MIKE
I stared blankly at the news broadcast flickering on the screen inside Alpha HQ’s briefing room. The bold letters at the bottom screamed louder than the anchor’s voice:
“PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES ASSASSINATED – NATION IN SHOCK”
Even now, it felt unreal. America was on its knees, mourning a loss too heavy to comprehend.
Outside, angry crowds were gathering, demanding a public funeral. A proper farewell for a leader they believed in. But inside the White House, all we got was silence. No funeral plans. No press conference. Nothing but tension so thick, it clung to your lungs like smoke.
And then came the punch in the gut.
The FBI.
The CIA.
They pointed their fingers—not at the terrorists, not at foreign threats, but at us. AI Agents. The same people who had risked everything to keep this country safe. Now they labeled us traitors, scapegoats in a crisis we didn’t cause.
But what hit the hardest… was Alfred.
Agent Alfred was one of best. Stoic. Sharp. Loyal. This was his mission—his protection detail. And he had failed. Failed to protect the one person he was sworn to shield with his life.
Now he was gone. No word. No trace.
I walked briskly through the dim corridors of HQ. That’s when I saw Agent Freya, standing alone near the operations deck, arms crossed, her expression unusually tense.
“Freya,” I called, approaching her. “Have you seen Alfred?”
She looked up, startled. Her eyes met mine, and I saw something I rarely saw in her worry.
“I haven’t,” she said quietly. “He’s not answering any calls. Not even secure lines. I… I’m worried too, Mike. This isn’t like him.”
I nodded, jaw clenched. My mind raced. If Alfred was missing, it could only mean one of two things: he was hunting someone down… or someone was hunting him.
And with the world turning on us, the President gone, and the truth buried under layers of politics and betrayal…
…I had a bad feeling it was the second.
I barely had time to process what Freya told me before I spotted movement down the hall.
Agent Bea.
She moved slower than usual, her right arm still wrapped in gauze, and a thick bandage marked her forehead—scars from the ambush at President Ford’s safe house. She shouldn’t even be walking around. But the fire in her eyes told me she wasn’t here for rest.
Her eyes locked onto mine like a target.
“Mike,” she said sharply, voice low but firm.
I nodded slightly, offering a cautious greeting, but before I could speak another word, she grabbed my arm and tugged me toward one of the side briefing rooms. I didn’t resist. Something told me this wasn’t a request.
The door clicked shut behind us. Bea marched straight to the window and yanked the curtains closed with one swift motion.
Then, silence.
Just the two of us.
She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing as she stepped closer.
“You know something,” she said, her voice cold and cutting. “Don’t lie to me.”
I didn’t flinch, but the weight of her stare was brutal. Gone was the quiet, level-headed Bea I usually worked with. In her place was a woman barely holding together the grief and rage inside her.
“You were there, Mike,” she pressed on. “You saw the signs. You felt something off that day—we all did. But you… you’re holding something back.”
I clenched my jaw. I knew she was hurting. We all were. But if I said even one wrong word, it could trigger a storm none of us were ready for. Especially now, with Alfred missing, the President dead, and the Agency under fire.
So I did what I had to. I shrugged slowly and gave her a confused look.
“Bea… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her jaw tightened. She took a step back, eyes narrowing further as if trying to read between the lines of my soul.
“Really?” she scoffed. “That’s how it is? Playing innocent while the rest of us bleed?”
I didn’t answer. Silence was safer.
Her face hardened. “I used to trust you.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve.
Then she turned, opened the door, and left. I stood there for a long while, staring at the closed curtain, heart pounding with everything I wasn’t saying.
Because she was right.
I did know something.
And it scared the hell out of me.
I stayed in that room longer than I meant to. Bea’s words echoed in my head like gunshots in a hallway. "I used to trust you."
My thoughts were interrupted by a vibration in my jacket pocket. I blinked, pulled out my phone, and froze when I saw the name on the screen.
Alfred.
I didn’t think. I just answered.
“Alfred?” I said, already moving to shut the door again.
His voice came through, ragged, breathless. Like he’d been running.
“Mike—I don’t have time. I can’t explain over the phone. I need to see you.”
“Wait—Alfred, where are you? What happened—”
He cut me off.
