Henry crouched lower, moving with slow, deliberate precision. Every muscle tensed as he inched toward the counter, the dim glow from the hallway casting long shadows that could conceal—or reveal—him. He counted each step in his head, careful not to make a sound.
A sudden scrape behind him made him freeze. His heart slammed against his ribs. He held his breath, listening. The burglars had stopped, probably suspicious of the quiet, trying to determine the source. He remained still, muscles coiled, eyes trained on the silent alarm button just a few feet away.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Henry edged forward. His fingers brushed the polished wood of the counter, reaching beneath the edge for the small, nondescript button. The metal was cold under his fingertips, a reassuring contrast to the heat of adrenaline surging through him.
He glanced over his shoulder. The intruders were moving again, returning to their slow, deliberate search. Timing was everything. One misstep could expose him, and they were armed, desperate, and unpredictable.
Finally, Henry pressed the button. A nearly silent click confirmed the alarm had engaged. Lights flickered briefly, locking mechanisms engaged on the high-value display cases. A low hum indicated the security doors were sealing automatically. He exhaled slowly, tension easing just slightly, knowing that the critical assets were now secured—even if the burglars remained inside.
Henry crouched behind the counter again, listening. The intruders paused, confused by the sudden mechanical noises, and he smiled faintly to himself. He had bought time. And in this game of patience and nerves, time was everything.