The van rattled over ice-slick pavement, its windows fogging at the corners, streetlights streaking by like the afterimages of dying stars. Inside, tension stretched like piano wire. Silence clung to the four agents like second skin.
Agent September sat behind the mobile ops station in the van's rear, his fingers flying across the interface as he monitored live drone feeds and global data spikes. The system hummed softly—a quiet heartbeat amid the chaos outside.
January climbed in last, his coat torn at the shoulder, blood staining the knuckles of his gloves. His eyes were unreadable, the kind of eyes that didn't blink even when the world shifted beneath them.
September didn't look up. Not yet. But his voice was sharp, a dagger disguised as concern.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he snapped. "This wasn't part of the plan."
February leaned against the side wall of the van, still catching her breath. Her lipstick had long faded, replaced by the smear of chaos and adrenaline. She said nothing, only glanced at January with an understanding that didn't need translation.
"You weren't supposed to kill him," September continued, turning now to face the man in question. "We were supposed to expose them, not ignite a war."
"We didn't have a choice," February said evenly, stepping in.
"No," January corrected. "I didn't give you one."
He pulled a blood-slick metal object from his inside pocket and placed it gently on the table beside September. It was no larger than a fingernail, smooth and unassuming, but embedded with micro-thread circuits and cold memory.
"What is it?" September asked, studying it.
January's eyes flicked toward him.
"My past," he said.
That silenced the van.
Even June, who had said nothing from the driver's seat since they peeled out from the Kremlin Media Annex, turned slightly. The neural interface at the base of his neck glowed faintly, responding to his rising pulse.
September wasted no time. He inserted the implant into the uplink socket on the table, initiating decryption protocols. Lines of code burst onto the screen—then halted.
Empty.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then a beep.
A second.
A third.
Red text flashed across the interface: TRACKER ACTIVE. SIGNAL TRANSMITTED.
"Son of a—" September yanked the implant out. "It's a trap."
"How long do we have?" June asked calmly.
As if in answer, the sound of engines roared in the distance—low and hungry. Headlights flared in the rear window. Black sedans. Two motorcycles. No license plates.
"They followed the trail," September said. "Remnants of the Black List."
February glanced at January. "You said Stroganov had it."
"He did," January replied. "But someone else was watching him. They fed him false data. They knew we'd come for it."
June didn't wait. He downshifted and pulled the van hard into a side alley, tires squealing. Snow burst in their wake.
"How many vehicles?" January asked.
"Four confirmed. Possibly more. Standard interception protocol. They're boxing us in," September said.
"Then we need a new exit," February muttered. She turned to the map display. "What's our next option?"
September typed quickly. A map of Moscow's sewer maintenance system overlaid the streets.
"There's an entry in seven blocks. If we can get there, we might lose them in the grid."
The van shook as a bullet struck the rear bumper. Another pinged off the side mirror.
"They're not waiting," June said. He took a sharp right, nearly flipping the van.
January's fingers closed around his pistol.
"No more ghosts," he muttered. "Let them see our faces."