Trust no one

Rain slicked streets glistened under the yellow halo of streetlamps, the city humming with that late-night menace you could almost taste. Former FBI agent Sam Riker moved like a shadow through the empty alley, his boots splashing in puddles, his coat collar turned up against the cold. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in D.C. Not after everything.

But when your own people put a price on your head, you don’t get to pick the battleground.

Riker’s phone vibrated once. The encrypted line. He pressed it to his ear.
“Talk.”

A woman’s voice. Urgent.
“You were right. Project Sentinel is real. They’re not targeting criminals, they’re targeting citizens.”

Riker’s jaw tightened. “How many?”

A pause. “Thousands. Maybe more. They’ve been building dossiers for years, financial records, private calls, health data. Anyone who could be a threat to the administration.”

“Where are you?”

“Safehouse on Garrison Street. But not for long. They...”

A sudden crash came over the line. Shouting. Gunfire. The call cut.

Riker didn’t run, he moved. Fast. Down the alley, out to the street, into the black Dodge Charger he’d picked up off a crooked repo man two towns over. The V8 roared to life, echoing against the wet buildings. He slid the car into traffic, heading for Garrison Street.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

The safehouse was already a warzone. Two black SUVs sat out front, both doors open, engines running. One man lay dead in the gutter, a red bloom spreading under his head. Riker didn’t slow. He drove straight at the front of the house, slammed the Charger into park, and stepped out with his SIG Sauer drawn.

Two agents, tall, tactical gear, night-vision goggles, came around the side. Riker dropped the first with a double tap to the chest. The second fired wild; Riker shifted left, squeezed once, and the man crumpled.

Inside, the house smelled of burnt powder and blood. He found her in the kitchen, Agent Dana Voss, her blonde hair matted with sweat, one hand pressed to her side. She was pale but alive.

“You’re late,” she breathed.

“You’re bleeding,” Riker said. He pulled a first-aid kit from his coat, slapped a field dressing over the wound, and tied it off.

“They took the drive,” she said. “Everything on Sentinel. If they get it back to Langley, it’s over.”

“Which way?”

She pointed toward the rear door. Riker handed her his backup Glock. “Stay here.”

He moved into the night, hearing them before seeing them, a pair of agents hauling a steel case toward the SUVs. Riker closed the distance like a predator. One agent caught a flash of movement, too late. Riker slammed him into the hood, ripped the rifle from his hands, and used it on the second man, a sharp crack splitting the night.

He popped the case. The hard drive was inside. Still warm. Still theirs.

When he got back to the kitchen, Dana was standing. Barely. “What’s the play?” she asked.

Riker checked the window. More headlights in the distance. “We burn it.”

Her eyes went wide. “This is proof.”

“And it’s a target on our backs. They’ll kill anyone who’s seen it. If they can’t control it, they’ll erase it and us.”

“You think they’ll stop if we destroy it?”

Riker locked eyes with her. “No. But they won’t know who else knows.”

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

They drove to the edge of the Potomac, the city’s skyline glowing in the mist. Riker set the case on the ground, poured gasoline over it from an old jerrycan. Dana hesitated, then tossed him a lighter. He flicked it once, twice, then dropped it. Flames roared, black smoke curling into the sky.

Dana shivered in the cold. “So what now? We just… disappear?”

Riker stared at the burning evidence. “We disappear. We watch. We wait. And when they start it up again...”

“We hit them harder,” she finished.

A siren wailed in the distance. Riker slid behind the wheel. “Come on. We’re ghosts now.”

As the Charger rolled away, the firelight flickered in the rearview mirror, proof gone, but the war just beginning.

Somewhere deep in the capital, in a room with no windows, a man in a dark suit stared at a monitor showing Riker’s face.

“Find him,” the man said. “And don’t miss this time.”

End