2025-05-16 22:58:34
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239. Torchlight
The building didn’t have a name. No signage, no records, no address in any public system.Just a black tower wrapped in mirrored glass, hidden in the sprawl of Victoria estate like a cancer cell pretending to be clean.They called it Torchlight.... And it was the beginning of everything.Van sat in the back of a stolen SUV, staring up at it. He wore a maintenance uniform. ID forged. Eyes steady. Heart cold.Dan was on comms. Rita stayed in the field car two blocks away, satellite scans rolling across her screen.There was no backup. No police and no press.Just a man with nothing left to lose — and a mission that couldn’t wait another day.“Security’s lighter than I expected,” Dan murmured.“Which means,” Rita replied, “they’re watching another way.”Van stepped out, fastened his gloves, and walked straight through the side entrance. The guard barely looked up.He moved like he belonged. That was the trick.Inside, the silence was sterile. No echoes, no chatter. Just carpeted wealth a
238. A Firestorm
The city held its breath.Smoke rose from newsrooms and safe houses. Unmarked vans snatched voices from sidewalks. Bloggers disappeared mid-stream. Phones rang, then never rang again.Barron wasn’t hiding anymore.He was hunting.Van and his team had relocated to an underground parking garage — no lights, no signals. Just cold concrete and old shadows.Boyd paced with a limp, pistol in hand.Dan typed furiously, bouncing IP addresses and rerouting backup servers. Rita was on her phone, trying to confirm who was still alive.Van sat silent, staring at the wall. Listening. Thinking.“Two more allies are gone,” Rita said. “One in Westview. The other is on the island. Both executed.”Dan muttered, “They’ve activated the Tier Five Protocol.”Van’s eyes shifted.“That’s black-bag level,” Boyd said. “I thought that was a myth.”“It’s real,” Van said. “It means they’ll burn the whole city before they let us win.”Suddenly, Rita’s phone buzzed. Blocked number.She answered — speaker on.A dist
237. The Broadcast
Van didn’t speak for a long time.He just stared at the photograph, the edges frayed from age, the faces too familiar. Barron in his early thirties, standing beside another man in a charcoal suit, his hand resting on a briefcase.The man was smiling.Van’s father.Van didn't know much about his father but from what he remembered, he was a well respected person in society. Now this photo was telling another story.“Tell me this is fake,” Van said, voice low, eyes locked on Raúl.Raúl looked older in the Vault’s flickering light. Tired.“I can’t.”“Then tell me why.”Raúl gestured to the files scattered around them. “Because your father helped build it. The machine. The system. He wasn’t just in it—he was one of the architects.”Rita sat down slowly, mouth parted in disbelief.“But why would she hide this?” she asked. “Bianca loved Van. She wanted him to clear his name.”Raúl nodded. “And that’s why she buried this folder behind every wall she could build. Because if it got out… no one
236. The Vault
Rain lashed the windshield like claws. Van’s eyes never left the gravel road as the SUV bumped its way into the dense woods outside town. Beside him, Rita clutched the folder of Bianca’s final instructions — hand-written, buried deep inside one of the tapes. A location and the coordinates and it only had one word: Vault. They’d left Boyd behind, still recovering. Dan stayed in the city to coordinate legal teams and media fire. Moses’ arrest had cracked Barron’s shell, but it wasn’t enough to destroy him. The Vault… this could be. At the end of the muddy path stood an old caretaker’s house — forgotten, overgrown. A tall fence covered in rusted thorns circled the structure. Bianca had been thorough. Too thorough for someone with nothing to hide. Van stepped out first, gun drawn. Rita followed, flashlight shaking in her grip. Inside, the air smelled of mold and cold iron. The house was empty — save for a steel door in the floor, half-concealed beneath a rotting carpet. Rita k
235. Moses
