency lights cast eerie shadows across the reception area of Pierce, Goldstein & Associates. We moved silently, pushing our cleaning carts toward the partner offices at the end of the hall.
Winton's corner office was locked, but the electronic pick made quick work of it. Inside, the space reeked of power and old money—leather furniture, rare books, art pieces that belonged in museums rather than private collections. His massive desk dominated the room, its surface meticulously organized despite his hasty departure to Lucas's bedside.
"You check the desk," I instructed Elliot. "I'll look for a safe."
While Elliot examined the drawers, I ran my fingers along the bookshelf, checking for false panels or hidden buttons. Rich men loved their secret compartments, their hidden treasures. Winton Pierce, with his multiple layers of secrets, would be no different.
"Found it," Elliot whispered—actually whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse but functional. The sound startled me; despite knowing he could speak, hearing it remained jarring.
He had opened the bottom right drawer of Winton's desk, revealing a false bottom just as Kwan had described. Inside lay an exquisite Japanese music box inlaid with mother-of-pearl cherry blossoms. When Elliot lifted it out, it played a few notes of a melody I didn't recognize.
"Open it," I urged, joining him at the desk.
The box contained what appeared to be an antique jade pendant—beautiful but seemingly worthless as evidence. Had Kwan been delirious, sending us on a wild goose chase?
Elliot turned the pendant over in his hands, examining it closely before twisting it sharply. The jade face popped open, revealing a small USB drive nestled inside.
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"Clever hiding place," I murmured, taking the drive and plugging it into my secure tablet.
The drive was encrypted, but the password hint read simply: "Wedding day." A quick search on my phone revealed Winton and Madeline's anniversary—April 18, 1996. I tried the date in various formats until 04181996 unlocked the files.
What we found exceeded my wildest expectations. Madeline Pierce had been thorough in her investigation, documenting years of suspicious transactions through the Albert Foundation. Spreadsheets showed millions flowing from shell companies in countries notorious for human trafficking, through the foundation, and out to legitimate businesses controlled by Albert Friedrich. Each transaction was annotated with dates, account numbers, and occasionally names—names that made my blood run cold.
"These are missing women," I realized, scanning a list. "Young women from Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia who disappeared after being promised modeling jobs or education opportunities in the US."
Elliot's face darkened as he read over my shoulder. He wrote quickly: *Not just money laundering. Actual trafficking.*
The implication was horrifying. Albert Friedrich wasn't merely cleaning dirty money; he was actively profiting from human trafficking operations. And Winton Pierce, after his wife discovered the truth, had chosen power and partnership over justice.
"We need to copy everything," I said, connecting my external drive. As the files transferred, I continued searching the office, looking for additional evidence.
Behind a painting—predictable hiding spot—I found a wall safe. This would require more time and skill to crack, but given what we'd already discovered, its contents might be crucial.
"Keep watch," I told Elliot, pulling out more sophisticated electronic tools.
While I worked on the safe, Elliot continued examining the desk. His sudden intake of breath made me turn. He held a folder labeled "Zhang, C."—my file.
Inside were documents I'd never seen: medical reports far more detailed than what I'd been given, police statements that had supposedly been destroyed, and most disturbing of all, photos of me before the attack—photos taken without my knowledge, suggesting I'd been under surveillance before Lucas ever approached me at that catering job.
"This wasn't random," I whispered, the truth dawning with sickening clarity. "They targeted me specifically."
Elliot nodded grimly, pointing to a note in Winton's handwriting: "Potential witness re: Bangkok operation. Father = deceased journalist (Thomas Zhang). Monitor closely."
My father. The pieces clicked into horrible place. My father hadn't died in a random mugging as I'd been told. He'd been a journalist investigating trafficking networks. And I had been targeted because of him—because they feared what I might know.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. My entire life had been shaped by these men in ways I hadn't even understood. My father's death, my assault—none of it random. All of it calculated.
