January 8, 2030
The ticking of the wall clock was too loud. Anne had always hated that clock. It was oversized, industrial, mounted like a surveillance eye above the glass-paneled wall of the fourth-floor executive wing of HelixCross Logistics. Now, as she walked stiffly through the corridor flanked by the three supposed agents, she realized it wasn't the clock that had changed. It was her.
Her heels clicked against the polished floor, each step matching the pounding in her chest. The men flanked her in a loose triangle—too casual to be obvious, but unmistakably tactical. The lead agent walked slightly ahead, talking into a concealed mic. The one on her left kept adjusting the cuff of his jacket. Gun holster.
Anne's breathing steadied. Her eyes tracked their formation through the reflection in the wall's glass. Her mouth remained neutral, but her mind had already begun mapping.
Two exits ahead. South stairwell, left. West elevators, straight.
Security checkpoint three doors down. If they've taken it over, cameras will already be on a loop.
Her muscles burned beneath her blouse like coiled springs. The dull ache in her side from Blackridge faded beneath adrenaline. She slowed slightly, letting the man behind her close the gap. Her hand brushed against the edge of the wall as they passed a structural recess.
Then she moved.
Her elbow shot back hard into the agent's throat, crushing his windpipe with clinical precision. As he staggered, gasping, she twisted his wrist and pried the weapon from his shoulder holster in one motion. Her fingers closed around the cold grip of the handgun.
"DOWN!" shouted the lead agent.
Anne dropped low and fired—a clean shot into the second man's knee. Blood arced. He screamed as he collapsed. The corridor exploded into chaos.
The remaining agent dove behind a column, returning fire. Shards of glass rained as bullets hit the walls. Anne rolled behind a support beam, her mind as sharp as the edge of a scalpel.
She popped up, aimed. A warning shot shattered the security camera above. Then another. And another. She fired with outstanding accuracy, eliminating the eyes in the sky one by one.
Downstairs, in the security room, Marcus stared in horror as the monitors blinked out, static flooding the wall of screens. His jaw clenched.
"What are you doing, Anne?" he whispered, his voice barely audible above the sirens beginning to wail.
But even he didn't reach for the emergency lockdown. Not yet.
Anne sprinted, weaving through the corridor like a shadow in motion. She burst through the fire door and into the stairwell. Her movements were fluid, practiced—far too practiced for a woman who had claimed amnesia.
Fourth floor. Third,
She heard the pounding of boots above. Reinforcements.
She reached the second floor landing and crouched beside the concrete railing. She checked the clip—four rounds. Not enough. She slid the knife from the boot of one of the fallen agents, blood still wet on its tip.
They thought she was a witness. A victim.
They were wrong.
Her descent into the parking level was a blur of motion and memory—Blackridge's steel corridors flashing in her mind. The music. The smoke. The bodies.
The moment she pushed open the stairwell door to the parking lot, she knew they were waiting.
Black cars lined the exit, engines idling. Men in tactical gear fanned out, weapons drawn.
Anne raised the gun and fired the last four bullets into the overhead light. Darkness and confusion.
Then—
She clicked the key fob in her coat pocket. Her car's headlights flashed once. Twice.
Then the vehicle exploded.
The shockwave hurled two of the men to the ground, flames engulfing the lower chassis of the nearest car. Shouts rang out—some in English, some in Russian.
Anne was already moving.
She used the smoke as cover, sliding beneath one of the burning vehicles, slashing at the Achilles tendon of a guard who had approached. He fell screaming. She rose, pistol now empty, but knife still gleaming.
Another lunged at her—too slow.
She twisted inside his reach, grabbed the barrel of his weapon, and slammed her knee into his ribs. He doubled over. She slashed upward with the knife, a clean arc across his throat.
A third attacker charged. This one faster.
She sidestepped, grabbed his collar, and spun him into the concrete pillar. His head cracked against it, and he went limp.
Only two left. One ran. The other raised a sidearm, hand trembling.
Anne met his eyes. For a second, he hesitated.
That was all she needed.
She hurled the knife—spinning end over end—until it buried itself in his chest. He collapsed backward, dead before he hit the ground.
The parking lot fell silent except for the hiss of burning oil and the distant shriek of the building's alarm.
Anne stood in the center of the wreckage, blood on her hands, smoke curling around her silhouette like a cloak.
No longer just a survivor.
Now, unmistakably, something far more dangerous.
And above, in the CCTV room, Marcus stared at the frozen image of her walking through fire.
He didn't whisper this time.
He simply said, "God help us."