Summary:
Jack arrives home late at night. The adrenaline of the evening has faded, but the weight of what just happened settles in—someone planted a bomb under his car. His apartment is quiet, but his mind isn't. He washes up, checks security cameras, and finds a scrap of paper jammed in his doorframe. Not a note—just a symbol. One he's seen before.
---
Jack's building was quiet when he pulled in.
The RS7 coasted into his private garage bay beneath the old downtown apartment complex. He kept the lights off as he shut the engine down—just a long exhale and the fading tick of cooling metal.
He sat for a few seconds, hands still on the wheel.
Not from fear.
From calculation.
Whoever planted the device had access. They knew his route. His habits. His silence at the fundraiser had made a louder noise than a speech ever could. And now someone—maybe Anna, maybe not—had decided it was time to trim the weeds early.
He opened the door and stepped out.
The garage smelled of concrete dust and motor oil, like always. The automatic lights didn't trigger until he was halfway across the floor, casting harsh blue halogen across the Audi's body like a forensic spotlight.
He scanned the space. Nothing out of place.
A steel door led up to the building's private elevator. He entered the key code without looking, then waited as the old hydraulic hum carried him to the fifth floor.
His apartment door looked normal—black wood, silver lock, plain number 504.
But as he inserted his key, he saw it:
A scrap of paper barely tucked behind the top hinge.
He froze. Pulled it free.
It wasn't a note.
No writing. Just a symbol scrawled in black ink—thick, deliberate:
> A circle.
A vertical slash down its middle.
And two short lines branching out from the top corners.
It looked like a tree.
Or a stake.
Or a warning.
Jack turned it over. Nothing on the back. No signature. No smudge. Clean.
He stared at it for a few seconds, eyes narrowing.
Then he unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it again behind him—deadbolt, chain, and floor lock.
The apartment was dark, cool, quiet. Brick walls. Bookshelves. No assistants. No guards. Just the hum of the fridge and the city's breath outside his balcony window.
He tossed the scrap onto the kitchen island and walked to the sink. Washed his hands again—this time for the smell, not the dirt. Cooked oil, skin, street air, and now whatever scent clung to violence.
Warm water. Lemon soap.
He stood there a while, hands under the flow.
No music. No lights.
Only the knowledge that tonight had changed everything.
Jack stood at the sink, water running over his wrists, eyes locked on the scrap of paper now resting on the counter. That symbol. Clean. Sharp. Designed to mean something—and nothing, to most.
But not to him.
He turned the faucet off.
Dried his hands with the towel hanging from the oven door.
Then walked calmly to the living room table, picked up his phone, and sat.
For ten seconds, he said nothing. Just breathed. His thumb hovered over the screen.
He didn't panic.
He planned.
Then he opened his contacts. Tapped.
"911. What's your emergency?"
"Not an emergency," Jack said. "Not yet. I'm reporting a planted explosive device that was removed from my vehicle two hours ago. I have reason to believe it was an attempted political assassination. I'd like to file it officially before I release it to the press."
The line went silent for half a second. Then the dispatcher's voice returned, tighter.
"I'm sorry, sir, did you say—"
"I have photos of the device, GPS logs of my detour, and fingerprints on the casing. I'll share everything with the officer you send."
"...Understood. Please stay on the line. Officers will be dispatched to your location."
Jack hung up before she finished.
Call two.
He scrolled to a different number. No label. Just a clean contact: "Miles, WTR News."
He tapped.
It rang twice.
"Jesus, Serrano," came the voice on the other end. Groggy, irritated. "You know what time it is?"
"Still better than getting blown up."
A pause.
"I'm listening."
Jack stood, walking slowly to the window. The skyline outside looked harmless. Glittering. Shallow.
"I'm about to report an attempted hit to the police," Jack said. "Bomb under my car. Tonight. Just got home."
"...You're joking."
"I'm not. And I want you to be the first camera on my doorstep when the cops arrive."
"You're saying this on record?"
"I'm saying it on purpose."
Miles exhaled. "Shit. Okay. I can be there in twenty."
"Bring your guy with the camera. No interns. I'm not doing this twice."
"Got it. Don't die before we get there."
Jack hung up.
He placed the phone facedown on the kitchen counter, beside the symbol.
Then he poured himself a glass of water. Ice cold. Nothing else.
And waited.
Not a victim.
Not a survivor.
A witness.
Jack's apartment becomes a crime scene and media flashpoint. Officers arrive, then the press. Jack gives a controlled statement, offering just enough to stir public doubt—and private panic. Across town, Anna Davis is awakened by her phone vibrating with headlines she didn't approve, forcing her into damage control.
