“Die Now” — The SEAL General Tried to Crush Her in a Locked Backroom, Not Knowing He Had Just Laid Hands on a Black Ops Assassin Trained to Break Men Who Thought They Could End Her Life With a Single Command…

The rain hammered relentlessly against the wide glass windows of the small coffee shop tucked into a narrow street of downtown Seattle, the kind of icy, needling rain that could turn even the brightest neon sign into a blurred smear of color while the scent of espresso and damp wool clothing drifted across the room like a layered fog.

Maya Chen sat alone in a shadowed corner booth, fingers wrapped around a ceramic cup that radiated gentle heat into her palms, her shoulders hunched slightly beneath a plain black blazer that did nothing to reflect the truth of who she was, what she had done, or what she had been sent here to finish.

To any passerby glancing in through the window, she looked like nothing more than another tired corporate worker on the brink of burnout, someone squeezing caffeine into a long evening the same way every other office-bound soul tried to push through the dragging gravity of a winter afternoon.

Her jeans were worn, her hair pinned back in an unremarkable style that might have belonged to a woman who balanced spreadsheets or processed insurance claims, and her expression, soft and slightly distant, mirrored the weary quiet of a person who had lost themselves in thought rather than the cold precision of a covert operative preparing to dismantle a traitor’s final steps.

No one staring at her from the outside would ever guess that beneath this mild exterior lay a history carved in classified missions, a body conditioned by years of relentless training, and a mind honed into something sharper than most people would ever encounter in their lives.

For the past three weeks she had been tracking Marcus Cain — a man whose military record gleamed with commendations, whose physique resembled the statues of victorious warriors that lined the halls of recruitment centers, whose name once elicited respect throughout the naval community — but whose fall from grace had been so catastrophic and so devastating that the echo of it still reverberated across the intelligence world.

Cain, a decorated Navy SEAL general turned private military contractor, had begun selling classified information to the highest bidders, and those bidders were not businessmen, not strategists, not benign foreign entities; they were hostile actors hidden behind velvet curtains of diplomacy, their desires rooted in the elimination of American operatives and destabilization of covert networks.

His betrayal had cost twelve operatives their lives — one of them a woman Maya had once trained with, laughed with, bled beside — and although Maya had been told repeatedly that this mission was strategic, calculated, objective, she knew with a cold certainty deep in her chest that this assignment was far more personal than she would ever admit aloud.

She lifted her wrist just slightly, her watch face glowing faintly beneath the dim lighting, and noted the time with the same precision she applied to every movement.

Cain should have been arriving at the hotel across the street in ten minutes, scheduled to meet with a buyer whose identity her organization had yet to unmask.

She had spent nights planning the intercept, mapping the hotel’s service corridors, identifying the blind spots in the security cameras, memorizing every possible exit route in case the situation turned volatile.

But as she prepared to rise from her seat, her fingers brushing the surface of her now-cooling drink, the chime of the café door shifted the air as decisively as if someone had cut the room’s oxygen supply in half.

Marcus Cain stepped inside.

He filled the doorway with a presence that didn’t require introduction or explanation — a broad frame wrapped in a civilian jacket that did nothing to diminish the unmistakable military bearing in his posture, his movements, or the calculated way his eyes sliced across the room as if assessing every potential threat with ingrained habit.

He was taller than she remembered from the photos and recordings, with strands of gray threading through his hair at the temples, giving him the look of a man whose experience ran deep and whose authority ran deeper, and his blue eyes, cold and searching, swept across each table before settling near the window.

He moved with the calm aggression of someone who did not fear confrontation because he had lived through too many to count, the type of man who, even stripped of rank and armor, could still dominate a room with nothing more than his breath and his presence.

Maya lowered her gaze, letting her hair fall slightly forward as she pretended to scroll through her phone, her pulse quickening in a carefully controlled rhythm that gave no outward sign of the shift inside her.

Cain was not supposed to be here.
Not now.
Not like this.

Her carefully orchestrated plan evaporated with the subtle movement of him choosing a table, ordering a black coffee in a voice that rippled with unspoken command, and sitting down as though the entire world had bent itself to accommodate his timing.