“No time. I’ll send you the location. Come alone. And Mike… don’t tell Freya I called.”
The line went dead before I could respond.
A second later, a text buzzed in.
Coordinates. A time. 11:47 PM.
No signature, no explanation. Just the words:
"Come alone. Tell no one."
I stared at the message, heart hammering like a drum.
I slid the phone back into my pocket.
MEETING POINT
11:47 PM came and went.
I waited.
One minute turned into ten. Then thirty. Then a full hour.
I checked the time again—12:43 AM.
I was starting to think I’d been set up. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe this was someone else’s plan to get me isolated. Easy to take out, easy to blame.
And then I heard it.
The scuff of footsteps on gravel. Ragged, uneven. From the shadows between the derelict cargo containers, a figure emerged—stumbling, hood up, head low. My instincts kicked in, hand drifting to the grip of my sidearm, just in case.
But when the figure stepped into the light of the flickering lamp, my breath caught in my throat.
“Alfred…?”
It barely looked like him. His clothes were torn and stained, coated in dirt like he’d crawled through hell. A tattered scarf was wrapped around the lower half of his face, and his hoodie hung loose and filthy, completely disguising the sharp, clean-cut agent we all knew.
His eyes were sunken, bloodshot. He looked more like a beggar on the edge of collapse than one of the top protection agents of Alpha Intelligence.
But it was him.
He stopped a few feet away from me, swaying slightly, as if his legs were ready to give out.
“Mike,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and raw. “You came.”
I stepped forward, still stunned. “What the hell happened to you?”
He looked around with wild eyes, paranoid.
“Not here,” he muttered. “Too exposed. Too many ears.”
I didn’t argue. Something had clearly broken Alfred—and whatever it was, I had a feeling it was bigger than just the President’s death.
We moved quietly through the train yard, sticking to the shadows. Alfred led the way with the gait of a man who hadn't slept in days. He didn’t say a word, and I didn’t press him—not yet. We slipped through a gap in a rusted fence, past broken crates and forgotten debris, until we reached a worn-down structure—probably an old maintenance shed. He pushed the door open carefully, like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Inside, it was dim and silent, lit only by a single flickering desk lamp in the corner.
It wasn’t much—but it was clear Alfred had made this place his temporary home. There were signs everywhere—blankets piled in the corner, food wrappers, a first-aid kit cracked open, half-used bandages scattered across the floor. And then I noticed something else—along one of the walls.
Pictures. Maps. Newspaper clippings. String pinned across faces and locations.
A full-blown investigation.
My eyes narrowed. Some of the articles were about President Ford. Others were about previous security breaches, agents… names I recognized.
Alfred shrugged off his tattered disguise, tossing the ragged hoodie and scarf aside. Underneath was a worn tactical shirt, still stained with grime and blood. But it was the Alfred I knew—scarred, tired, but sharp.
He picked up a bottle of water from a crate and tossed it toward me.
“You thirsty?”
I caught it, unscrewed the cap.
“Yeah,” I muttered, still eyeing the wall. “You’ve been here a while.”
He exhaled and sat on an overturned metal case, wiping a hand down his face.
“Since the night of the ambush. I’ve been off-grid.”
I took a sip of water, the silence between us crackling with unspoken tension.
“Alfred…” I looked back at him. “What is all this?”
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then he stood up, stepped toward the wall, and tapped a photo of the President.
“I don’t think this was just an ambush, Mike”
Alfred’s fingers hovered over the photo of President Ford for a second longer before he moved it aside, revealing another—this one of Siren. Her cold, composed expression stared back at me through the grainy surveillance shot. My stomach tightened the second I saw her face.
“I didn’t want to believe it at first,” Alfred said, his voice low, almost as if saying it louder would make it more dangerous. “But the signatures on the detonation pattern... the proximity sensor triggers... the tech used in that ambush—they all trace back to Siren’s team.”
I stayed silent, listening. My grip tightened around the bottle.
“But here’s the thing,” he continued, turning toward me with eyes burning with clarity, “Siren didn’t kill the President. That wasn’t the plan. The bombs weren’t meant to hit his convoy directly. They were meant to drive him into the extraction zone. A controlled funnel.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re saying they wanted him alive?”