---
The knock came thirteen minutes after the call.
Jack opened the door to two uniformed officers—one young, the other built like someone who hated paperwork. Behind them, a third figure loitered with a camera and press badge, flanked by a sleepy-looking man with a boom mic.
The older officer raised a brow. "Mr. Serrano?"
Jack nodded. "Thanks for coming."
He stepped aside. "Come in. Try not to touch anything."
They entered cautiously. Jack pointed toward the counter, where the crumpled scrap of paper still lay—along with a sealed bag containing the defused bomb. It sat like a sleeping dog no one wanted to poke.
"You disarmed it yourself?" the younger officer asked.
Jack didn't look up. "Would you rather I hadn't?"
The journalist hovered just inside the doorway, camera already rolling. Jack caught his eye and gave a nod.
"Miles has permission. He's been briefed. I'm going public."
The older officer grunted. "Public's gonna love this."
Jack walked to his small balcony and stepped outside for air. The city buzzed low in the distance—car engines, sirens, laughter from a bar two blocks over. Normal life, ticking forward like none of it mattered.
But the pressure was shifting.
He could feel it in the quiet behind the noise.
Inside, camera shutters clicked.
---
7:14 A.M. – Westbridge Estate, Midtown
Anna Davis stood barefoot in her kitchen, still in her silk robe, when the alert buzzed.
"JACK SERRANO CLAIMS BOMB PLANTED UNDER HIS CAR — POLICE CONFIRM INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY"
Her coffee cup clinked too hard into the marble counter.
Veronica appeared from the hallway, fully dressed. "You saw it?"
Anna didn't answer.
Veronica kept walking. "It's already on five outlets. He gave an exclusive to Miles over at WTR. They're calling it an assassination attempt."
Anna slowly turned her head.
"And they're linking it to me, aren't they?"
Veronica didn't blink. "They haven't yet. But it's coming."
Anna pressed her fingers against her temples, then stared at the silent television screen across the room. Jack's face filled it—calm, clean, sharp-jawed and righteous. Too calm.
She grabbed her phone.
"Get the legal team on a call. And find out exactly who had access to that guest list."
Veronica nodded.
Anna looked at the screen again. Jack was speaking now, voice steady as stone.
> "This city's politics have been ruled by fear for too long. Someone tried to scare me last night. I want them to know: it didn't work."
Inside the apartment, the older officer was crouched beside the kitchen counter, gloved hands hovering near the evidence bag. The younger one hovered near the door, notepad out, eyes flicking between the bomb and the reporter.
Jack stood calmly nearby, sipping cold water from a glass.
The cameraman panned slightly, catching Jack's profile as the reporter stepped forward with a cautious voice.
"Mr. Serrano, do you believe this attack was politically motivated?"
Jack turned toward him—deliberate, slow, precise.
"Do you normally get bombs planted under your car after serving yourself a plate of roasted potatoes?"
A couple quiet chuckles behind the camera.
Jack gestured toward the evidence bag, then moved to the side table where his blazer hung. He reached into the inner pocket and pulled out the black envelope—the invitation from Anna's fundraiser.
He held it up between two fingers, right in front of the camera.
"And just so we're clear," he said, turning to the officers, "I didn't crash anyone's party."
He handed the envelope to the older cop, who took it reluctantly, brows furrowed.
"I was invited. Legitimately. Her team knew I'd be there. It's a bit strange, don't you think?" He looked pointedly at the reporter. "First I'm invited, then humiliated publicly... and now someone tries to kill me. That's a hell of a party."
The officer examined the envelope, nodded slightly. "Printed professionally. No tampering. Looks valid."
Jack smiled—cool and razor-edged. "I have manners, officer. I don't show up unless I'm asked."
The reporter whispered something to the cameraman, who focused in on the invite—shiny lettering, official seal, clear proof.
Jack didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
He just looked straight into the lens and said, "Maybe someone should be asking why she's making such a mess over a party she invited me to."
And with that, he walked out of frame.
Let the spin begin.
Jack stepped back toward the counter, rolling his sleeves down as he spoke.
"Oh—and while we're correcting the narrative…"
The cameraman adjusted focus again. The reporter leaned in.
Jack's voice was casual—but every word was a scalpel.
"I didn't insult anyone's food."
He glanced at the officers, then back at the reporter.
"I made a polite request. I asked that the beef and pork trays be removed."
"Because?" the reporter prompted, sensing the opening.
Jack nodded. "Because I'm Hindu. I don't eat beef. And I don't pretend to for a photo op. Also—half of Anna's voter base is made up of Indian-Americans."