This deviation was dangerous.

A change in schedule meant a change in risk, a potential breach in the surveillance pattern she had established, and yet as he took his seat, waiting with an expression that hovered between impatience and vigilance, she realized that opportunity often surfaced brightest where structure fell apart.

She rose from the booth with a slow, measured breath, gathering her things casually enough that no one would note anything out of place, and walked past Cain’s table as though heading for the restroom.

As she approached him, she let her foot “catch” on the edge of a table leg, sending her forward in a stumbling motion that sent the last of her coffee spilling across the front of his shirt and lap.

Cain shot up from his seat with a curse, chair screeching against tile, and several heads turned at the sudden noise.

“I’m so sorry,” Maya said quickly, leaning down with napkins she grabbed from a nearby holder, dabbing at the coffee stain with practiced urgency, her face a convincing picture of frantic embarrassment.

Cain stiffened, jaw clenched, annoyed but fighting to maintain composure in a public space.
“It’s fine,” he muttered sharply.
But Maya saw the flicker — the tightening around his eyes, the spark of anger beginning to build, the suspicion unfurling beneath the surface.

She pressed closer for half a second longer than necessary, and her fingers slipped into the inner fold of his jacket as though attempting to clean the fabric, planting a tracker the size of a dime beneath the lining with a movement so minute no civilian would ever detect it.

But Marcus Cain was not a civilian.

His hand shot out, clamping around her wrist with the brutal precision of a trap, stopping her movement instantly.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice low and lethal, the kind of voice that preceded violence.

Maya tried to pull back, feigning confusion and fear, but his grip tightened, iron-strong, unyielding.

Wrong answer.
Cain twisted her arm behind her back with practiced ease and shoved her toward the back of the café, eyes cutting across the room as though daring anyone to ask questions.

None did.
His dominance paralyzed them.

Her mind raced as he forced her through the café’s back hallway toward the storage room.
She could break free — her training made that part easy — but the moment she revealed her strength, her anonymity evaporated, and anonymity was the last shield she possessed.

Cain kicked open the storage room door and shoved her inside, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle the supplies stacked against the far wall.

The light overhead flickered ominously, illuminating the shelves of coffee beans, boxes of cups, and industrial cleaning materials, casting sharp-edged shadows across the cramped space.

“Start talking,” Cain said, stepping in close, blocking her exit with the solid weight of his body. “Who sent you? CIA? FBI? Or is it one of my old partners who thinks I owe them something?”

Maya let her breath tremble, eyes widening with false fear.
“Please… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.
“I spilled coffee. That’s all.”

Cain’s laugh was short, sharp, cruel.
“I’ve been doing this for twenty years,” he growled. “I know surveillance when I see it. And that little trick with your hand? Not smooth enough.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the tracking device she had planted — crushed between his fingers.

“One more time,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice to something far deadlier.
“Who sent you?”

She realized then that her cover was gone, every layer of her façade stripped away by a man whose instincts were sharpened by warfare.

She tried one last time to deescalate.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said quietly.
“You should let me go. Walk away.”

Cain’s lips curled.
“Or what? You’ll complain to the barista?”

His hand drifted toward his waistband.
A weapon.

Her window of restraint slammed shut.

He narrowed his eyes.
“Last chance,” he whispered.
“Tell me who you are… or die.”

And that was the moment Maya Chen — the woman the intelligence world whispered about but never documented — stopped pretending to be anything other than exactly what she was.

Continue in C0mment 👇👇

The rain hammered against the windows of the small coffee shop in downtown Seattle. As Maya Chen sat in the corner booth, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup. To anyone watching, she looked like just another tired office worker grabbing caffeine before heading home. Her simple black blazer and worn jeans gave no hint of the deadly skills hidden beneath her quiet exterior.

She had been tracking Marcus Cain for 3 weeks now. The decorated Navy Seal turned private military contractor had been selling classified information to foreign buyers, and Ma’s handler had made it clear this mission was top priority. What made it personal was that Cain’s betrayal had cost the lives of 12 operatives, including someone Maya had once called a friend. Maya glanced at her watch.

