MIKE
In minutes, the front gates burst open, and several black AI agency vehicles pulled in. Medics in uniform rushed out first, followed by a few tactical agents securing the perimeter. Then came a car in the middle—sleek, tinted, and unmistakably official.
Ms. Marsha stepped out. Director Leo followed, He surveyed the scene with a tight jaw, but it was Ms. Marsha who reacted first. She didn’t waste a second. Her heels clicked sharply against the stone path as she made a beeline straight to us—or more specifically, to Alfred.
“Alfred,” she said coldly, her voice laced with quiet fury. “You were supposed to protect the president, not leave him vulnerable to two separate attacks.”
Alfred straightened, silent. He didn’t flinch under her gaze, but I could tell he was barely holding himself back.
“Do you even understand the gravity of this?!” she continued, voice rising just a notch. “Marvin is dead, three agents are still unconscious, and the safehouse has been breached. Explain to me—how did this happen?”
He opened his mouth, but I stepped in.
“We were ambushed,” I said firmly. “Two separate teams—trained, fast, lethal. One group was clearly not associated with the other. And one of them… was Leon.”
That made her stop.
Ms. Marsha blinked.
“Leon?”
Even Director Leo’s eyes narrowed at the name. He stepped forward, finally speaking.
“Are you sure?”
Alfred gave a stiff nod. “I saw him. It was him.”
Ms. Marsha glanced at Director Leo. A silent exchange passed between them—one I couldn’t read. But what I did see was her mask of composure faltering for just a second.
“Clean up your mess,” she snapped, tone colder than before. “If you can’t keep the mission under control, I’ll find people who can.”
Then, without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and marched toward her car. The door slammed shut, and moments later, her vehicle roared to life and disappeared down the road. I exhaled through my nose, jaw clenched, pulse still high from the earlier chaos.
Director Leo remained.
He didn’t look furious—he didn’t have to. His calm, stern expression said more than anger ever could. He took a few steps toward us, hands behind his back.
“Leon,” he said flatly. “Elite Agent Leon was at the scene. I want to know why.”
Alfred and I exchanged a glance.
“We don’t know,” I answered honestly. “He wasn’t part of the initial attack. He arrived with the second group. But… something felt off.”
“I saw him with my own eyes,” Alfred added. “He wasn’t in command. He was watching, as if… evaluating something.”
Director Leo’s brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of thought behind his eyes.
“So you're telling me an Elite Agent showed up in the middle of an assault on the president, and neither of you have a clue why?”
“We’re telling you something deeper is going on,” I said. “Something bigger than what we’re seeing.”
He stared at us for a long moment. The weight of his silence pressed down like a verdict.
“If you find out anything—anything—you report to me. Directly. No detours, no delays.”
We both nodded.
Director Leo looked around one last time, as if memorizing the scene, then turned and walked toward the backup team, barking new orders.
The stretcher creaked as they lifted Bea into the ambulance. Her face was pale, smudged with dust and dried blood I climbed in right after the medics, while Alfred followed without a word. The doors shut behind us.
Alfred sat across from me, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on Bea like he was willing her to wake up.
“What happened?” he finally asked, his voice low, strained. “To Bea. What the hell happened out there?”
I took a breath, glanced down at Bea, then back at him.
“There was a report from the security team—plastic bag with scattered water bottles just two kilometers from the house. It looked odd, out of place. So Bea and I went to check it out.” I paused, the image of the wooded path flashing back in my mind.
“When we got there, she handed me gloves. We picked up the bottles, sealed them for DNA analysis. She handed them to one of the guards to deliver to Marvin.”
I hesitated for a second. Alfred leaned forward, waiting.
“I wandered off a bit… and then I saw it. A paper hanging on a tree branch. Looked intentional, like it was meant to be seen. I reached for it—” my voice lowered, jaw tightening. “And that’s when the explosion hit.”
Alfred’s eyes widened slightly.
“It went off just a few feet from Bea’s position. Guards were hit too. It was chaos. I ran straight for her—she was unconscious, but breathing. I got her out of there fast, left her with one of the guards and told him not to leave her side until medics arrived.”
Alfred leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands.
“Damn it…”
“She almost died, Alfred,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “And then gunfire broke out at the safehouse. Everything unraveled in minutes. It wasn’t random.”
He met my gaze, expression dark.
“No, it wasn’t.”
When the ambulance pulled into the gravel drive of AMC General Hospital, the scene was eerily quiet despite the urgency. Nestled in a remote area just two blocks from the safe house, the hospital looked more like a private facility than a public one—its walls hidden behind tall trees and barbed fences.
As the medics opened the back doors and began unloading Bea, I jumped down, ready to help, when I suddenly froze.
A man stood by the entrance. White coat, clipboard in hand, sharp eyes that hadn’t aged a day. I blinked.
It was him.
The same doctor who treated me during that chaotic night at the grand ball in Albania. The one who stitched me up after the undercover explosion, and slipped away before I could even catch his name.
He spotted me too. His eyes lingered for a second, not with recognition—more like calculation—then darted toward the ambulance as they wheeled Bea out.
He walked briskly to the medics, his tone firm but calm.
“Move her to OR 2. Page Dr. Kael and Dr. Henri—stat. I want vitals on screen in two minutes.”
The staff moved like lightning under his command.
He turned his head slightly as we entered the sliding doors.
“She’s stable for now. But that shrapnel’s near her ribs—we’ll have to be quick.”
Alfred leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands locked together as if in silent prayer. His eyes were fixed on the floor, brows furrowed so tightly it carved lines deeper into his face than usual.
I didn’t say anything at first. I knew that look. That weight.
Frustration. Guilt. Confusion.
“I should’ve seen it coming,” he muttered finally, voice low. “I should’ve known something was off from the start.”
I looked at him, quiet for a beat. “It’s not on you.”
He shook his head, a bitter breath escaping his lips.
“I’m the one leading this mission, Mike. I gave the call. I let Bea walk into a trap. I—damn it—”
Alfred didn’t look at me. He just leaned back against the chair and stared up at the ceiling like maybe he was searching for some divine answer.
“Feels like we’re running in the dark. No maps. No compass. Just orders and expectations.”
“I get it. You carry the team’s weight. Every hit, every scar—it leaves something behind. And when one of your people gets hurt… you take it personally.”
The buzz of my phone broke the stillness between us. I pulled it from my pocket, the glow of the screen cutting through the dim hospital lobby light. It was a message—from Ms. Marsha.
"Mandatory meeting. Headquarters. One hour. I have an announcement."
I showed the message to Alfred, who gave a tired exhale through his nose. His eyes were still dull from the weight of everything, but he nodded.
“No rest for the damned, huh?” he muttered as he stood up slowly, adjusting the collar of his jacket.
Without another word, we exited the hospital.