He let that hang in the air for a beat.
"Maybe if she spent less time rehearsing speeches and more time talking to her own supporters, she'd know that."
The room went still.
Even the older cop glanced at Jack now, curious—not just as a witness, but as a man watching someone twist the knife with total control.
Jack continued, voice low but firm.
"Food isn't just about taste. It's culture. It's respect. It's knowing who you're feeding. I didn't throw a fit. I made a choice. And if someone sees that as a threat, that says more about them than it does about me."
He looked back at the camera. Not angry. Not defensive.
Just steady.
The reporter swallowed, clearly trying not to smile.
"And you think Ms. Davis took offense to that?"
"I think Ms. Davis is used to controlling rooms," Jack said. "And last night, she didn't."
Boom.
The reporter stepped back slightly. The camera kept rolling. Jack turned back to the counter and took another sip of water like nothing happened.He puts down glass. Jack turned from the reporter and addressed the older officer now bagging the invitation.
"By the way," he said, calm but direct, "any update on the thing I defused?"
The officer raised an eyebrow. "The device?"
Jack gave a dry smile. "Yeah. The device. The thing I removed from under my dashboard and dropped in a public trash bin on 16th and Alder."
The room quieted again. Even the cameraman paused.
The younger officer stepped in, flipping his notebook.
"We sent someone to the site right after your call. The garbage bin was emptied overnight, but sanitation was cooperative. They pulled the contents. We've got it in the tech lab now."
Jack nodded once. "And?"
"No trigger fingerprints yet," the younger cop said. "Timer was foreign-sourced. Military grade, not domestic. Whoever made it had real training—or was buying from someone who does."
The older cop grunted. "Not your average voter, in other words."
Jack's eyes stayed locked on him.
"Any DNA traces?"
"Too early," the officer said. "But we'll have a forensic report in twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours. Assuming they didn't clean it too well."
Jack leaned slightly on the back of a kitchen chair.
"Right. Because anyone smart enough to plant a bomb probably remembered gloves."
The officer didn't respond.
Jack let the silence stretch just enough.
Then: "So... you're saying the guy who tried to blow me up is probably a pro. Possibly foreign-supplied. Knows timing fuses. Knew my car. My location. My schedule. And still—no leads?"
"We're working with what we've got," the older cop said, clearly trying not to be baited.
Jack looked at him. Calm. No sarcasm. No raised voice.
Just cold, tired clarity.
"You've got a dead fuse, a photo of me leaving a party, and a city full of people who suddenly think I'm dangerous. If someone wanted that to be the headline, they planned it."
The younger cop scribbled notes. The camera caught everything.
Jack tilted his head.
"So maybe," he added, "the better question is—who benefits if I go up in smoke?"
That landed.
The officers didn't answer.
But they didn't need to.
There was a pause—tight, wordless, uncomfortable.
The older officer sealed the evidence bag and passed it to his partner. "We'll file this immediately. You'll get the report."
Jack didn't move.
Then the reporter broke the silence. His eyes had drifted to the corner of the kitchen island—where a small scrap of paper sat half-curled beside a glass of water.
"What's that?" he asked, stepping closer.
Jack didn't answer right away.
He just picked it up.
The symbol was still there: black ink, deliberate lines. A circle split down the middle. Two small branches angled up from the top. Stark. Strangely elegant. Ancient, almost.
He held it up.
"This," he said quietly, "was wedged in the doorframe when I got home. No note. Just this."
The cameraman zoomed in.
The reporter blinked. "That's… is that some kind of cult thing?"
"No idea," Jack said. "But someone wanted me to see it. And they wanted to see if I recognized it."
The officer moved closer. "Mind if we take that too?"
Jack nodded. "Already took photos. It's yours."
He handed the paper over with two fingers. The cop slid it into a bag with sterile gloves, sealing it with a hiss of adhesive.
And still, the cameras rolled.
Jack looked directly into the lens.
"I want this on the record," he said, slow and clear. "Someone planted a bomb under my car. Left a symbol on my door. And now people are spinning a story that I'm the problem?"
He paused. Let it breathe.
"I've said nothing radical. Nothing violent. All I've done is show up—and survive."
He turned to the officers.
"I'll cooperate fully. But I won't be quiet. And if anyone else wants to come knocking, tell them I'm not hiding. I'm right here."
---
The cops gave him a final nod and left.
The news crew followed, packing up with glances over their shoulders.
Jack stood alone in his apartment again. The only sound was the fridge compressor kicking on in the background.
His phone buzzed.
Eli:
> "Open your door. I'm downstairs."
