I stride back out into the lushly carpeted hallway, just half a pace behind the auctioneer. Skye follows another pace behind, mask still pressed anxiously to her face, wrapped in an enormous white bed sheet.

“It’s just in here,” the man croaks awkwardly, ushering me and Skye into a small security office. A few flickering screens light the otherwise darkened room. I flick a light switch on.

“You weren’t lying, then,” Skye says, almost with a hint of disappointment in her voice as she surveys the screens.

I immediately pick up on what she’s talking about. There are no interior camera angles on the screens in front of us. My heart sinks. If all we’ve got to go on are a couple of cameras pointing into the street, then we might as well give up now.

“They are motion operated,” the auctioneer says, half quivering, half standing up proud as he explains how the system works. “It saves us from storing dozens of hours of footage; that’s hundreds of gigabytes a week…”

I stare blankly at him. I couldn’t care less about the man’s video storage budget. He quickly quiets down.

I sit down on an office chair, my cock flapping awkwardly between my bare legs. I swear that once or twice I catch him staring at my package.

“Show me,” I growl. “Where can I find these logs?”

I mentally switch back to a mindset I haven’t occupied for almost a decade. Most people think that being in the military – especially on a team as elite as the SEALs – is all about pulling triggers and throwing grenades, but they couldn’t be more wrong.

Half the time, it’s about “hurry up and wait.” To be the best, you’ve got to be patient, hard-working, and have incredible attention for detail.

It’s not quite as sexy, but it’s ten times more important than just being able to pull a trigger.

“What’s your name, anyway,” I grumble, as the auctioneer guides me through the security system’s complex file structure.

“It’s To – Tony,” he squeaks.

I tip my head back and groan. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter. “I came to a sex club emceed by a man called Tony…”

Wisely, Tony chooses not to reply.

I start scrolling through image thumbnails. It only takes a couple of seconds before my eyebrows hike up with interest. I have to admit it; I’m impressed. Apparently the club’s 5% fee isn’t all wasted. This is one hell of a security system.

“They’re all–” I murmur, half out loud.

“Faces,” Tony smiles anxiously, as if terrified by the room’s silence. “The system does it automatically.”

I start scrolling through a long list of images: all faces of people. Instead of forcing the operator to watch through hour after hour of footage, the system categorizes each chunk of video according to the face – or faces – caught on film.

“And this,” he says, leaning forward and tapping an icon on the screen, “indicates when the main door was operated.”

I whistle out loud, not bothering to hide my approval. “Shit, I’m going to need to get one of these…”

“So what does that mean?” Skye asks, nonplussed. “How does it help us?”

“Well,” I say, sticking my tongue out as I concentrate. “It means we can narrow this footage down to anyone who entered the building.”

I tap a button and hold my breath. The system hangs for a second, as if thinking; then a ping echoes out of the computer’s speakers.

It’s done.

“Now let’s see what we’ve got.”

I scroll through a much-reduced list of images. Mostly it’s Tony – now sans mask – and a couple of assistants. I wish I could trace their movements inside the club itself in order to rule them out as suspects, but that’s not possible.

“Who’s that guy?” I growl, tapping an image on-screen. The man in the picture is wearing a baseball cap with a UPS logo on it.

“Oh,” Tony says dismissively, “that guy? No way. He’s been coming here for years.”

“Another one bites the dust then,” I mutter.

I almost scroll past it. Sandwiched between the images of Tony and his staff leaving the building last night and returning this morning, one man enters.

“Who the hell is that?” Tony breathes. He taps the screen excitedly. “This guy: I’ve got no idea who he is. It has to be him. But how did he get inside? This building’s got the best locks money can buy.”

If the security system I’m currently operating is anything to go by, then Tony’s telling the truth: the club spared no expense keeping its members safe, and most of all, private. But as I move the mouse towards the icon, I have a funny feeling that no matter how good the locks were, they wouldn’t have worked.

Because: I recognize the man in the image. I double-click on the thumbnail. Just to be sure.

And when my suspicions are confirmed, my stomach drops like a rollercoaster with broken brakes. Because: this is all my fault.

I should have returned that phone call.