The safe house was a cramped, windowless room above a defunct laundromat in South Brooklyn. The air smelled of ozone and stale coffee. This was where Ethan kept his "off-the-books" equipment—computers that didn't exist on the police network and encrypted servers that bypassed the city's digital dragnet.
Ethan sat in front of a dual-monitor setup, his face illuminated by the harsh blue light of the screens. I stood behind him, my arms crossed, watching the progress bar on the center monitor.
[DECRYPTING: 88%... 91%... 95%...]
"This Zhao guy was paranoid," Ethan muttered, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "This drive isn't just password-protected; it's rigged with a dead-man's switch. If I hadn't bypassed the local kernel, the whole thing would have fried itself five minutes ago."
"Paranoia is the only thing that keeps men like Zhao alive," I said. "He knew the Obsidian Circle would eventually want to erase their footprints. This drive was his insurance policy."
[DECRYPTION COMPLETE. ACCESS GRANTED.]
The screen flickered, and a directory of folders appeared. They weren't organized by date or project. They were organized by country codes.
RU-V (Russia - Volkov)
SK-SH (South Korea - Shin-Hwa)
TH-VL (Thailand - Vaneech Land)
US-BT (USA - Benjamin Thompson)
Ethan clicked on the US-BT folder. Inside were scanned documents from 2006—legal transfers, offshore bank statements, and a series of private emails.
"Look at the dates," I whispered, pointing to the screen. "These emails were sent three days before the Shanghai hotel fire."
Ethan opened an email thread. The sender was an encrypted alias, but the recipient was unmistakable: [email protected].
"The board has reached a consensus. The 'obstruction' must be removed before the Q3 merger. Volkov has provided the accelerant; Shin-Hwa will handle the digital blackout. You simply need to ensure the family remains in the suite. After the 'accident,' the redistribution of Aegis assets will begin. Don't fail us, Benjamin."
"The 'obstruction,'" I echoed, the word tasting like poison. "My father was just a line item on a balance sheet to them."
"Andrew, look at this," Ethan said, clicking into a subfolder labeled 'Payables.' It was a ledger of payments made to various contractors. My eyes skipped past the large numbers until they landed on a name that made my breath catch.
"Project Phoenix: Cleanup Operations - $2,000,000. Payee: Mikhail Volkov."
"Mikhail Volkov," Ethan read aloud. "He's the younger brother of Viktor Volkov, the CEO of Volkov Industries. He's the 'fixer.' He specializes in making corporate tragedies look like natural disasters. If he was in Shanghai that night, he's the one who physically started the fire."
"Is he still active?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
Ethan did a quick search through a classified database. "He's more than active. He's in New York. He's here as a 'consultant' for a new energy project in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. He's staying at a high-security penthouse in DUMBO."
I felt a cold, sharp clarity settle over me. For ten years, I had hunted a shadow. Now, the shadow had a name. A face. An address.
"I'm going after him," I said, turning toward the door.
"Wait, Andrew!" Ethan stood up, grabbing my arm. "Volkov isn't a street thug. He travels with a private security detail. You go in there now, and you're walking into a slaughterhouse. We need a plan. We need to lure him out."
"He's the man who held the match while my mother screamed," I said, shaking off his hand. My eyes were dark, the 'Hotdog' persona rising to the surface. "I don't need a plan. I need a room with him and no witnesses."
"Think for a second," Ethan urged. "If you kill him now, the Obsidian Circle goes into hiding. You lose your link to the others. You lose the chance to get to Benjamin. Use him, Andrew. Get the confirmation of the South Korean and Thai involvements. Make him talk before he dies."
I paused, my hand on the rusted door handle. Ethan was right. Rage was a powerful fuel, but it was a poor navigator.
"How do we lure a Russian fixer out of a fortress?" I asked.
Ethan looked back at the screen, a grim smile forming. "He's a consultant for the Navy Yard project. There's a black-tie gala tomorrow night celebrating the new partnership. High society, heavy security, and lots of noise. It's exactly the kind of place a ghost like you can blend in."
I looked down at my scarred hands. "I don't have a tuxedo, Ethan."
"I'll handle the suit and the invite," Ethan said. "You just make sure you're ready to play the part. And Andrew..."
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget to use that 'ice cube spray' the doctor gave you. You're going to need to be at 100% for this."
I didn't smile, but I felt the weight of the canister in my jacket pocket.
The plan was set. The gala at the Brooklyn Navy Yard was less than twenty-four hours away. Ethan stayed back at the safe house to forge the digital credentials, leaving me to head home.
But I didn't go home. Not yet.
I found myself parked three blocks away from the hospital where Emily worked. I told myself I was checking for tails—making sure the men from the alley hadn't followed her. But as I sat in the dim light of the car, staring at the hospital entrance, I knew I was looking for a reason to see her one last time before I stepped into the lion's den.
My phone vibrated. A text from a new number.
Emily:"I'm on my lunch break. Did you use the spray yet, or are you still being a martyr?"