---
Eli arrives early, carrying documents linking Anna's campaign to a shell company—one tied to her father's old corruption scandal. The evidence is weak for court, but strong enough for pressure. Jack begins to understand that the bomb wasn't just intimidation—it was timed to bury this exact trail.
Jack unlocked the door.
Eli Grant stepped in without waiting for a greeting, dressed in a rumpled grey shirt, campaign badge still clipped to his belt, dark circles under both eyes. He held a coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Eli said.
"You look like you fought the furniture."
"I did. A filing cabinet won."
Jack shut the door. "Cops just left. So did the media."
"I know. I watched the whole thing from the parking lot. You're trending at number four. Might hit number two if someone tweets the footage of you saying you only show up when invited."
Jack smirked faintly. "Did you bring what I think you brought?"
Eli handed him the folder. "Straight from the pit."
Jack walked it to the kitchen counter, opened the flap, and spread the papers.
They were copies of campaign finance disclosures, routed through public PACs, super PACs, and one nearly-forgotten LLC. The name at the center: D.S.C. Holdings.
"Construction shell," Eli said. "Registered two years ago in Delaware. No physical office. No employees on record. But it's moved over seven hundred thousand in donations over the last six months."
Jack scanned the top line.
The money was funneled through small, legal contributions from random-sounding entities—Civic Union Group, Progress West Development, Essential Growth Ltd.
"Spread thin enough to look clean," Jack murmured.
"Until you look back," Eli said, flipping another sheet over.
There it was.
Davis & Sons Construction.
Once the city's largest private contractor.
Once run by Anna's father.
Now: defunct, disgraced, technically dissolved after the embezzlement scandal five years ago. But the corporate fingerprints matched.
"Why would she let money touch her name again?" Jack asked.
"She didn't," Eli said. "That's the point. She thinks no one's watching. Or that no one's dumb enough to chase it."
Jack stared at the file.
The dates matched the week of the first debate. The week Anna's numbers surged. The week Jack started climbing too.
"I think the bomb wasn't about scaring you," Eli said quietly. "I think it was about timing. Because this—" he tapped the paper—"was probably meant to stay buried."
Jack closed the folder.
"Then we just unburied it."
Jack's fingers drummed on the folder, the echo dull against the countertop.
He stared at the ink like it might rearrange itself.
"Seven hundred thousand," he muttered. "How many permits does that buy?"
Eli leaned on the back of the kitchen chair. "Depends how many city councilors you scare with it."
Jack looked up. "You want to go public?"
Eli didn't answer right away. His face said what his mouth didn't: not yet.
"Look," Eli said finally. "You've got a bomb, a symbol, and a trail of cash leading back to the dead bones of Davis & Sons. That's a lot of smoke."
"But no match," Jack said.
"Right. You throw this now, they call you a conspiracy theorist. Say you planted the envelope yourself. You're the fringe guy with a grudge."
"I do have a grudge," Jack said.
Eli gave him a hard look. "You want to win, not be right. There's a difference."
Jack turned, walked toward the window. The city outside was waking up now—sirens in the distance, construction thumps echoing off high-rises, the gold-gray tint of a city trying to forget its own rot.
"Then we go quiet," Jack said. "For now."
Eli tilted his head. "Quiet how?"
"We pull building permits. We find who signed what. We find who knew Davis & Sons was still operating in the shadows. Someone kept the lights on."
"And when we find them?"
Jack looked back, voice calm.
"We bring them to the debate stage."
Eli smiled—thin, dark, and satisfied.
"You're getting good at this."
Jack walked back to the table. Picked up the scrap of paper with the symbol again.
"I've seen this before," he said quietly.
Eli froze.
"Where?"
Jack didn't answer right away.
"I don't remember," he said. "But not recently. It's older than this campaign. I was a teenager. My father had a file... something about land seizures during the Davis administration. Low-income neighborhoods. The mark was spray-painted on the buildings right before demolition."
Eli's face went still. "They were tagging properties?"
"Or warning people to leave," Jack said. "Or both."
Eli stepped forward, voice dropping low. "This just stopped being about votes, Jack."
Jack nodded. "Yeah."
His phone buzzed again. This time—an unknown number. No ID.
He let it ring twice.
Then answered.
No greeting. Just a voice:
"Stop digging. You weren't supposed to survive."
Click.
Silence.
Jack lowered the phone.
Eli's expression tightened. "What was that?"
Jack looked him in the eye.
"Confirmation."
Five minutes pass The phone call still hung in the air, its static ghost buzzing in Jack's ears.
Eli stood silent across the room, arms folded, brow furrowed like a man building a mental firewall.