Cain would be arriving at the hotel across the street in 10 minutes for a meeting with his latest buyer. She had planned every detail of the intercept, from the route she would take through the hotel’s service corridors to the exact spot where she would confront him. But as she prepared to leave, the coffee shop door chimed and everything changed.

Marcus Cain walked in, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe. Even in civilian clothes, his military bearing was unmistakable. He was taller than his photos suggested. With graying hair at his temples and cold blue eyes that swept the room with practiced efficiency, Maya kept her head down, pretending to read her phone while her pulse quickened.

Cain ordered a black coffee and chose a table near the window, apparently waiting for someone. Maya realized this wasn’t part of his known schedule. Her carefully laid plans were now useless, but opportunity had walked right into her lap. She needed to adapt quickly. Standing slowly, Maya made her way toward the restroom, which required passing Cain’s table.

As she drew near, she deliberately stumbled, spilling her remaining coffee across his lap. Cain shot to his feet with a curse, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I’m so sorry,” Maya exclaimed, grabbing napkins from nearby tables. “Let me help you clean that up.” She began dabbing at the stain while Cain stood rigid, clearly annoyed, but trying to maintain composure in the public space.

“It’s fine,” Cain said tursly. But Maya could see the anger building in his eyes. She pressed closer, using the cleaning motion as cover to plant a small tracking device in the inner pocket of his jacket. Her fingers worked with the precision of years of training. But Cain was no ordinary mark. His hand suddenly clamped down on her wrist like a steel trap.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low and dangerous. And Maya realized her cover was blown. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, trying to pull away, but Cain’s grip tightened. Years of combat training had given him reflexes that few could match, and he had felt the subtle movement of her fingers near his pocket.

Wrong answer,” Cain growled. Without warning, he twisted her arm behind her back and shoved her toward the rear of the coffee shop. The few other customers looked up in alarm, but Cain’s commanding presence made them hesitate to intervene. Maya’s mind raced as Cain forced her toward the shop’s back room.

She could break free easily enough, but doing so would reveal training that no ordinary civilian should possess. Her cover identity as Sarah Mitchell, insurance investigator, would be shattered. But if she didn’t act soon, Cain might discover who she really was, and that would put not just her mission, but her life in danger. Cain kicked open the door to the storage room and pushed Maya inside, slamming it shut behind them.

The small space smelled of coffee beans and cleaning supplies, lit only by a single harsh bulb hanging from the ceiling. Start talking, Cain said, backing her against a wall of supply shelves. Who sent you? CIA, FBI, or are you working for one of my former business partners who thinks I owe them something? Maya kept her expression confused and frightened, playing the innocent victim.

Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just spilled coffee on you by accident. You’re scaring me. Cain’s laugh was cold and humorless. Lady, I’ve been in this game for 20 years. I can spot surveillance from a mile away, and your little slight of hand with my jacket wasn’t as smooth as you think.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tracking device, crushing it between his fingers, so I’ll ask you one more time. Who are you working for? Maya realized she was running out of options. Cain was clearly more paranoid and skilled than her intel had suggested. she could continue the charade, but he obviously wasn’t buying it.

Her handler had been specific about avoiding unnecessary complications. But Cain was about to become a very necessary complication. “You’re making a mistake,” Maya said quietly, her voice taking on a harder edge. “You should let me go and walk away from this.” Cain stepped closer, invading her personal space.

“Or what? You’ll file a complaint with management?” His hand moved to his waistband and Maya caught the glint of metal. He was armed, probably with a concealed pistol. The situation was escalating beyond what she could control with words alone. “Last chance,” Cain said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me who you are, or I’m going to assume you’re here to kill me and act accordingly.

” Maya met his gaze steadily, no longer bothering to hide the calculating intelligence in her eyes. You really don’t want to find out who I am, Marcus. Some doors once opened can never be closed again. The use of his name hit Cain like a physical blow. His eyes widened momentarily before narrowing to dangerous slits.