Alfred nodded. “Exactly. That’s what doesn’t make sense. Siren orchestrated the chaos—but someone else hijacked the outcome.” He moved to another photo, tapping it twice. “This is where it gets worse.”
I leaned closer and saw it—Agent Leon.
“
Leon was the one who pulled the President from the extraction route. He wasn’t even assigned that quadrant,” Alfred said. “But he was there. I found traffic camera footage, blurry but clear enough. He was the one who took the President. Not Siren.”
I felt a cold knot forming in my chest.
“So I started digging,” Alfred went on, pacing slowly, “trying to find any prior connection between the President and Siren. Any encrypted ops, backdoor dealings, something buried... but Mike—"
I turned toward him sharply.
"Stop digging, Alfred."
The room froze.
He looked at me like I’d just slapped him across the face.
“What…?”
I took a slow breath, then repeated, more firmly,
“I said stop digging.”
Something shifted in his expression—shock first, then disbelief.
“You knew?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You knew there was something there, and you didn’t say anything?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was—
Yeah. I knew.
And if Alfred kept digging…
We'd both be in more danger than either of us was ready for.
Alfred stared at me like I’d just punched the air out of his lungs. His hands dropped to his sides, shoulders stiff with disbelief.
“You knew,” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “How long, Mike?”
I looked away for a moment, jaw clenched. My silence was answer enough.
“I didn’t say anything,” I finally muttered, “because every time someone starts poking around where they shouldn’t... they end up dead.”
His brow furrowed.
“You think I’m afraid of dying?”
“No,” I said quickly, looking back at him. “I think you’re not afraid enough.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I stepped forward, firm.
“Agents Nicky. Dianne. Duke. Dereck.”
His breath hitched.
“They all started asking questions. Following trails that weren’t meant to be followed. And you know what happened, Alfred. You saw the reports. One by one... they were taken out. Missions gone sideways. ‘Accidents.’ ‘Stray bullets.’ 'Friendly fire.’”
I could see the fight in his eyes waver.
“I saw the same patterns you did,” I went on. “But I also saw the aftermath. Every. Damn. Time.”
His fists clenched.
“So we’re just supposed to let it go? Let her walk?”
“I’m saying if you keep going,” I said, stepping closer, lowering my voice, “you won’t just be putting yourself in danger. It’s your family too.”
His face twitched. I hit a nerve.
“They don’t just erase agents, Alfred. They erase everything connected to them. Your records, your contacts... your name. Gone. Like you never existed.”
He staggered back a step, like the weight of it all suddenly hit him.
“I don’t like it,” I added, softer this time. “I hate it. But right now, Siren’s name is like a lit fuse. And you... you’re holding the match.”
The silence between us was heavy, almost suffocating.
He looked away, breathing hard, the weight of everything pressing down on him.
Then, quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
I hesitated. “Because I hoped you wouldn’t go looking. But I should’ve known better.”
Alfred stood there, quiet, eyes fixed on the wall of clippings and red string. The air in the room felt heavy, like the ghosts of those lost agents were still here—watching us, waiting to see what we’d do next.
I thought maybe my words got through to him. Maybe he’d walk away from it all. Burn the evidence. Save himself.
But then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. For a second, my breath caught.
He walked over to the wall... stared at it...
And then—
He lit the corner of a blank folder on the table. Not the evidence. Just some old documents, empty case notes. Watched them burn until they curled and turned to ash.
Then he turned to me—eyes calm, no longer panicked. Just clear.
“I didn’t sign up to run,” he said quietly. “I signed up to protect this country. And if someone from the inside—someone like Siren—is playing both sides... then protecting the country means exposing them.”
I swallowed hard, a knot forming in my chest.
“You think I’m being reckless?” he continued, stepping closer to me. “Maybe I am. But I’d rather die doing what’s right than live knowing I let them win.”
He looked me straight in the eye.
“So what is it, Mike?” he asked, firm. “Are you with me?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’m not asking you to be reckless. I’m asking you to stop being afraid. I need to know—” his voice dropped to a near-whisper, “—do I have you? Or are you going to keep hiding behind fear like the rest of them?”