For a long, terrifying moment, Mayra and Sara were like statues carved from ice. The sudden, harsh white light of the records hall was a physical blow, pinning them in place. The silhouette standing at the main entrance was now becoming clearer as their eyes adjusted. It was not a uniformed security guard. The figure was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive, dark suit that spoke of corporate espionage or government agencies. His face was impassive—a mask of cool, professional indifference.
The most terrifying part was that he was not alone. From the darkness behind him, two more men emerged. They moved with a silent, fluid grace that was far more menacing than any loud approach. In their hands, they held small but deadly-looking pistols fitted with silencers.
"It seems the party is over," the lead agent said. His voice was calm and measured, his English tinged with a slight Turkish accent.
Mayra's mind was racing, analyzing the new, impossible situation. It is the Syndicate—there is no doubt. But how had they found them? Was there a mole inside the archives? Or were they so skilled that they had been tracking their every move since they arrived in Istanbul?
"Who are you people?" Mayra asked, her voice steady despite the frantic pounding of her heart. She took a step back, instinctively trying to shield Sara, who stood frozen near the open safe.
"Who we are is not important, Doctor Nassar," the agent replied. His use of her name was a clear confirmation that they knew everything. "What is important is what you have." He gestured with his head towards the open safe and the small camera in Mayra's hand.
Sara's fear was quickly turning to anger. "So you were following us," she said, her voice a low hiss. "You knew we would come here."
"We were hoping you would," the agent corrected her. A predator's glint appeared in his eyes, the look of a hunter that has successfully cornered its prey. "After studying your profile, it was not difficult to predict your next move. Now, hand over what you have stolen. The book you took from the safe. And do not try anything clever."
"I did not steal anything," Mayra retorted, her voice defiant. "This is history, and it does not belong to any single organization. And why would I give it to you?"
The agent's men raised their pistols. The small red dots of the laser sights danced on their chests.
It was a trap. They had been in a trap from the very beginning. They thought they were the hunters, but in reality, they were just the bait. Mayra's mind raced. Handing over the book and the camera meant giving up. That knowledge, those secrets, would fall into the hands of the Syndicate forever. But refusing meant… certain death.
She glanced at Sara. There was fear in Sara's eyes, but she gave a very slight shake of her head. No. She was not willing to give up.
Mayra closed her eyes for a split second, a silent, desperate prayer on her lips. And in that moment, a very quiet, almost inaudible whisper came through her earpiece from Jerome.
"Keep them talking. Distract them. I am trying something. It might just work."
Just a few words. But in this abyss of despair, they were a lifeline. A new, desperate spark ignited in Mayra's eyes.
"Alright," she said loudly, drawing the lead agent's full attention, buying Jerome a few more precious seconds. "You win. But before I give you the book, I want to know—who do you work for? What will you do with this information?"
The lead agent smiled. He thought he had won, and now he could savor his victory. "You think you are in a position to ask questions?"
"Consider it the last wish of a defeated woman," Mayra said, her voice laced with a dramatic sadness. "I want to know which chapter of history I have just ended."
The agent liked that. Arrogance is the weakness of every powerful man.
"We do not end history, Doctor," he said, lecturing her like a student. "We create it. We create a world where there will be no war, no chaos, no uncertainty. Only order. A true, global order, powered by the knowledge you are holding."
He was about to continue his victory speech when, from the other end of the hall, a loud cracking sound came from a large, old air conditioning unit, as if one of its compressors had just exploded. Immediately after, the lights in the hall flickered for a moment and then went out completely.
The hall was now lit only by the eerie, yellow glow of the emergency lights above the doors.
"What happened?" the lead agent shouted, his voice for the first time filled with alarm and uncertainty.
"It seems the building's heating and ventilation system is a bit old," Jerome's voice whispered in their earpieces. "I just turned its thermostat up a little". A lot."
It was not complete darkness, but it was enough to create chaos. The yellow emergency lights were creating long, dancing shadows, making it nearly impossible to aim at any single target.
"Get them!" the lead agent yelled.
But before they could turn on their flashlights or understand what was happening, a sharp hissing sound came from the small sprinkler heads on the ceiling, and a thick, white smoke began to pour down.
"What is this?" one of the agents coughed, his voice muffled by the smoke.
"Fire suppression gas," Jerome explained calmly in their earpieces. "I did not trigger the fire alarm, I triggered the fire suppression system directly." It is Halon gas. It will not kill you, but it rapidly displaces oxygen from the air. In a few minutes, you will start to feel dizzy and pass out."
It was a brilliant and strategic display of chaos. Jerome had not hacked the main security system, but the less secure auxiliary systems, which were often older and less monitored. He had not rung the alarm bell; he had created the emergency himself.
The gas was quickly filling the hall. Visibility was almost zero. The Syndicate agents could not even see them anymore. They were coughing, trying to find their way to the door, desperate for fresh air.
"Climb! Now!" Jerome yelled.
Mayra and Sara took full advantage of the chaos. They threw their grappling hooks, which latched onto the top of the high shelves, and began to climb rapidly. It was not easy—the gas was making their heads spin and their eyes burn—but adrenaline was powering them.
"I can see them!" the voice of an agent came through the smoke, and a bullet hit the wall near Mayra's ear, sending plaster fragments flying.
But just then, the sound of heavy pounding came from outside the main doors of the hall, and the loud wail of Turkish police sirens could be heard approaching rapidly from outside.
"The police!" the lead agent shouted, real panic now in his voice. "Someone has called the police! Get out of here! Now!"
They had forgotten about their mission—now, it was just about saving their own lives. They ran towards another door and disappeared into the darkness.
High above, in the safe darkness of the ventilation shaft, Mayra and Sara had arrived. Jerome helped pull them inside. The three of them sat in the cramped space—coughing, panting—but alive. And victorious.
"How… how did you call the police?" Sara asked Jerome, once she had caught her breath.
"I did not call them," Jerome replied with a tired smile. "I just activated the fire suppression system." In a historic building like this, that system is directly linked to the fire department's servers. It was an automatic call. I just… let the system do its job.
They escaped that night through the ancient Byzantine tunnels that ran beneath the city. Their next destination was Berlin.
But they were now a changed team. They were no longer just scholars reacting to threats—they had become players who could create threats themselves.
And they knew one other thing for certain—the Syndicate would not give up so easily. They had outsmarted its agents, but in doing so, they had now established themselves as its greatest enemy. Eleanor Vance would take this personally.
This was no longer just a search.
This was now a personal war.