So, you do know me. That confirms you’re not just some random insurance investigator. His hand moved to his weapon, but Maya was already in motion. She grabbed a heavy jar of coffee grounds from the shelf beside her and swung it at Cain’s head. He ducked, but the distraction gave her the split second she needed to slip past him toward the door.

Cain lunged after her, his military training making him faster than most. But Maya had advantages he couldn’t see coming. She spun and kicked, her heel connecting with Cain’s solar plexus. He grunted and staggered back, surprise replacing anger in his expression. The kick had been precise, delivered with a power and technique that spoke of extensive martial arts training.

No insurance investigator moved like that. Cain straightened slowly, reassessing his opponent with new respect and weariness. Well, well, looks like Sarah Mitchell isn’t who she claims to be. He pulled his weapon, a compact Glock that he handled with practiced ease. But whoever you are, you’re not walking out of here until I get some answers.

Maya raised her hands slowly. But her posture was far from defeated. You’re right about one thing, Marcus. I’m not Sarah Mitchell. But if you pull that trigger, you’re going to learn exactly who you’re dealing with, and it’s going to be the last lesson of your life. The two operatives faced each other in the cramped storage room.

Years of training and experience creating a tension that seemed to crackle in the air between them. Cain had the weapon, but something in Maya’s calm confidence suggested that might not matter as much as he thought. Outside, the rain continued to fall, and neither of them knew that this moment would change both their lives forever.

Cain’s finger tightened on the trigger as he made his decision. Whatever game they were playing was about to become deadly serious, and only one of them would walk out of that room with their secrets intact. The silence in the storage room stretched for what felt like hours, but was probably only seconds. Cain kept his weapon trained on Maya while she remained perfectly still.

Her hands raised, but her stance, ready for action. The harsh light from the single bulb cast sharp shadows across both their faces, highlighting the tension that filled the small space. “You know what I think?” Cain said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his system.

“I think you’re here to eliminate me.” Someone finally decided that Marcus Cain knew too much and needed to be permanently silenced. His grip on the Glock remained rock steady, the product of countless hours of training. Maya tilted her head slightly. studying him with an intensity that made Cain uncomfortable. You’re half right.

Someone does want you dead, Marcus. But it’s not why you think, and I’m not here as your executioner. Then why are you here to save your life? Cain’s laugh was bitter. Right. And I suppose you’re going to tell me that everything I think I know is wrong. That I’m actually the good guy in some twisted spy novel. Maya lowered her hands slowly, ignoring the way Cain tensed.

3 weeks ago, someone put a contract on your head. A very expensive contract, the kind that attracts the best killers money can buy. My organization intercepted the communication. And I was sent to find you first. Your organization, Cain repeated skeptically. Let me guess. You’re with some black ops group that doesn’t officially exist and you’re here to recruit me for a mission that will clear my name and restore my honor.

Cacted King Crass’s people without I wearing some to me for one ovation two more lime nothing that dramatic. Maya said I work for people who clean up messes before they become international incidents. You’ve become a very big mess, Marcus. The question is whether we’re going to clean it up with your cooperation or over your dead body.

Cain’s expression hardened. Is that a threat? It’s a reality check. The contract on your life is real. The people who want you dead aren’t going to stop because you’re hiding in coffee shops in Seattle. and the information you’ve been selling, it’s going to get a lot more people killed if it ends up in the wrong hands. For the first time since entering the storage room, Cain’s certainty wavered.

“How do you know about the information?” Maya reached slowly into her jacket pocket, moving carefully to avoid triggering Cain’s combat reflexes. She pulled out a photograph and held it where he could see it. The image showed a dead man in military fatigues lying in what appeared to be a desert environment. Recognize him? Maya asked.

Kane’s face went pale. That’s Lieutenant Colonel James Morrison. He was killed 6 months ago in Syria. IED attack. Wrong. Morrison was executed by enemy forces who knew exactly where his patrol would be and when. They knew because someone sold them detailed intelligence about coalition movements in that sector.

Mia’s voice was cold and factual. Morrison was married with three kids. The youngest just turned seven. Cain stared at the photograph, his weapon wavering for the first time. You’re saying that my information got Morrison killed? I’m saying that Morrison was the first. 12 more died over the following months, all because someone was feeding operational intelligence to hostile forces.