The hotel suite was silent except for the low hum of jazz from the sound system. Moses Wilson sipped his scotch with slow deliberation, staring out at the midnight skyline. Lagos never slept. Neither did his paranoia.Behind him, a shadow shifted. Barron’s man. Silent. Suited. Soulless.“Is it done?” Moses asked, still looking out the window.The man replied with a clipped nod. “The ambush failed. Van escaped.”Moses exhaled hard through his nose. “Then what the hell are you standing here for?”The man didn’t flinch. “He has the tapes. The girl delivered them.”Moses spun around. “What tapes?”“Bianca’s.”Moses froze.That name still hit like a blade between the ribs.The past — the lies, the betrayal, the fear.She was supposed to be buried.He set the glass down, slower than necessary. “She promised me… she swore she destroyed them.”The man shrugged. “She lied. Van’s seen them. And now he knows about you.”Moses walked slowly to the liquor cart, but his hand trembled as he reached
234. Secret Tapes
The envelope was heavier than it should’ve been. Rita sat alone in her apartment, the lights dimmed, hands trembling as she stared at the thick, unmarked folder Van had told her to protect at all costs. Inside were four tapes. Labeled by hand. Black marker. No dates. All of them from Bianca. She hadn’t opened them before. Didn’t want to. Bianca had been a friend once — complicated, messy, but a friend. Now she was the epicenter of this entire war. Rita pushed a shaky breath past her lips and slid the first tape into the player. The screen flickered. Static. Then — Bianca’s face. Not the polished, smiling Bianca the world knew. No makeup. No light. Just her, in a dimly lit room, whispering like she was afraid someone was listening. ("If you’re watching this… something’s happened to me." Rita’s hand clenched. "I lied. To a lot of people. I… framed Van. I was young. Scared. Moses told me it was the only way to protect ourselves." She paused, visibly shaking. "But it wasn’t t
233. The Ambush
Van checked his watch. 2:43 AM. Everything about this felt wrong. Too quiet. Too easy. He and Boyd crouched in the shadows behind the old warehouse near Pier 19. The place was supposed to be one of Barron’s cash drops — lightly guarded, ripe for the hit. But Van’s gut twisted. His instincts, sharpened by prison and street wars, screamed: trap. Boyd adjusted the strap on his rifle, eyes darting. "You sure about this, V? Feels like we’re walking into a coffin." Van’s jaw clenched. He glanced at the dim lights flickering in the warehouse windows. No movement. No lookouts. Nothing. "It’s bait," Van muttered. "Barron wants me here. Wants this to go loud." Boyd cursed under his breath. "So we back out?" Van shook his head, cold and steady. "We go in. But smart. You flank left. Dan’s crew cuts the power. No hero moves. If it smells off, we pull back. Understood?" Boyd nodded, swallowing hard. This wasn’t some street scuffle — this was war. In the distance, Dan’s team fanned out.
232. War
Midnight hit like a hammer. Cold. Final. No turning back now. Louisa’s fingers shook as she typed the final command. The files — every ugly secret Barron had buried — were uploading. Fast. Irrevocable. Hacktivist sites. International crime watchdogs. Encrypted drops to federal agents. And just for fun, a few high-profile bloggers itching for a scandal. When she hit send, it felt like setting off a bomb. Her chest felt tight. No going back. They’d either burn Barron to the ground… or vanish without a trace. Across the city, Carla and Boyd rolled up outside the warehouse on Fifth. Lights were still on. Guards pacing. Just like Van said — Barron’s cash hub. Boyd checked his rifle, eyes gleaming in the dark. "Let’s make some noise." Carla popped the van door and slipped out first, moving like smoke — silent and fast. She planted the charges near the fuel drums, heart hammering in her throat. Boyd covered her, watching the guards through his scope. One wrong move and
231. The Storm
The door to the warehouse banged open, hard enough that everyone inside jumped.Carla spun, gun raised. Boyd was already halfway out of his chair, reaching for his own piece.Then they saw him.Van. He staggered inside. Blood streaked down one temple, jacket torn, eyes wild. Breathing like he’d outrun death itself."Jesus Christ," Carla gasped, lowering her gun."Van—"But he was already collapsing against the wall, sliding down, chest heaving. The door creaked shut behind him, sealing the dark back in.Louisa dropped the flash drive she’d been clutching for hours and ran to him. "Are you—are you hit?"Van waved her off, voice raw. "Not shot. Just… tired of running."Boyd knelt, grabbing his shoulder hard. "Talk to me. What happened? Did the deal go bad?"Van laughed — harsh, bitter, humorless. "Wasn’t a deal. Was a damn execution waiting to happen. Ramos sold me out to Barron’s people. Seven men with guns. All set to take me in — or take me out."Dan groaned from his corner, cradling
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