Argus stepped out from behind the car, pistol raised, breath steady. The rain had slowed, but the cold bit harder now. Across the lot, the figure stood motionless, hands out, palms open.
The hood dropped.
Argus's jaw clenched.
"Derrick Moss."
The last time he'd seen him, Derrick had been burning.
Warehouse fire. Collapsing steel. Gunshots from their own crew. No way out.
Argus had walked away with blood on his hands and a lie in his mouth "Moss didn't make it."
But here he was. Alive. Breathing. Standing under the same floodlight Cutter used to store ghost vehicles five years ago.
"You're supposed to be dead," Argus said.
"So are you," Derrick replied. "Guess the system can't count bodies right."
Argus motioned with the gun. "Inside. Now."
Derrick didn't flinch. He walked slow, measured, no sudden moves. The same way men moved when they weren't sure if they were walking toward shelter or a bullet.
Chen slid the garage door open just enough. Argus followed him in, locked it behind them. The inside smelled like oil, old rubber, and rain off concrete. Low light. Chen stood near the corner with her pistol loose in her grip, eyes scanning Derrick like he'd brought ghosts in with him.
"Chair," Argus said, gesturing.
Derrick sat without argument, water dripping from his sleeves. His face had changed more bone, less weight. Scar under his eye. Limp in the left leg. But his eyes? Same look from the crew days. Quiet. Calculating. Tired.
"You want to start talking?" Argus said.
"I thought you might shoot me first."
"Still might."
Derrick nodded. "You buried a body you never saw. That was smart. Not enough of us get second chances."
"Don't make me regret it."
Derrick exhaled. "The warehouse was real. The fire. The collapse. But I didn't die. Someone pulled me out. Not medics. No cops. They wore black. No faces. They tagged me, sedated me. When I woke up, I was underground. No windows. No time."
Chen stepped forward. "Where underground?"
"No clue. Just concrete. And silence. They kept me sedated, ran tests. Brainwave stuff. Memory probing. I heard terms... 'Cognitive sync.' 'Reclaiming.' Then I heard a name."
He looked at Argus.
"Morain."
Argus went still.
"Say that again."
"Dr. Levi Morain. I only heard it once. He ran something called Reclaimer. Some neural overwrite project said they were testing how identity could be transferred, not just copied. Like taking one mind and stitching it into someone else."
Chen's voice dropped. "That sounds a lot like what happened to you."
"No," Derrick said. "It sounds like what happened to him."
He nodded at Argus.
Argus lowered the gun slightly.
"You're saying this wasn't random," he said. "What happened to Lawson… to me… someone planned it?"
"I don't know the how. I just know you weren't the only one. And you weren't the first."
Argus stepped back, cold crawling up his spine. "Then why are you here now?"
"Because they're cleaning up. I've been getting flagged. Phones glitching. Smart tags showing wrong names. Someone broke into my storage locker two nights ago and left nothing just a receipt with a time stamp. Like a countdown."
He pulled up his shirt. A thin tattoo lined the skin above his hip.
A wasp wing. The same MANTIS sigil that marked the Pandora drive.
"I'm marked, Cutter. Whatever they started, it's coming back to end me."
Chen looked to Argus. "You believe him?"
Argus's face stayed hard, but something in his eyes cracked.
"He's telling the truth."
Derrick reached into his pocket slowly and held out a scratched chip. "This belonged to Morain. I stole it. Thought maybe I could trade it one day. You're the only one left who might know what to do with it."
Argus took the chip. On its edge: a sequence that matched the Pandora Alpha index from the facility.
It wasn't random.
None of this was.
They weren't just running an experiment.
They were running a pattern.
He turned to Chen. "Grayridge. We find Morain. We find out who ordered the overwrite."
"You think he's still alive?"
"I think if he isn't, the people protecting him are."
Before she could answer
Thup.
A suppressed shot punched the garage door.
Crack. A second one ricocheted off the engine block behind Derrick's chair.
They dropped.
Argus grabbed Derrick, yanked him behind the tire rack. Chen rolled behind the sedan, pistol already in hand.
"They're here," Argus muttered. "They tracked him."
A third shot hit the overhead light glass shattered, sparks rained down.