The pattern was clear enough that it triggered an investigation, which led us to you. Cain lowered his weapons slightly, confusion replacing anger in his expression. That’s impossible. I never sold operational intelligence. My buyers were only interested in equipment specifications and training protocols. Nothing that could compromise active missions.

Maya studied his face carefully. Years of training had taught her to read micro expressions and body language. And everything about Cain’s reaction suggested genuine surprise and horror. Either he was an exceptionally skilled liar or he truly didn’t know that his information had led to deaths. “Show me what you sold,” Maya said.

“What? You heard me. Show me exactly what information you provided to your buyers. Every file, every document, every piece of data. If you’re telling the truth, then someone else is playing a much more dangerous game than either of us realized.” Cain hesitated, then holstered his weapon. It’s not here. Everything’s encrypted and stored in a secure location.

But I can tell you that it was all technical data, weapon specifications, communication protocols, training manuals. Nothing operational. Maya nodded slowly. That’s what someone wanted you to think. But technical data can be just as dangerous as operational intelligence if it’s used correctly. Communication protocols can tell you when and where units will be vulnerable.

Training manuals can reveal tactical patterns that make ambushes easier to plan. But I was careful, Cain protested. I only dealt with buyers who had legitimate research interests, defense contractors, allied governments, academic institutions. And how did you verify those buyers were who they claimed to be? Cain’s silence was answer enough.

Maya pulled out her phone and showed him a series of photographs. Each image showed a different person, but they all shared certain characteristics that marked them as professional operatives. These are some of the people who have purchased your information over the past year, Maya explained.

They’re all working for the same organization using different identities and cover stories to make multiple purchases. They’re not researchers or contractors, Marcus. They’re intelligence operatives for a hostile foreign power. Cain sank against the wall. The full weight of what Maya was telling him finally hitting home.

My god, I really did get those people killed. Not intentionally, but the result is the same. Maya put her phone away and studied Cain’s stricken expression. The question now is what we do about it. We Maya made a decision that would have surprised her handler. The contract on your life is real, but it’s not coming from the families of the people who died.

It’s coming from your buyers. Number seven, one. They’ve gotten everything they need from you, and now you’re a liability they want eliminated. Cain looked up sharply. How do you know that? Because they tried to hire my organization to kill you. When we refused, they went to other sources. By our count, there are at least three different assassination teams looking for you right now.

All highly skilled, all extremely motivated by the substantial bounty on your head. The storage room seemed to shrink around them as the implications sank in. Cain was being hunted by professionals, and Maya was the only thing standing between him and a violent death. So, what do you propose we do? Cain asked. Maya was quiet for a long moment, weighing her options.

Her mission had been to locate Cain and assess the situation. Officially, her organization’s interest ended there. But standing in this storage room, looking at a man who had been manipulated into treason and was now marked for death, she found herself making a choice that went beyond her orders.

“We’re going to find the people who used you,” Maya said finally. We’re going to get the stolen intelligence back and we’re going to make sure they can’t use it to kill anyone else. Cain stared at her. Why would you help me? According to everything you’ve told me. I’m a traitor who got good people killed because you were a weapon that someone else pointed and fired.

That makes you a victim, too, even if you don’t want to admit it. Maya moved toward the door, then paused. But mostly because those three assassination teams aren’t just hunting you anymore. By approaching you here, I’ve blown my cover. Now they’ll be coming for me, too. Cain straightened, his military bearing, reasserting itself.

Not much. I disabled my tracking beacon before entering the coffee shop. But my organization will expect a status report within the hour. when they don’t get one, they’ll assume I’m compromised. And the assassination teams, Maya checked her watch. If they’re as good as their reputation suggests, “They’re already moving.

We have maybe 2 hours before this area becomes extremely dangerous.” Cain nodded, falling into the tactical mindset that had kept him alive through multiple combat deployments. Everything you have on your buyers, real names, contact methods, meeting locations, financial arrangements, everything. Maya opened the storage room door and peered out into the coffee shop.

