The cutting head of the laser hissed, a focused beam of white-hot light carving through the reinforced glass of the Burj Khalifa's curtain wall. Benji and Brandt worked with surgical precision, lifting the massive slab and setting it gently onto the plush carpet of the suite.
The desert wind immediately roared into the room, a hot, dry gale that smelled of scorched sand and high-altitude ozone. It whipped Evan's tie over his shoulder, but he didn't blink, his eyes fixed on the terrifying drop just inches from his boots.
"Okay, Ethan, pay attention," Benji said, his voice straining to be heard over the wind. He held up the suction gloves, pointing to the indicator lights on the wrists. "Roll your hand to release the vacuum. If the light is blue, you're attached. If it's blue, you're good."
"Blue is glue," Benji summarized, checking the seal on Ethan's tactical suit.
"And red?" Ethan asked, staring at the sheer drop.
"Red is dead," Evan added from the side, his voice flat and devoid of humor.
Ethan didn't laugh. He checked the gloves, the blue light reflecting in his eyes like a promise.
"The server room is eleven floors up," Brandt said, performing a final comms check. "Seventh window to the right. We need that hardline connection, or we're blind when the deal goes down."
"Copy that," Ethan said. He looked toward Evan.
Evan stepped forward, his 8-point Constitution making him seem like a solid anchor against the buffeting wind. He gripped Ethan's shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure. "Don't think about the fall, Ethan. Think about the mission. You can do this."
"Twenty-six minutes until the knock on the door," Brandt reminded them, his voice tight.
Ethan didn't wait for another second. He stepped out onto the ledge, his gloves thudding against the glass with a heavy, mechanical clack. Blue light. Glue. Within seconds, his silhouette was a small black dot ascending the glittering spine of the tower.
Benji exhaled a breath he'd been holding and turned back to the 3D silicone mask printer. The machine hummed as it began to layer the hyper-realistic faces of Sabine Moreau and Marius Wistrom.
Evan watched them work for a moment, but he knew he was just a distraction to the tech team. He moved away from the open wall, his boots silent on the carpet, and headed for the suite's minibar. In a world currently falling apart, he found a strange comfort in the organized rows of crystal and spirits.
His gaze locked onto a bottle of premium Scotch—aged, peaty, and expensive. He grabbed two glasses, sat down on a single leather sofa next to Brandt, and poured a generous double. He took a sip, letting the smokiness bloom across his palate before draining the glass in one go.
"Are you seriously drinking right now?" Brandt asked, looking up from his monitors in disbelief.
Evan didn't even look at him as he refilled the glass. "I can hold my liquor, Will. And frankly, if I wasn't worried about the clock, I'd have ordered a medium-rare ribeye from room service to go with it."
"Evan, we are in the middle of a disavowed operation," Brandt hissed.
"Which is exactly why I need the Scotch," Evan countered, pushing the second glass toward Brandt. "The world is ending, the IMF is a ghost, and our lead agent is currently a human fly on the side of a skyscraper. Relax. I'm a Liaison—I'm paid to be the calmest man in the room."
Evan downed the second drink and set the glass aside. He stood up and walked back to the open curtain wall, squinting at the horizon. Far across the desert floor, a massive, roiling wall of grey was swallowing the sun.
"Guys," Evan said, his voice losing its casual edge. "We've got a sandstorm coming. A big one."
Brandt and Benji crowded the edge. The wall of sand was blotting out the sky, moving with a silent, inevitable fury.
"Ethan, it's still far out," Benji said into his tie-mic. "You should be clear, but don't dawdle. Twenty-three minutes left."
Just then, Jane burst into the room, her hair windswept and her eyes sharp. she was carrying a stack of yellow hotel server uniforms. "Where's Ethan?"
Evan pointed up and out. "Playing a high-stakes game of 'Don't Look Down.'"
Jane stared at the empty space where the glass used to be. "You have to be kidding me."
"Twenty-two minutes," Brandt reported, his voice like a metronome.
High above, Ethan's voice crackled over the comms, breathless and strained. "I've reached the server room floor. I'm going in."
They heard the rhythmic thud of his boots as he wedged himself between the prisms of the building's exterior. He pulled the laser cutter from his back, the blue glow of his gloves flickering in the intensifying wind.
Suddenly, a sharp, ragged scream echoed in their earpieces.
"Ah!"
The sound of sliding glass and rushing air filled the channel.
"Ethan!" Benji shouted.
"Twenty-one minutes left," Brandt stated.
"The countdown... really doesn't help, Will," Ethan gasped, his voice ragged with adrenaline. He had slipped, the vacuum on one glove failing, leaving him dangling by a single hand thousands of feet above the pavement.
"He's just stating facts," Evan said, giving Brandt a light, warning kick to the shin. "Stay focused, Ethan. Get inside."
They heard the muffled sounds of Ethan recovering, the heavy impact of a knee against glass. Crack. Crack. Then, a final, violent smash as Ethan swung his entire body weight into the weakened pane.
"I'm in," Ethan panted.
"Great work," Benji said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Connecting now. I've got the elevators. I've got the surveillance. We own the building."
Jane stood up, tossing three room-number modifiers—sleek digital overlays—to Brandt and Benji. "Time for the renovation. Let's make this hotel a maze."
"Evan, stay on the monitors," Benji commanded as he rushed toward the door. "Keep your eyes on the marks. Let us know the second they move."
Evan didn't argue. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a silver S.T. Dupont lighter. The smoke swirled into the wind as he sat before the bank of monitors, watching the flickering black-and-white feeds of the lobby and elevators.
He was halfway through his second cigarette when a woman in a sharp, expensive trench coat stepped into the frame.
"Moreau's on the move," Evan said into the mic. "She's early. Ethan, get your ass back here now."
The suite became a blur of motion. Jane and Brandt rushed back in, breathless. Jane saw the cigarette in Evan's hand, snatched it from his lips, and took a final, deep drag before stubbing it out.
"We're not going to make it," Brandt said, checking his watch.
"We have to make it," Jane said, stripping off her jacket to change into the server uniform.
A sudden noise from the open wall drew their attention. They ran to the edge and looked out. Ethan was swinging on a safety rope, but it had snagged—he was dangling several feet below the window ledge, the wind tossing him like a ragdoll.
"The rope is too short!" Brandt yelled.
"Bullshit!" Ethan's voice was a growl of pure frustration.
Evan watched as Ethan began to run horizontally across the glass, building momentum like a pendulum. Evan grabbed Jane and Brandt by the shoulders and hauled them back from the edge. "Get back! He's coming in hot!"
Ethan hit the peak of his swing, let go of the rope, and launched himself through the air. He tucked his chin, arms crossed over his face, and slammed into the partition layer of the suite with a bone-jarring bang.
The momentum carried him over the edge, but he missed the carpet. His fingers clawed at the polished floor for a second before gravity took hold.
Ethan began to fall back toward the abyss.
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