Jack set the phone down.
Then, without looking up, he said:
"Hey, Eli."
Eli blinked. "Yeah?"
Jack turned to him, completely serious.
"Why don't we just sneak into the enemy base and steal the damn files?"
Eli stared at him.
Then let out a single, disbelieving laugh. "I'm sorry, what?"
Jack walked to the window, pulled the blinds aside. His eyes scanned the skyline.
"The offices of Keystone Civic Development. They're listed as the managing firm for D.S.C. Holdings. Their HQ is what—off 11th and Delmont?"
"Jack."
"They share the building with a nonprofit housing org on the first two floors. Third floor is technically theirs, but I checked—it's mostly empty. The company's practically a ghost. They probably keep paper files because it makes audits harder."
Eli was now staring at him like he'd just proposed robbing a federal bank.
"You want to break into a private developer's office. In a building that's probably under watch. You're a public candidate, Jack. Not Ethan Hunt."
Jack turned. Calm. Steady.
"I want proof. Not rumors. Not guesses. Not anonymous tips. Proof."
Eli held his hands out. "So what—you just want to walk in with a duffel bag and a flashlight?"
"No," Jack said. "We walk in with clipboards. Security vests. Badges that say 'City Housing Inspection.' Middle of the night."
Eli stared. Hard.
Then, slowly… grinned.
"...You're serious."
Jack smiled.
"Dead serious."
Eli ran a hand through his hair. "This is criminal."
"Only if we get caught."
"This is completely insane."
Jack grabbed the folder from the table and tucked it under his arm. "It's only insane if it doesn't work."
Eli sighed long and loud.
"God help me," he muttered. "You've officially become the candidate I'd vote for."
Jack had already picked up the folder, the corner digging into his ribs as he stood in the kitchen.
"So when should we do it, Eli?" he asked, low and certain.
Eli didn't speak right away.
He walked over to the counter, pulled out a pen from his jacket, and opened a notepad from his bag. His eyes weren't wide anymore. They were focused.
"You're serious, so I'll be serious."
He clicked the pen.
"Keystone Civic's listed address is legit, but the firm hasn't filed a public update in almost ten months. That means they're operational, but silent. That third floor? Probably dead during the day."
"But not at night?"
Eli smirked. "No, worse. At night, it's just empty. Quiet. Which means if anyone is there, they'll notice."
Jack leaned forward. "So what's the move?"
Eli flipped to a blank page.
"We do it at 4 a.m.—not midnight. Midnight is when you get caught by janitors. Four a.m. is when everyone's gone home, but the city hasn't woken up yet."
Jack nodded. "And entry?"
"There's a back freight door off the alley. Connected to the nonprofit's delivery entrance. Shared lock system. I used to canvass that block. Easy to spoof."
Jack gave a tight smile. "You've done this before."
Eli didn't confirm. Didn't deny.
"Tomorrow morning," Jack said. "We dress like building maintenance. Orange vests, clipboards, boot covers. Bring a flashlight, not a crowbar."
"Fine," Eli said. "But if we're doing this, we do it right. No phones. No digital footprints. And if we get caught—"
"I'm just an intern," Jack said.
Eli raised an eyebrow. "You're an intern who drives a custom RS7?"
"I'll park three blocks away."
Eli sighed, scribbling notes. "This is a horrible plan."
"But it's a good one."
"God, I hate you."
Jack poured him coffee.
"Then drink up. We've got seven hours."
Three minutes pass Eli was halfway through his coffee when Jack looked up from the map and said it:
"Hey Eli… I think I have another vehicle that's way more stealth."
Eli didn't even look up. "Please don't say motorcycle."
"Nope."
Eli sipped.
"It's air-capable."
That made him pause.
He lowered the mug. Slowly.
Jack folded his arms. "Why use the street," he said calmly, "when we could just drop in from the sky?"
A full beat of silence.
Then: "...You're talking about a parachute."
"Technically, a wingsuit and rooftop auto-tether," Jack said. "I've jumped before. Twice. My dad made me train in Austria. Thought it built character."
Eli just blinked. "You want to parachute onto the roof of a developer's office at four in the morning. In the middle of a major city."
"Urban jumps are legal if you clear altitude and entry laws," Jack said. "Which I can. The building is only ten stories. We drop from a low-hover drone chopper at dawn. No noise. No street cams. No door logs. Just sky."
Eli dropped his pen.
"Are you hearing yourself?"
Jack's expression didn't change.
"I'm not trying to impress voters anymore," he said. "I'm trying to win. And expose her. If someone planted a bomb to shut me up, I want them to hear me land on their goddamn roof."