I looked at the phone, then at the glove box where the "smiling ice cube" was tucked away.
Andrew:"I'm busy."
Emily:"Busy doing what? Brooding? Staring at a wall? Come to the café across from the ER. 5 minutes. Or I'll call you every 60 seconds until you do."
I sighed. She was the only person on earth who could threaten me with a phone call and actually succeed.
The café was small, smelling of roasted beans and sugar. Emily was sitting in a corner booth, still in her scrubs, looking tired but vibrant. When she saw me walk in, she didn't wave. She just pointed to the seat across from her.
"You look better than you did at 5:00 AM," she said, sliding a cup of black coffee toward me.
"I didn't come here for coffee," I said, though I took a sip anyway.
"I know. You came because you knew I'd be annoying if you didn't." She leaned forward, her expression softening. "Andrew, you have that look again. Like you're preparing for a war."
I kept my face a mask. "It's just work."
"In a tuxedo?" she asked, glancing at my hands. "I saw your phone screen when you were typing earlier. A notification for a 'Navy Yard Event.' That's a high-society gala. What does a guy like you do at a party like that?"
I paused. She was too sharp. Being a doctor had made her an expert at reading symptoms, and right now, I was an open book of red flags.
"I'm security," I lied. It was close enough to the truth.
"Security," she repeated, skeptical. She reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. Her skin was warm, and for a second, the coldness of the mission faded. "Just... be careful. I don't want to see you back in my clinic with a bullet wound this time. My 'ice cube spray' doesn't work on lead."
I looked down at her hand. The crescent moon birthmark on her wrist was inches away from me. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say, "Charlotte, the man I'm going to see tonight is the reason we're orphans." Instead, I pulled my hand away gently. "I'll be fine."
I stood up to leave.
"Andrew?"
I stopped.
"The number I gave you in the car... it's my real one. Don't lose it."
"I won't," I said. And I meant it.
Returning to the safe house, I found a garment bag hanging from the door. Inside was a midnight-blue tuxedo, tailored to fit my frame, and a pair of polished oxfords.
Ethan had also provided the "tools" for the night: a micro-comm unit that fit inside my ear and a pair of contact lenses that could record video and feed it back to his monitors.
I stood in front of the cracked mirror of the safe house. As I adjusted the bowtie, the man in the mirror shifted. The 'Hotdog' was gone. The 'Andrew Parker' who played Sepak Takraw was gone. For the first time in nearly two decades, Oliver Thompson stood in the room.
"You look like a ghost," Ethan's voice crackled through the comms. "A very expensive, very dangerous ghost."
"I feel like one," I replied, checking the hidden holster at my ankle. "Give me the layout."
Ethan pulled up a blueprint of the Navy Yard's Building 77.
"Volkov will be in the VIP lounge on the fourth floor. Security is tight—biometric scanners and armed guards at every elevator. But there's a service lift in the kitchen that uses an older analog system. I can loop the camera feed for 60 seconds. That's your window."
"And the guests?"
"Five hundred people. Mostly CEOs, politicians, and socialites. You'll be 'Andrew Pearson,' a junior partner at a private equity firm. Just smile, nod, and don't punch anyone until you get Volkov alone."
I looked at the silver USB drive on the table. It was time.
"I'm moving," I said.
"Good luck, Oliver," Ethan whispered. It was the first time he had used my real name in years. It felt like a blessing and a curse.
The Navy Yard was a sea of black towncars and flashing cameras. The building was lit up in blue and gold, the historical brickwork contrasting with the high-tech glass of the entrance.
I stepped out of my car, the cool Brooklyn breeze ruffling my hair. I showed my digital invite to the guard. The tablet turned green.
"Welcome, Mr. Pearson. Enjoy the evening."
I walked into the ballroom. The music was a soft orchestral hum, drowned out by the clinking of champagne flutes and the chatter of New York's elite. I scanned the room.
My eyes didn't stop until they reached the balcony of the fourth floor. Standing there, a glass of vodka in his hand, was a man with a thick neck and a jagged scar running through his eyebrow.
Mikhail Volkov.
The man who burned my world down was smiling.
"Target sighted," I whispered into my collar.
"Easy, Andrew," Ethan's voice came through. "Wait for the kitchen staff change at 9:00 PM. Don't move until I give the signal."
I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and blended into the crowd. But as I waited, my eyes caught a familiar figure near the fountain at the center of the hall.
My heart stopped.
It was Emily.
She wasn't in scrubs. She was in a deep emerald dress, her hair flowing over her shoulders, looking exactly like the Thompson royalty she was born to be. She was talking to an older man—a man I recognized from the Zhao files.
A man from Shin-Hwa Tech.
"Ethan," I hissed, turning my back to her. "Why is Emily here?"
"What? She shouldn't be! Check her companion—that's Park Ji-hoon, the South Korean representative for the Obsidian Circle. Andrew, if she's with him, she's in more danger than we thought."
The mission just changed. It wasn't just a hunt anymore. It was a rescue.