The Silent Trace

ECHOES OF DIVISION 9

Chapter 2

The sound came first ,a low, steady hum.

Then light. Blinding, sterile, wrong.

Ethan Vale opened his eyes to the ceiling of an ambulance. His chest ached; his head rang like metal struck by a hammer. Rainwater still clung to his jacket. Someone had cut open his shirt, wrapped bandages across his ribs.

He turned his head ,pain flared behind his eyes.

A paramedic hovered beside him, tapping readings on a small tablet.

“Try not to move, sir. You were found near the river.”

“The woman?” Ethan’s voice was gravel. “Where’s the woman,Clara Daines?”

The paramedic blinked. “No one else was there, mate. Just you.”

Ethan’s heartbeat spiked.

The tunnel ,the gunshot ,the explosion of sound and light.

The last thing he remembered was the face in the dark saying his name.

He sat up abruptly, ignoring the paramedic’s protest. “Where are my things?”

“Evidence locker, I suppose,hey!”

But Ethan was already pulling the IV out of his arm. He slipped out the back of the ambulance before the words “wait” left the man’s mouth. The night air hit him like cold steel.

He was still in East London,docks district ,sirens echoing far away. His muscles screamed with every movement, but his mind was sharp now. He scanned his surroundings: half-collapsed warehouse, scorched vehicles, fire residue. The kind of scene they’d call an “industrial accident” by morning.

And then he saw them.

Two men in dark coats near the cordon tape, murmuring to police. Too polished. Too clean. One of them glanced directly at him , and smiled.

MI5 cleanup.

Ethan melted into the shadows before they could react.

He reached his workshop by dawn. Or what was left of it.

Police drones hovered over the street, red tape flapping in the drizzle. Windows shattered, walls blackened. A small crowd gathered ,neighbors whispering.

He stayed across the road, under a bus shelter. Watching. Waiting.

“Vale Locksmiths” , gone.

His quiet life ,gone.

And the faces of men in tactical black still haunted the edges of his vision.

He checked his pocket.

The kill-order paper ,half,burned but intact. His name, the official MI5 crest, and the Division 9 signature.

His breath caught on that word.

Division 9.

A ghost unit. Erased in 2017. No record, no trace.

He’d watched it die , or thought he had.

He needed answers.

And one man he could still call.

Marcus Keene.

Hacker, cynic, ex-intel.

A man who’d once joked that he could make MI5’s entire database vanish “like a magician’s rabbit with better aim.”

Ethan found him exactly where he expected , in a basement bar in Whitechapel, bathed in blue light and the smell of old whisky.

Marcus squinted as Ethan entered. “Well, if it isn’t the ghost himself. I thought you’d gone full monk.”

Ethan dropped into the chair opposite. “Division 9. What do you know?”

Marcus froze mid-sip. “Jesus. You really do pick the cursed words.”

“Someone reactivated it,” Ethan said. “And they just put a kill order on me.”

Marcus frowned, pulling out a small data pad. “Let me guess ,black case, biometric seal, code-level access?”

Ethan nodded.

Marcus whistled. “Then you’re in deep water, my friend. That’s Consortium tech. Private side of the government. Division 9’s corpse turned corporate.”

He typed rapidly, screens reflecting in his glasses. Lines of encrypted data filled the air between them.

“See this?” Marcus pointed to a string of red text. “It’s your authorization ID ,still active. But there’s a duplicate file. Same ID, different biometric print.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Someone cloned me.”

Marcus looked up, eyes serious for once. “Or they rebuilt you.”

Ethan said nothing.

Marcus continued, voice lower now. “Word in the dark web says Division 9 became ‘The Consortium.’ They handle… disposable intelligence assets. Ones who can’t remember their orders. You think you retired, Ethan. But what if that was part of the script?”

Ethan’s pulse slowed to ice. “And the woman, Clara Daines?”

Marcus flipped through feeds. “Her name flags six aliases. No record before 2023. That’s synthetic identity. She’s either deep cover , or she never existed at all.”

Before Ethan could respond, the room’s light shifted.

Someone had entered the bar.

A woman, mid-30s, soaked from rain, leather jacket over a grey police uniform. Sharp eyes that didn’t miss much.

Marcus muttered, “Speak of the devil in blue.”

She walked straight to their table, flipping open a badge.

“Detective Inspector Isla Hart. Counter-Crime Division.” Her gaze settled on Ethan. “You’re a hard man to find.”

Ethan’s hand edged subtly toward his jacket , empty. He’d lost the gun in the chaos.

