Red Dot Protocol: Survival of the Logistics Officer

Chapter 3: Old Ghosts at the Door

The world tilted, a cacophony of ringing glass and scorched air. Wei Xian’s shoulder slammed into Gabriel’s chest, the momentum carrying them both through the doorway and onto the hard tile of the apartment floor.

"Stay down!" Wei Xian hissed, his fingers digging into the fabric of Gabriel’s shirt.

Gabriel didn’t panic. He moved with the fluid grace of a man who lived in the line of fire, pinning Wei Xian’s wrists to the floor in a split second. "The hell was that, Tan? Who’s targeting you?"

Wei Xian looked toward the shattered hallway window. There was no second blast. No sound of boots on the stairs. The "laser sight" was gone—or maybe it had never been there. The Mark VII hummed a low, discordant note in his skull.

[THREAT ANALYSIS: ENVIRONMENTAL ANOMALY. NEURAL FEEDBACK MIMICKING COMBAT STIMULI.]

Wei Xian closed his eyes, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "False alarm. It was… a transformer. The power box outside must have blown."

Gabriel didn’t let go. He stared down at Wei Xian, his face inches away. "A transformer? You tackled a Major over a blown fuse? You’re shaking like a leaf, Wei Xian. Look at me."

"I’m fine, Gabe. Just jumpy. It’s the heat."

"Don't give me that 'heat' rubbish," Gabriel snapped, finally releasing Wei Xian’s wrists and standing up. He wiped a smudge of soot from his sleeve, his eyes scanning the cramped, messy apartment. "I’ve seen men with PTSD react like that, but you? You were the steadiest guy in the unit. Now you’re resigning overnight and doing what? Hanging out in Geylang with loan sharks?"

Wei Xian sat up, rubbing his wrists. "You’ve been tracking my bank account? Isn't that a bit outside your jurisdiction?"

"When a former Commando suddenly receives five million dollars in untraceable transfers while simultaneously sending encrypted files to MINDEF about a virus that doesn't exist, it becomes my jurisdiction," Gabriel said, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "What are you selling, Wei Xian? Who are you working for?"

"I'm not selling anything," Wei Xian said, standing up and heading to the kitchen to splash water on his face. "I hit it big on a biotech short. Pure luck. And the files? Maybe I just had a weird dream and wanted to share."

"A weird dream?" Gabriel followed him, leaning against the counter. "The genetic sequence you sent matches the structure of a weaponized filovirus. It’s too specific to be a dream. It looks like a blueprint."

Wei Xian grabbed a towel, his back to the Major. "Maybe I’m just a genius, then."

"Or maybe you stole it," Gabriel countered. "Is that why you’re building a war chest? Five million is a lot of money for a 'disgruntled veteran' to be sitting on. You planning to leave the country?"

Wei Xian turned around, forcing a dry, bitter laugh. "Leave? And miss the show? Gabe, look at this place. Does it look like I’m a high-level corporate spy? I’m losing my mind. That’s the truth."

Gabriel stepped closer, his gaze softening just a fraction, though the suspicion remained. "If you're sick, come to the base. We have doctors. We can help."

"The doctors won't find anything," Wei Xian said, his voice low. "Because it hasn't happened yet."

"What hasn't happened?"

Wei Xian stepped into Gabriel’s space, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could smell the familiar scent of Gabriel’s cologne—sandalwood and starch. A memory flickered in his mind, unbidden and sharp: the two of them, years ago, in a muddy trench during an exercise, sharing a single canteen and a look that said more than any words could.

"You remember the training in Brunei?" Wei Xian asked suddenly. "When the lights went out and we thought the camp was being overrun?"

Gabriel blinked, the intensity of the question catching him off guard. "Yeah. You almost broke my nose because you thought I was an insurgent."

"I wasn't scared then," Wei Xian whispered, reaching out to steady himself against Gabriel’s arm. "But I’m terrified now. You need to listen to me. The 'Urban Resilience' thing? It’s not enough. You need to stockpile antivirals. Not for a flu. For something that eats the brain."

Gabriel looked down at Wei Xian’s hand on his arm, then back up at his eyes. For a second, the cold professionalism wavered. He reached up, his thumb brushing against Wei Xian’s jawline, a gesture of intimacy that felt like a ghost from a different life.

"Wei Xian… you’re burning up," Gabriel said softly. "You’re not making sense. If you’ve gotten yourself into something deep with the triads or some foreign intel, tell me. I can protect you."

"I don't need protection," Wei Xian said, pulling away, the sudden coldness of the room hitting him. "I need you to do your job. Prepare the city. Because in thirty days, you’re going to be the one deciding who lives and who dies, and I don't want that blood on your hands."

Gabriel’s expression hardened again, the brief moment of connection severed. "I can’t act on the ramblings of a man who looks like he’s having a breakdown. I came here to give you a chance to clear your name. But you’re just digging a deeper hole."

"Then let me dig," Wei Xian said, walking to the door and holding it open. "I’m tired, Major. Unless you’re here to handcuff me, get out."

Gabriel stared at him for a long beat, his jaw clenched. "This isn't over. I’m putting a flag on your name. You try to move that money, or you try to leave the island, and you’ll find out how 'resilient' I can be."

"Good. Stay alert," Wei Xian said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You'll need it."

Gabriel walked past him, his shoulder brushing Wei Xian’s. He didn't look back as he headed down the hallway.

Wei Xian watched him go, leaning against the doorframe until the sound of Gabriel’s boots faded. He felt a sharp prickle at the back of his neck—the neural link was settling, the phantom explosion fully suppressed.

"I’m sorry, Gabe," he muttered to the empty hall. "But you wouldn't believe me even if I showed you the scars."

He walked back into his kitchen and looked out the window. Down below, Gabriel’s black SUV was pulling away. He watched as Gabriel paused by Wei Xian's old, beat-up sedan for a second before getting into his own vehicle.

Wei Xian frowned. He checked his phone. The balance was still there. The plan was moving.

He didn't notice the tiny, pebble-sized device magnetically attached to the inner rim of his car’s rear wheel—a state-of-the-art GPS tracker, its red light blinking once every ten seconds, slaving itself to a secure terminal in Major Gabriel Koh's dashboard.

Wei Xian's phone vibrated. A new message from an unknown number.

‘The warehouse was just the start. If you want the real equipment, meet me at the docks. Midnight. Bring the rest of the cash.’

Wei Xian looked at the message, then back at the retreating SUV. He had 716 hours left.

The first infection wasn't supposed to happen for weeks, but as he looked at the horizon, he saw a dark plume of smoke rising from the direction of the shipping ports.

The timeline was shifting. He was no longer ahead of the curve. He was being hunted by the past and the future at the same time.