Eli stared at him for a long time.
Then, slowly, he picked up the pen again.
"I swear to God, Serrano. If you get us killed, I'm haunting you in every campaign ad forever."
Jack grinned. "Deal."
After sometime Eli opened the laptop slowly, muttering, "If I see a live-stream ad mid-parachute, I'm quitting."
Jack ignored him. He was already at the whiteboard.
On it, a simple sketch: the Keystone Civic building—ten stories. Rooftop HVAC units. Narrow ledge access on the west side. Adjacent buildings nearby, but too short for crossing.
"You'll need a soft roof landing," Eli said, typing furiously. "Most urban rooftops can't take direct pressure without triggering sensors. You land hard—you alert security below."
"Auto-brake deployment," Jack said. "With angle calibration. I won't even touch the outer units."
Eli rubbed his face. "How the hell do you even have access to a drone chopper?"
Jack looked up.
"My family builds security towers for airports."
"Of course they do."
He glanced at the time—2:44 a.m.
They had one hour to suit up and reach the drone launch site outside the west edge of the city. No traffic. No witnesses. And a weather window of twenty-five minutes before wind shear made the descent impossible.
Eli stood, grabbing his bag. "We land. We enter through the maintenance hatch. You get the files. We're out in fifteen."
Jack nodded.
"No phones," Eli said.
Jack tossed his onto the couch.
"No names," Eli added.
"No mercy," Jack finished.
They exchanged a look—half grin, half suicide pact.
Then they moved.
---
At 3:58 a.m., they stood inside a hangar on the edge of town. The drone chopper—a sleek, silent VTOL craft with twin rotors and no tail boom—hovered idle behind them. Jack zipped up the black suit, checked the deployment rig, and cinched the tether line.
Eli wore maintenance coveralls and a utility belt—he was the ground man, the tech, the shadow inside.
"Still time to walk," Eli muttered, watching Jack step onto the open bay ramp.
Jack grinned under his helmet visor.
"You're late to the sky party, Eli."
The rotors spun.
The drone rose.
And Jack Serrano stepped into the dark above the city.
Jack drops silently onto the rooftop of Keystone Civic Development. Eli provides navigation support from street level. Jack gains access through the service hatch, descends into the silent third floor—and finds exactly what someone tried to bury. But the building isn't as empty as it should be.
---
The sky was black glass.
Jack dropped through it like ink.
Below, the city spread in a grid of orange and blue—streetlamps flickering like tired stars, towers casting long shadows into alleys, rooftop gardens swaying gently in pre-dawn wind.
The drone chopper vanished above him without sound.
His suit's stabilizers kicked in as he angled his descent—arms out, legs balanced, wind roaring through the helmet vents. The target building rose fast beneath him.
Ten floors. Flat roof. Third floor: Keystone Civic.
Eli's voice crackled in his earpiece.
> "Wind at three degrees west. Veer right or you're kissing a chimney."
Jack adjusted—one subtle shift. A stream of rooftop ventilation units passed just under his boots.
Then: a controlled tug on the line.
Pop. The tether deployed. The brake caught. And Jack landed with a barely audible thud on a flat sheet of reinforced rubber, between two HVAC cages.
Perfect.
He stayed crouched, scanned his surroundings—nothing moved. No lights in the stairwell.
Eli again:
> "You're clear. Hatch is twenty feet east. Yellow latch."
Jack moved low, fast.
The service hatch opened with a small creak. Inside: a maintenance ladder, pitch dark. No cameras.
He slid down fast and silent.
Third floor. The door to Keystone Civic was labeled Suite 3C. No logo. No keypad. Just a metal lock, old school.
He pulled a keycard bypass from his belt—magnetic override. It clicked green in three seconds.
Door opened.
Inside?
Dead quiet.
The office was dim. The emergency lights glowed faint red. Rows of metal filing cabinets. Paper everywhere—stacked on desks, half-filed, some fallen to the floor like someone left in a rush. One terminal glowed faintly in sleep mode.
He moved.
First drawer: invoices. Second: land titles. Third—
Bingo.
A folder stamped "D.S.C. / Secondary Holdings". Inside: contracts. Transfer memos. One document stood out—a signed agreement between D.S.C. Holdings and a known city infrastructure firm.
And under the signature:
A. Davis.
Jack froze.
Anna's signature.
She knew. She signed. She's still in bed with her father's ghost company.
Jack pulled out his pocket scanner, clicked it once, and began digitizing the papers one by one.
Then—
A noise.
Soft. Behind him.
A door creaking open at the far end of the floor.
He killed the scanner light.
Crouched.
Footsteps.