“Don’t,” she said, eyes flicking downward. “You’re not under arrest yet.”

Marcus raised his hands. “Lovely. Can I finish my drink first?”

Hart ignored him. “Your shop exploded last night. Three dead, including an off-duty constable. Witnesses say they saw you leaving the scene.”

Ethan’s face stayed unreadable. “I was attacked.”

“By who?”

He hesitated. “People who don’t officially exist.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You talk like someone who’s seen too many spy movies.”

“Try living one,” Marcus muttered.

Hart shot him a glare before focusing back on Ethan. “MI5’s been circling your name. The files I could access were mostly redacted. Tell me why they’d want you dead.”

Ethan glanced at Marcus. “Can you trace Division 9’s network?”

Marcus frowned. “You’re serious?”

“Do it.”

Hart frowned. “Division 9? That’s an old ghost story.”

“Then let’s see who’s still haunting it,” Ethan said.

Marcus cracked his knuckles and started typing. The air filled with the clatter of keys and the soft hum of machines. Lines of encrypted servers lit up one by one, their access nodes pinging from London to Zurich to Dubai.

Then the screen flashed red.

ACCESS DENIED. TRACE INITIATED.

“Shit,” Marcus hissed. “They saw me.”

Ethan stood. “Shut it down.”

Too late.

The power in the bar flickered. All screens went black. Outside, a van screeched to a halt.

Ethan’s instincts flared. “Move!”

Gunfire shattered the window. The bar exploded into chaos , patrons diving for cover. Ethan pulled Hart down as rounds ripped through bottles and glass.

Marcus ducked behind the counter, pulling a compact EMP device from his jacket. “Cover me!”

Ethan grabbed a broken table leg, using it to shatter the emergency exit door. He motioned to Hart. “Out, now!”

They burst into the alley, rain pouring again as if London itself was trying to wash away the violence.

Marcus followed, hitting the EMP. A surge of white noise screamed through the alley, killing lights and cameras in a fifty-meter radius.

They ran until they reached the next street. Hart bent over, catching her breath. “Who the hell are you?”

Ethan looked at her ,soaked, furious, confused. He saw the same look he’d once worn when he discovered Division 9’s true nature.

“Someone who used to believe in the same system that’s hunting us now,” he said.

Her jaw tightened. “You’re saying MI5’s behind this?”

“I’m saying they built something they can’t control.”

Before Hart could respond, a car engine growled nearby. Headlights flashed , once, twice. A signal.

Ethan turned toward it, ready to fight , but the driver’s door opened, and a familiar face stepped out.

Marcus.

He was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow, but he grinned. “That was fun. Got something before the system fried.” He tossed Ethan a flash drive. “Coordinates. MI5 archive. Division 9’s real headquarters.”

Ethan caught it. “Good work.”

Marcus’s grin faded. “Ethan… you might want to see who approved your kill order.”

Ethan plugged the drive into Hart’s handheld device. The file opened, flickering with MI5 headers and authorization stamps. One name appeared at the bottom.

APPROVED BY: GABRIEL ROTH, DIRECTOR, DIVISION 9.

Ethan felt the world tilt slightly.

Gabriel Roth was dead.

He’d watched the man burn in Prague.

Hart saw the color drain from his face. “Who is he?”

Ethan’s voice was low. “My mentor.”

Marcus frowned. “Then someone’s using his credentials.”

Ethan shook his head slowly. “Or he never died.”

A sudden noise cut through the rain , a faint beeping. Marcus looked down.

A small red light blinked under his sleeve.

“Tracker,” Ethan started.

The explosion threw them all off their feet.

Flames rolled across the alley. The van across the street disintegrated into shrapnel. Ethan hit the ground hard, ears ringing, smoke choking the air. When he lifted his head, he saw Marcus lying a few feet away, unmoving.

Hart crawled to him, shouting his name. No response. Blood pooled beneath his shoulder.

Ethan staggered to his knees. The flash drive ,gone, melted.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Hart turned on him, tears cutting through the grime on her face. “Whoever you are, Vale, you just got my partner killed!”

Ethan stared at her, eyes hollow. “No,” he said quietly. “They did. And they’re not done yet.”

Somewhere behind them, a phone buzzed ,Marcus’s. The screen still worked, cracked and glowing faintly.

A message displayed:

> “You’re late, Vale.”

Ethan’s breath caught. He’d seen those words before.

Hart glanced at him. “What does that mean?”

Ethan pocketed the phone, his voice cold and steady.

“It means Division 9 just came home.”