The hum of the transport jet was constant, a dull vibration beneath Silas's boots as the world stretched out below in twilight blues and grays. He hadn't slept since the debrief, not that he could—his mind replayed every image, every sound from the surveillance footage like a looping film reel.
Across from him, Agent Quinn glanced up from his tablet. "You're burning holes in that bulkhead, Kavanaugh. You all right?"
Silas barely nodded. "I'm fine. Just reviewing."
Quinn smirked. "You've been reviewing since we left Langley. The Geneva file isn't going to change itself."
Maybe not, Silas thought. But he could see the patterns. The angles of the security cameras, the timestamps out of sync by milliseconds. The kind of subtle interference you'd only notice if your brain refused to forget.
"Someone edited the archive feed," Silas said quietly. "Frame distortion in sequence six. It's deliberate."
Quinn raised an eyebrow. "You saying someone on the inside scrubbed it?"
Silas met his gaze. "I'm saying we're walking into a setup."
The aircraft lights dimmed as the pilot's voice crackled through. "Agents, we're descending into Geneva airspace. Local time—oh-six-hundred."
Quinn tucked his tablet away and grinned. "Good. Let's ruin someone's morning."
Silas looked out the window, the city coming into view—still, gleaming, asleep beneath a low layer of clouds. Somewhere down there, the truth was waiting.
And he wasn't leaving without it.
The car met them on the tarmac before the wheels had even cooled. A black Audi with diplomatic plates and windows tinted dark enough to make the Swiss morning vanish. The driver—mid-forties, clean-cut, silent—handed Quinn a sealed envelope and didn't speak again.
Quinn tore it open as they got in. "Orders from D.C.," he said, scanning quickly. "We're to liaise with INTERPOL and review the materials seized from the Zurich breach last night."
Silas's gaze stayed fixed on the skyline, but his mind wasn't still. Zurich breach. That wasn't in the Geneva briefing.
"Wait," he said. "What breach?"
"Cyber incursion on a diplomatic server. Someone funneled encrypted data through a backdoor linked to the Geneva Protocol investigation." Quinn closed the folder. "And guess who the access key belonged to?"
Silas didn't answer.
"Your parents' former research partner," Quinn finished. "Dr. Amelia Roarke."
Silas's fingers tightened slightly on the seat's edge. Roarke. He hadn't heard that name in years—not since the accident that wasn't an accident.
"Where is she?"
"Missing," Quinn said. "Interpol lost track of her twelve hours ago. Either she's on the run or someone made sure she disappeared."
The car pulled up outside the embassy annex. Frosted glass, steel edges, mirrored doors—modern fortress. Silas followed Quinn inside, flashing his ID to the Swiss security officers as they stepped into a sterile corridor.
Inside the briefing room, the monitors lit up with satellite feeds. One of them showed a body being pulled from Lake Geneva—female, late forties.
The INTERPOL liaison cleared his throat. "We believe this may be Dr. Roarke."
Silas leaned closer. "No. That's not her." He didn't need a second look; his memory was absolute. The bone structure, the scar under the jaw—it was similar, but not identical.
Quinn shot him a questioning look. "You're sure?"
"Positive," Silas said. "This is a decoy."
The liaison frowned. "Then someone wanted us to think she was dead."
"Which means," Silas replied, "she's very much alive—and whoever's chasing her is still close."
The room fell silent. The realization hung like smoke.
Then Quinn's phone buzzed. He glanced at the message, and his expression shifted. "We've got movement on the eastern sector. A warehouse near the river. Unregistered trucks offloading equipment. Locals say they've seen armed security."
Silas grabbed his jacket. "Let's move."
---
By the time they reached the docks, Geneva was awake—the air thick with fog and diesel. They moved in with tactical precision, Quinn covering the rear as Silas slipped into the shadows of the loading yard.
He spotted two guards. Armed. Russian accents. Private contractors. The kind that vanished after the job was done.
Silas tapped his earpiece. "Two at the gate. Movement pattern repeats every forty seconds. On my mark."
Quinn's voice came back steady. "Copy. Mark."
The takedown was silent. One sweep, two bodies down. Silas dragged them behind a container before slipping toward the main building.
Inside, the hum of servers filled the air—hundreds of them stacked in glass racks, lights pulsing in synchronized rhythm. And at the center of the room stood a woman in a white coat, tapping rapidly on a console.
"Dr. Roarke," Silas said softly.
She turned. Older now, worn by years of running. But the recognition in her eyes was immediate. "Silas… I was hoping you'd find me."
Quinn stepped in, weapon drawn. "Ma'am, step away from the terminal."
Roarke didn't move. "You don't understand. They're already in the system. The Geneva Protocol isn't a treaty—it's an algorithm. A containment failsafe. If they activate it, global intelligence collapses."
Silas felt his pulse spike. "Who's they?"
Roarke hesitated, then whispered: "The Shadow Directive. And your parents died trying to stop them."
Before Quinn could respond, the overhead lights flickered—and the far door exploded inward.
Armed men poured in, black armor, suppressed rifles.
"Contact!" Quinn shouted.
Silas dove behind a console as bullets shattered glass. He grabbed Roarke, pulling her down. "Stay low!"
The firefight was brutal. Precision shots, short bursts. Silas's mind processed everything—angles, sound echoes, the reflection of a gun barrel in broken glass. His memory turned chaos into a map.
He moved fast, three steps, one shot—another man down. Quinn covered the flank.
Then silence. Smoke and static.
When the haze cleared, Roarke was gone.
"Dammit," Quinn cursed. "She bolted."
Silas scanned the floor—footprints, light scuff marks heading toward the drainage exit. She'd planned this.
He looked at the terminal, the last command still visible:
> TRANSFER_INITIATE: SHADOW.DIRECTIVE/ENCRYPT
The screen flickered, then went black.
---
Outside, sirens wailed in the distance. The Swiss police would be there in minutes.
Silas stared at the reflection in the puddle beside him—the flickering red lights dancing across his face. His reflection looked like a stranger now.
He whispered, "What the hell did you start, Mom?"