Outside, shadows moved along the fence line.
Clean. Tactical. Two at least. Maybe more.
They weren't street muscle.
These were professionals. No loose ends.
Argus didn't wait for the next shot.
"Back tunnel," he said, already moving. "Go."
Chen grabbed Derrick, hauled him to his feet. The man winced, dragging his left leg. That limp was no bluff.
Another shot hit the wall behind them silent, clean, precise. Close grouping. Whoever was out there wasn't just trained they were familiar with the layout.
Argus reached under the workbench and yanked free a crowbar. Slammed it into the far shelf. It collapsed, metal clattering loud.
"Move now," he barked.
Chen pulled Derrick behind the stacked tires while Argus grabbed the side handle near the back wall. He twisted, hard.
Click.
A panel groaned open, revealing a narrow drain tunnel barely wider than a coffin and just as welcoming.
"This connects to the sub-lot near the ferry line," he said. "Stash route. Old crew days."
"How far?" Chen asked, already helping Derrick in.
"Seven blocks if you don't stop."
Bullets smacked into the steel racks beside them. Sparks flew.
They were flanked.
Argus ducked into the tunnel last. Sealed it behind him.
Dark.
He hit the mounted flashlight on the ceiling. Dim yellow beam. Just enough to show mold, dripping pipes, and a sloped path leading deeper into black.
Behind them, the garage was silent again. No boots. No shouts.
That meant the sweep team had already repositioned to intercept.
"They'll cut us off before the ferry lot," Argus muttered.
"I don't care where we go," Derrick grunted, "as long as we're not above ground."
The air inside the tunnel grew tighter, damper. Water pooled at their boots. Each step sent echoing splashes in every direction.
"Why now?" Chen asked. "Why hit here?"
"They weren't tracking us," Argus said. "They were tracking him."
Derrick shook his head. "They've been circling for weeks. Watching, waiting. I figured they'd want me to run."
"They did," Argus said. "And now that you did, they're making sure there's nowhere to run to."
Ahead, the tunnel forked left into deeper drainage, right toward the old gate.
Argus paused.
The left path smelled of oil and salt.
"Stay here," he told Chen, then moved two steps down the left fork and dropped a loose flare from his coat.
It clattered, hissed, then bloomed into sudden red light.
That was bait.
He turned back. "We go right."
As they moved, the ceiling narrowed, forcing them to crouch. Derrick's limp worsened. Chen kept him upright, her teeth clenched.
"More company incoming," she whispered.
"How do you know?" Argus asked.
"Because there's no signal down here, but my burner's glowing."
Argus stopped.
Looked.
The small black phone in her pocket blinked once bright blue. Not a call. Not a message.
A sync ping.
They were being tracked through her now.
"They slipped a beacon into your bag or your jacket," he said. "Probably before you even left the precinct."
She tore her coat open. Nothing in the inner lining.
Checked her belt. Her flashlight. Nothing.
Then Derrick grunted. "Back left pocket. There's a metal clip. That's not mine."
Chen reached into it, pulled out a micro-sized tab, no bigger than a staple. Cold steel. No visible circuitry.
But it pulsed blue.
Argus snatched it, crushed it under his boot, and slammed it into the wall with the crowbar.
Sparks.
The blue stopped.
So did the echo of footsteps behind them.
They'd paused.
Listening.
"They know we're not dead," Argus muttered.
"They always do," Derrick rasped.
They pushed forward.
Finally, the tunnel broke open into a grated sewer access. Faint light streamed from a street vent overhead. A rusted ladder led up.
Argus motioned. "Go."
Chen climbed first. Helped Derrick.
Argus took the rear boots slick with mud, shirt soaked through.
As he reached the top, his hand touched the grate and froze.
On the street above, a silhouette stood beside the car they'd stashed here days ago.
Gray coat. Shaved head. One hand in his pocket.
The man looked down as if he knew where Argus was already standing.
Rourke.
Internal Affairs.
He wasn't surprised.
He wasn't armed.
He was waiting.
As Argus gripped the final rung, a phone buzzed in his coat.
A text. From an encrypted number.
"I warned you not to run, Cutter. Grayridge is a one-way door."