My hands shook with rage as I returned to the safe. When it finally yielded, I found more damning evidence: passport copies of young women, handwritten ledgers of "payments" and "placements," and photographs of Albert with various high-profile men at private parties where young foreign women were clearly visible in the background.
"Copy everything," I told Elliot, my voice tight with suppressed fury. "Every last byte."
As he worked, I noticed a section of the office I hadn't yet explored—a door partially hidden behind a bookshelf. It led to a private archive room, walls lined with filing cabinets and storage boxes dating back decades.
"Elliot," I called softly. "Look at this."
The archive room was a treasure trove of secrets—not just Albert's, but apparently those of many powerful men who had required Winton's special brand of legal protection over the years. Politicians, business leaders, celebrities—all with files neatly labeled and organized.
And in the center of the room, a cabinet labeled simply "Contingencies."
Inside, I found dozens of files on young women—each containing medical records, police reports marked "closed," and payment receipts. Lucas's victims, far more than the five I'd originally discovered. Years of predation, all neatly documented and contained by Winton Pierce.
"My God," I breathed, overwhelmed by the scale of it. "There are at least thirty women here."
Elliot appeared in the doorway, pointing urgently at his watch. We'd been here too long already.
"Give me two more minutes," I pleaded, pulling out my phone to photograph as many files as possible. The evidence here could destroy not just the Alberts, but dozens of powerful men.
As I worked frantically, capturing image after image, Elliot suddenly stiffened. Through the open door, we heard the elevator ding.
Someone was coming.
We froze, listening intently. Footsteps approached—multiple sets. Men's voices, one unmistakably Winton's.
"—need to remove anything sensitive. If she was in Lucas's apartment, she may come here next."
They were back early. And they were coming for the same evidence we were currently stealing.
Elliot tugged my arm, pointing to a service door at the far end of the archive room. Our escape route. But the files—there were too many to take, too much evidence to leave behind.
A terrible clarity came over me. If we couldn't take the evidence with us, we had to ensure no one else could use it either.
"Go," I whispered to Elliot, pulling out the small incendiary device I'd brought as a last resort. "I'll be right behind you."
He shook his head vehemently, refusing to leave me.
The voices grew closer. "Check the office first, then the archive room. She'll be looking for the Zhang file."
I made a split-second decision. From my cleaning cart, I grabbed a container of industrial sanitizer—highly flammable—and began dousing the nearest files. Elliot understood immediately, grabbing a similar container and moving to the opposite side of the room.
We worked silently, quickly, soaking decades of secrets in accelerant. When the footsteps paused outside Winton's office door, I nodded to Elliot. Time to go.
He slipped through the service door first. Before following, I placed the incendiary device among the soaked files and activated it. Thirty seconds until ignition—enough time for us to reach the service elevator, not enough time for Winton to save his precious archives.
I closed the service door behind me just as I heard Winton exclaim, "The safe is open! Someone's been here!"
The service corridor led to a utility stairwell. Elliot and I descended rapidly, not speaking, both understanding the magnitude of what we'd just done. Behind us, the muffled sound of the incendiary device activating, followed by shouts of alarm.
By the time we reached the service exit, alarms were blaring throughout the building. We slipped out into the night, disappearing into the shadows of the financial district as the first fire trucks wailed in the distance.
Three blocks away, we paused in an alley to catch our breath and change out of our maintenance uniforms, revealing nondescript street clothes beneath. As I stuffed the uniforms into a dumpster, Elliot handed me his notebook:
*Did you get everything we needed?*
I nodded, patting my pocket where both USB drives rested securely. "Everything and more. We have enough to destroy them completely now."
Above us, an orange glow illuminated the night sky as flames engulfed the thirty-eighth floor of the tower we'd just fled. Decades of secrets and evidence, going up in smoke—but not before we'd captured the most damning portions.
As we walked away, blending into the late-night pedestrians, Elliot wrote one more note:
*No turning back now.*
He was right. We had just destroyed millions in property, potentially committed arson, and definitely stolen confidential files. We were no longer merely seeking revenge—we were now criminals ourselves, by any legal definition.