The few customers had left, probably disturbed by the commotion earlier, and we need to move right now. As they prepared to leave the coffee shop together, neither Maya nor Cain realized that their conversation had been monitored. In a van parked three blocks away, a woman in tactical gear lowered her headphones and smiled coldly. “Target acquired,” she spoke into her radio.

“Both targets are moving together, engaging as planned. The hunt was about to begin and the stakes had just gotten much higher than either Maya or Cain could imagine. Maya and Cain slipped out the back exit of the coffee shop into the alley behind the building. The rain had intensified, creating a curtain of water that would help conceal their movements, but also limit their visibility.

Maya pulled up the hood of her jacket and gestured for Cain to follow her toward the street. “My safe house is six blocks from here,” she said quietly. We can review your files there and plan our next move. Cain nodded. But something in his expression made Maya pause. Years of reading people had taught her to recognize when someone was holding back information.

What aren’t you telling me? She asked. Cain glanced around the alley nervously. The files aren’t at my place. I’ve been keeping everything in a storage unit across town. After what happened to Morrison and the others, I started getting paranoid about security. That’s actually smart, but it means we’ll have to travel across the city while people are actively hunting us.

Maya pulled out her phone and checked for messages. Nothing yet, but that would change soon. How far is the storage facility? About 20 minutes by car. But I don’t have a vehicle here. Maya smiled grimly. That’s not going to be a problem. She led him to the mouth of the alley and pointed to a black sedan parked across the street.

“See that car?” The driver has been sitting there since before I entered the coffee shop. “He’s either the world’s most patient customer or he’s surveillance.” Cain studied the vehicle, his military training automatically cataloging details. Tinted windows, engine running, driver hasn’t moved in over an hour. Definitely surveillance.

But how does that help us? Because we’re going to take his car. Before Cain could protest, Maya was already moving. She crossed the street with casual confidence, approaching the sedan from the driver’s blind spot. Cain followed reluctantly, wondering if he had just allied himself with someone as dangerous as the people hunting them.

Maya knocked on the driver’s window with a friendly smile. When it rolled down, revealing a surprised man in his 30s with a communications earpiece. Her expression didn’t change. “Excuse me,” she said politely. “I think you dropped this.” She held up a small electronic device that Cain didn’t recognize.

The driver leaned forward to get a better look, and Maya’s hand shot through the window like a striking snake. She pressed a specific point on his neck, and the man slumped unconscious over the steering wheel. “Pressure point technique,” Maya explained as Cain stared in shock. He’ll wake up in about 20 minutes with nothing worse than a headache.

She opened the driver’s door and pulled the unconscious man from the vehicle, propping him against a nearby building where he would be relatively safe from the rain. “You just assaulted someone,” Cain said. “I neutralized a hostile operative who was conducting surveillance on us. There’s a difference.

” Maya climbed into the driver’s seat and started checking the car’s equipment. professional-grade communication system, encrypted radio, and look at this. She held up a tablet computer that had been mounted on the dashboard. The screen showed a detailed map of the area with several red dots marking different locations. They know where we are, Cain said, leaning over her shoulder to study the display.

Where we were, Maya corrected. These dots show the coffee shop, my safe house, and what I’m guessing is your apartment. They’ve been tracking both of us for longer than I thought. Cain pointed to one of the dots on the screen. That’s my storage unit. They know about it. Maya studied the map more carefully. Actually, I don’t think they do.

This dot is marking a residential address about 2 mi from your storage facility. They have incomplete information. Or they’re setting a trap, maybe. But we still need those files if we’re going to identify who’s behind this. Maya pulled into traffic, keeping her speed casual to avoid attracting attention.

Tell me more about your buyers. How did they first contact you? Cain settled into the passenger seat, his mind working through the memories. It started about 18 months ago. I was approached at a military contractor’s conference in Washington. A woman named Elena Vasquez claimed to represent a European defense research consortium.

She was knowledgeable, professional, and offering very good money for technical specifications. What did she look like? Brunette, maybe 5 to six, European accent. Mid-30s, very attractive. She knew enough about military technology to ask intelligent questions, so I assumed she was legitimate.