Slow. Careful. One person.
Eli's voice buzzed—urgent:
> "Jack. Thermal just pinged one heat signature inside with you. Not me."
Jack stayed low. Breath quiet.
The man stepped into the room.
Not a guard. Civilian clothes. Gloves.
He carried something in his hand.
Not a weapon.
A canister.
He began spraying the air—accelerant.
Jack's eyes widened.
This wasn't a guard.
It was a cleaner.
They were going to burn the office down.
Jack lowered his body beneath the desk, thumb on the comm switch, whispering so low it was barely breath:
"Eli… we've got a problem."
Static.
Then Eli's voice, tight.
> "I see it. One body. Five feet from you. What's he doing?"
Jack peeked up.
The man was shaking the canister—metal, dented, military gray. He twisted the nozzle. A faint mist hissed into the air as he moved down the rows of cabinets, muttering something under his breath.
Accelerant. Definitely.
"He's going to burn the files," Jack whispered.
> "Then you've got two choices," Eli said. "Get out. Or stop him."
Jack slid a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the edge of the folder—warm now, like it knew what it carried. Anna's name. Her father's ghost. The money. The tie.
He pressed the button on the scanner—upload complete. The files were now synced to Eli's encrypted tablet down in the van.
> "I've got the data," Jack whispered. "But if he burns this, we lose physical proof."
A beat.
Eli's voice came back, cold and sharp:
> "Then put him down fast. Or walk."
Jack looked up again.
The cleaner had his back turned. Lighting a match.
Jack moved.
Fast.
No sound.
He grabbed a half-full stapler from the desk—metal, heavy.
And in one swift motion, he stood and slammed it into the man's wrist.
Clang. The match hit the floor and fizzled.
The man spun, stunned—but Jack already had his hand at the guy's collar, spinning him into the cabinet with a crash. Metal rang. Folders flew.
"Who sent you?" Jack hissed, pinning him.
The man struggled. "You don't know what you're in—"
SLAM. Jack hit him again, harder this time—just enough to drop him.
He crumpled unconscious at the base of the cabinet.
Jack stood over him, breath calm, eyes sharp.
"I'm starting to."
---
Eli's voice came in again:
> "You've got ninety seconds. Thermal's picking up a second incoming heat signature—back stairwell."
Jack grabbed the canister, pocketed the matches, kicked the unconscious cleaner out of sight, and ran for the stairwell.
---
Four minutes later, Jack was back on the roof.
The drone descended in silence.
He clipped in.
Launched.
Gone.
---
Back in the van, Eli didn't speak as Jack landed and pulled off the harness.
He just handed him the tablet with the scan.
"Tell me you got it."
Jack swiped to the signature.
Anna Davis.
Eli stared.
"Holy shit."
Jack nodded, wiping blood from his lip.
"Let's burn her down before she burns us."
---
[Here's how the escape plan works, step-by-step:
---
Eli's Escape Plan – "Quiet Ghost" Protocol
1. Rooftop Extraction (Plan A):
Jack's drone drops him in and waits in hover mode for 6 minutes on a pre-set tethered pattern.
If Jack makes it out in time, he re-clips and is airlifted back to a landing zone 5 miles out, where Eli waits in a disguised municipal utility van.
2. Rooftop Abort (Plan B):
If extraction fails, Jack is to descend through the stairwell to the first floor, where Eli has installed a fake maintenance panel in a loading bay.
Inside is a stash bag: plain clothes, city maintenance badge, forged work orders.
Jack changes, slips out through the north alley exit, where Eli circles with the van in 3-minute intervals.
3. Red Panic Fallback (Plan C):
If both above routes are compromised, Jack uses a hidden burner phone in his vest to trigger a fake utility outage on the building's block.
This triggers automatic elevator resets, emergency stairwell lights, and a distraction fire alarm at the adjacent building—all designed to allow Jack to slip out amidst confusion and ride with Eli disguised as a coned-off traffic crew.]
Flashback – 3:33 A.M., In the Van Before the Jump
Eli tapped the screen on the van's console. "You've got three ways out. Plan A—you make it back to the roof, clip in, and I pull your ass out with the drone. Simple."
Jack was zipping up his jumpsuit, checking the wrist-mounted scanner. "Assuming I don't fall through the roof."
Eli grinned. "You don't. I checked the load-bearing specs."
He swiped to the second screen. "Plan B, you get blocked. You drop through the building to ground level, change clothes in the stash bag I hid behind a fake panel in the first-floor loading bay. Walk out the north alley in a maintenance vest. I circle back every three minutes until I pick you up."
Jack nodded once. "Clean."