But the evidence we'd found had changed everything. This wasn't just about my assault anymore, or even Madeline Pierce's murder. This was about dozens of women trafficked, exploited, and discarded by powerful men who believed themselves untouchable.
Back at our safe house, I emptied my pockets of the thumb drives and my phone with its hundreds of photographs. While Elliot showered off the smell of smoke and chemicals, I began organizing our evidence into categories: my assault, other victims, financial crimes, trafficking connections, Madeline Pierce's murder.
The scale of it was overwhelming. Albert Friedrich and Winton Pierce weren't just covering up a few assaults by a privileged son; they were protecting a criminal empire that had operated for decades with impunity.
When Elliot emerged from the bathroom, I was still sorting through files, my expression grim.
"We can't just release this to the media," I told him. "They'd bury it, or worse—anyone we gave it to would be in danger."
He nodded in understanding, writing: *Need leverage first. Insurance.*
"Exactly. We need to position this information somewhere they can't reach it, with dead man's switches that release everything if anything happens to us."
As we strategized into the early morning hours, my phone buzzed with a news alert. I expected an update on the fire, but instead saw:
"BREAKING: ALBERT FRIEDRICH OFFERS $1 MILLION REWARD FOR INFORMATION ON FORMER TUTOR CLAIRE FONTAINE, WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN RELATION TO SON'S SUICIDE ATTEMPT"
Accompanying the alert was my photograph—Claire's face, not Cynthia's—with contact information for Albert Industries' private security team.
They were hunting us now, using their considerable resources to turn the entire city into a network of potential informants. One million dollars would make even the most sympathetic stranger consider betrayal.
Elliot looked pale as he showed me his own discovery—a social media post from Albert Industries officially announcing that Elliot Albert was "missing, potentially abducted by former employee Claire Fontaine, who may be operating under multiple aliases."
They had effectively painted me as an unstable kidnapper and Elliot as a victim—a narrative that would make it nearly impossible for us to move freely or seek help.
"They're trying to box us in," I said, mind racing through contingencies. "Cut off our options before we can use what we've found."
Elliot wrote quickly: *Need to release something now. Show our hand partially.*
"It's risky," I cautioned. "Once we start, we can't control how it unfolds."
His response was simple: *Already burning. Might as well make the fire worth it.*
As dawn broke over the city, we made our decision. We would release one piece of evidence—the video of my assault, edited to show Lucas, Albert, and Winton's involvement without revealing my current identity. We would send it anonymously to five key journalists known for their integrity, along with a simple message:
"This is just the beginning. There are thirty more victims. And crimes far worse than this."
It wasn't the comprehensive exposure I'd planned, but it would shift the narrative enough to buy us time—force Albert and Winton to play defense while we positioned the rest of our evidence for maximum impact.
As I prepared the video file for transmission, Elliot placed a gentle hand on my arm, stopping me. He wrote:
*Are you sure? Once people see this, even edited, they might recognize you.*
I appreciated his concern, but my course was set. "Some truths demand witnesses, Elliot. Even painful ones."
He nodded in understanding, then wrote something that caught me off guard:
*You're the bravest person I've ever known.*
The simple sentiment pierced through the armor I'd built around myself these past three years. For a moment, I wasn't Claire Fontaine the avenger or Cynthia Zhang the victim—I was just a woman who had refused to be silenced, finding unexpected alliance in the most unlikely place.
"We should get some rest," I said, deflecting the emotion his words had stirred. "Tomorrow, we become the hunters instead of the hunted."
As I settled onto the sofa, leaving Elliot the bedroom, I couldn't shake the image of those files burning in Winton's archive room—decades of pain and secrets, reduced to ash. There was something both terrible and purifying in that destruction.
Fire had taken my face once. Now I was using it to burn down the world of the men who had tried to destroy me. There was a symmetry to it that felt like justice—or at least, the closest approximation I might ever get.