Maya nodded, filing the description away. How many times did you meet with her? three times in person over 6 months. After that, all our communications were electronic. She would send requests for specific types of information. I would provide what I could and payment would arrive in an offshore account within 24 hours.

Always the same account. No, that was part of what convinced me she was legitimate. The payments came from different sources each time. banks in Switzerland, the Cayman Islands, Singapore. I thought it was just good financial practices to spread the transactions around. Maya turned onto a busy avenue, using the traffic to mask their movement.

It was good trade craft. Multiple financial sources make it harder to trace the money back to a single organization. They drove in silence for several minutes, both lost in thought. Cain was grappling with the realization that his greed and naivity had made him a pawn in someone else’s deadly game. Maya was trying to piece together the larger picture of what they were facing.

“There’s something else,” Cain said finally. Elena asked me once if I had any contacts in other branches of the military. She was particularly interested in anyone with access to operational planning or real-time intelligence. Maya’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. What did you tell her? That I didn’t have those kinds of contacts. But she seemed disappointed.

Like she was hoping I could expand the scope of what I was providing. She was recruiting you to recruit others. This is bigger than just selling technical specifications. They were trying to build a network of sources inside the military. Cain stared out the rain streaked window at the passing cityscape. How many other people do you think they approached? quote, “Probably dozens.

Cast a wide net, see who bites, then focus on the most useful sources.” Mia checked the rear view mirror for signs of pursuit. The traffic behind them looked normal, but she knew that professional surveillance teams were experts at blending in. The question is whether we’re dealing with foreign intelligence or something else.

What else could it be? private military corporations, criminal organizations, terrorist groups, anyone with enough money and motivation to buy classified information. Maya turned onto a side street, taking a ciruitous route toward the storage facility, but based on the sophistication of their operation, I’d guess foreign intelligence.

Onward, Cain was quiet for a moment, then said, “There’s something else I should probably mention.” Maya shot him a sharp look. Now would be a good time to share everything you know. Elena mentioned once that she had a particular interest in anti-terrorism protocols and counterinsurgency tactics. She paid extra for anything related to those topics. That narrows it down.

Most countries developing those capabilities are either allies or neutral parties. The ones who would pay black market prices for that information are limited to a much smaller group. Maya pulled into a gas station and parked where they could observe the surrounding area. We need to assume that every move we make is being monitored or anticipated.

Cain looked around nervously. So, what’s the plan? We get your files, identify Elena and her organization, and then we make them wish they had never heard your name. Maya’s voice had taken on a hard edge that made Cain realize he was seeing the real person behind the insurance investigator facade. But first, we need to deal with the immediate threat, which is Ma pointed across the street to where a white van had just pulled into a parking lot.

Three people in dark clothing were getting out, moving with the purposeful efficiency of a tactical team. That Maya said grimly. Cain watched as the three figures spread out, clearly coordinating their approach through hand signals. Professional military movement. These aren’t street criminals or amateurs. No, they’re not.

Maya started the engine and checked her weapons. The shoulder holster under her jacket held a compact pistol. And she had various other tools concealed throughout her clothing. How are you armed? Cain patted his waistband. just the Glock and one spare magazine. Then we don’t fight. We run, get to your storage unit, grab what we need, and disappear before they can organize a proper search.

Maya pulled out of the gas station, heading away from the approaching team. But Cain, yeah, when this is over, when we’ve identified the people behind this and neutralized the threat, you’re going to have some very serious conversations with people who take national security very seriously.” Cain nodded grimly. “I know, and I’ll face whatever consequences are coming, but right now, I just want to make sure no one else dies because of my mistakes.

” Maya glanced at him with something that might have been approval. Then let’s go get those files and finish this. As they drove toward the storage facility, both of them knew that the next few hours would determine whether they lived to see the people responsible for the deaths brought to justice or whether they would become the latest casualties in a shadow war that most people never even knew existed behind them.

The threeperson team was already coordinating with other units, spreading a net across the city that was designed to ensure that neither Maya nor Cain would escape alive. The hunt had begun in earnest, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.