Eli's voice darkened.
"Plan C, everything goes to hell."
Jack looked at him.
"You pull the red cord in your vest," Eli said. "It triggers a fake power surge through the building's smart grid—kills lights, resets stairwells, triggers a false alarm in the next block. Then you slip out with a crowd, and I get you out dressed as city works."
Jack smirked. "I'm the brown guy with a clipboard in a neon vest. You really think I won't blend in?"
Eli deadpanned. "Only if you don't start quoting Gita verses on the sidewalk."
Jack clipped his harness, ready.
Eli nodded. "We do this clean. In and out. No fire. No blood."
Jack stepped toward the drone ramp.
"Just truth."
Eli stared at him. "You're not gonna clip to the drone?"
Jack zipped the data folder into the pouch on his chest rig and grabbed the black pack beside the drone's landing frame.
"Nope," he said. "Drone's too noisy. Too risky. I jump."
Eli blinked. "Parachute? This building's twelve stories. Not exactly a wingsuit situation."
Jack slung the bag over his shoulder, cinching it tight. "You said the air currents were clean tonight. Besides…" he paused, glancing over the skyline, "...I like dramatic exits."
Eli gave a soft chuckle. "You're insane."
Jack stepped up to the edge of the rooftop. The city lights spread below like a field of electric stars. Wind tugged at his clothes. Somewhere behind him, the chaos of the break-in still hadn't registered—yet.
He exhaled.
"Catch me on the tracker," he said.
Eli's voice came quiet over the comms. "Always."
Jack leapt.
For a second, there was silence. Weightlessness.
Then the wind roared in his ears. He arched back, stabilized, and pulled.
WHUMP. The chute cracked open, blooming like a shadow in the night. He glided down over the city like a ghost, the rooftops racing beneath him, the cool rush of adrenaline humming in his bones.
Below, Eli's van blinked its signal lights once and began to move.
---
Jack hit the alley rooftop three blocks away. A perfect slide into a roll. He shrugged off the chute, kicked it into a drainage shaft, and jogged the last stretch into the van's open back door.
Eli slammed it shut as he pulled away.
In the rearview, smoke started curling out of the building they'd just left—someone had found the unconscious cleaner and panicked.
Jack leaned back, still catching his breath.
He held up the data tablet with Anna's signed file glowing on screen.
"Now," he said, "let's see how the queen handles losing her crown."
The van rolled through the city like a shadow that didn't belong to anything.
Dawn had started to bleed through the skyline—pale orange slipping between steel towers, soft light brushing across silent streets. The city still slept, but not for long.
In the passenger seat, Jack Serrano sat quiet. Still in his gear. Forearms bruised. Lip slightly swollen from the fight.
On his lap, the tablet glowed.
Anna Davis's signature flickered beneath his fingertips. Alongside it: old permits, funding transfers, payment schedules. Dates. Names. The skeleton of a machine she'd sworn was buried.
Eli drove without speaking for a while. Not out of fear—but because even he knew this moment needed silence.
They had what they came for.
And now everything was going to change.
Jack finally broke it.
"She's going to deny it."
"Of course," Eli said. "She's going to say it's fake. Fabricated. Legacy documents from her father. She'll bring in an expert to call it doctored."
"She'll throw someone else under the bus," Jack murmured. "Some old finance guy or shell exec. Maybe even claim she was seventeen when she signed it."
Eli nodded once. "And the worst part?"
Jack looked over.
Eli's eyes didn't leave the road. "Half the city will believe her."
The van turned onto the bridge over Marrow Bay, the water below as still as oil. A soft breeze lifted through the open vents. The world was waking up.
"But not the whole city," Jack said.
Eli smiled. "Not if we hit first."
Jack leaned his head back.
Outside the window, the sun cleared the rooftops. A new day.
The first of many he planned to survive.
The van took a final turn off the main road, headlights cutting through early morning mist. The warehouse district was still asleep—no traffic, no patrols. Just silence and rusted steel.
Eli slowed the van as they approached a nondescript loading dock with a graffitied wall and a locked chain-link gate.
Jack reached forward, tapped a small remote.
The gate creaked open, metal groaning on tired hinges. Inside: a low concrete tunnel that dipped beneath an old brick façade—no signs, no cameras.
The van slid inside.
The door rumbled shut behind them.
No one saw them enter. No one knew they'd returned.
Jack and Eli sat still for a moment in the dim fluorescent light of the underground space—just the quiet hum of the engine cooling.
Then Eli killed the ignition.
The tablet screen went black.
Nothing left to say.
Just air. Secrets. And the storm still gathering outside.