John Hastings slumped over the desk, cheek propped on one hand, idly scrolling through Google pages. Beside him, the phone screen glowed with a photo from his camera roll: a medicine bottle.
He typed the name of the pharmaceutical company exactly as it appeared in the picture and hit Enter.
"Plivamed d.o.o."
A term that sounded suspiciously like a Pliva subsidiary sat at the very top of the results. John clicked through. The white-and-green official website looked impeccably legitimate.
"Croatian again," he muttered, rubbing his cheek.
The publicly available information was pitifully thin—no link to the EMA, nothing substantial. By this point, he already had a pretty good idea.
"They're not even bothering to cover their tracks."
A quick crawl traced the server far from Croatia. Cross-referencing domain history pointed—indirectly but unmistakably—to Bermuda.
"Shell company bullshit."
He switched back to the fake-looking site and screenshot the "company headquarters" photo from the propaganda page, then dropped it into GeoInfer.
Leaning back in the chair, he took a slow sip from the mug of coffee.
The program returned low confidence. The output image was visibly wrong; even the broad region was off—somewhere on the opposite side of the Eastern Hemisphere. Predictable.
"Fake."
He exhaled through his nose and reached to close the laptop lid.
Click.
The sound of the front door unlatching was unmistakable.
Instinctively his fingerprint unlocked the small safe bolted under the desk. He drew the Glock G45 Gen7 he kept for home defense, racked the slide, and chambered a round in one fluid motion.
He eased the bedroom door open with his shoulder.
A figure stood close—too close.
He burst through, finger already curling toward the trigger, safety half-depressed—
"Jesus, John!"
The scream made him freeze. He released the trigger and lowered the muzzle.
Parisa stumbled back a step, clutching the doorframe, chest heaving.
"Put the damn gun away."
John dropped the magazine, racked the slide once more to extract the chambered round, caught it in his palm, and deliberately showed her both empty hands as he stepped back.
"You should knock. Or at least wear shoes that make noise, Parisa."
The Middle Eastern–born former field lawyer—still in her commuting suit—sighed and lifted one high-heeled shoe by two fingers as evidence.
"I thought you were asleep, asshole."
John secured the safe again, eager to change the subject.
"Thirsty?"
"Go to hell."
"Just a slight overreaction."
"Tea."
The electric kettle began to whistle. The awkward atmosphere rose with the steam.
"Hey, John—what the hell was that about just now?"
Over the hiss of boiling water and the continuing racket, John frowned from where he leaned against the counter.
"What?"
Misreading his expression as provocation, Parisa flipped him the middle finger. He barely noticed; his gaze was still fixed on the kettle until the water sloshed over the spout. Only then did he move to shut it off.
Parisa blew a strand of hair away from where it had fused with her thick eyebrows, then gave him a long, appraising look—dark eyeliner sharp as a blade.
"How's work?" John asked first, handing her a mug of black tea before settling on the far end of the sofa with the remnants of last night's whiskey.
"Pays well. People desperate to stay out of prison don't mind spending to stay free."
She hissed softly as the hot tea scalded her tongue, then rearranged herself more comfortably—half-reclining, bare feet crossed, black nail polish catching the light.
"Good for you."
John noticed the dramatic cat-eye liner. He drained the last of the whiskey in one swallow.
So the madwoman's finally putting on makeup, he thought.
"How's retirement treating you?"
She glanced at her watch, then stared up at the slow-turning decorative ceiling fan.
"Long, slow days."
John crossed one leg over the other; the hem of his tucked-in shirt had pulled free on one side.
"County's got plainclothes on the block since the shooting. Sweet dreams, soldier boy."
Parisa delivered the line in her husky contralto, mocking. John didn't take the bait.
"Maybe. But they're not the ones I'm worried about."
"What then—VA benefits not covering your medical bills?"
John blinked slowly, leaned forward, elbows on knees, cheekbones pushing up tired pouches beneath his eyes.
"The IRS and its friends already took a big bite. They pointed out certain 'special circumstances.' Even some of the retirement pay has to go back."
"Right. Forgot to run the numbers for you."
"Still enough. I've got… other expenses most people don't have."
"Of course. There's probably another 'special expense' duct-taped under the sofa. What are you, Home Alone now, John?"
She kicked his shin lightly, then coughed once—half laugh, half embarrassment—and pushed herself upright.
"I'm one of the lucky ones," John said quietly.
He glanced sideways at her, rolled up a sleeve, rested a fist against his heavy jaw, and stared at the rapidly cooling tea.
"Back when I was pulling in hazard pay, I always figured it was 'earn it while you're breathing because you won't be for long.' Turns out I was wrong."
"Wrong about what?"
Parisa sat up straighter, intrigued.
"Sometimes what kills you isn't the enemy. It's the same jungle rules that turn civilized people into feral animals. Everyone's ready to betray everyone else for a slightly bigger piece of the pie."
John turned to face her fully, brow furrowed.
"Christ, did your CO spike your whiskey?"
"They're messing with my prescriptions. I'm buying the legit stuff myself."
"Figured. But clearly you're willing to skip the pills in order to keep drinking. Not exactly a foolproof long-term strategy."
"Is that how you see me, Parisa?"
She shook her head, wearing the slow, knowing smile of someone who has seen the movie before. John reached automatically for the empty tumbler; she caught his wrist.
"I don't just see it. I can smell it. I'd even bet the alcohol reaches your nervous system before the neurotoxin does. Believe it or don't."
She leaned across, lifted the empty glass, hooked a finger over the rim, and—quick as a striking snake—trapped a fly that had been buzzing over the table. The faint clink of glass on glass made John's throat tighten.
"Gunshots, fractures, traumatic brain injury… and now you're drinking yourself to death one night at a time. You know how many guys just like you are already six feet under? I'm not interested in commissioning your custom-sized coffin, Captain. It'd have to be damn big."
John pinched the bridge of his nose, tilted his head back against the sofa, throat working.
"I know."
A beat.
"But I keep dreaming about them."
Parisa rested a hand on his shoulder, uncertain what to say.
"You ever get that feeling… like you're talking to the dead? Maybe it's not just PTSD. Maybe it's something deeper."
He went on, describing something that sounded half-delusional, half-revelation.
"The strange part is I can't actually speak to them. I just watch them repeat what they used to do, the things they were best at. Like that day the Croatians came through the door… I felt completely prepared. Every movement confident. Faster than thought."
Parisa reached up and scratched lightly at his stubble, leaning closer.
"Come on, John Hastings. You need help. Real help."
He avoided her eyes, instead watching the fly trapped inside the glass—banging frantically, the tiny sound scraping at his nerves.
"You're going after them?"
"Yes."
"Then you're going to need me. A former Company asset who still owes you big time—and that's why your legal bills get the friends-and-family rate."
"Former asset. I thought they pulled your access."
"They didn't. I still control the backdoor portal. The server's live. Authentication is biometric plus rotating one-time code. Dead-man switch tied to enough high-level kompromat that no one dares touch it."
She slid the glass—fly still inside—between them.
"You want me to feed you official intercepts through the portal?"
"Not intercepts. Collection. The portal I built is more like a honey trap—baited hive designed to attract bees, not a spider web. Proactive beats reactive. It stays one step ahead."
Parisa lifted the glass just enough to give the fly false hope. When it crawled to the rim and hesitated, she slammed it down, crushing the noise once and for all.
"I'll do this for you," she said. "On one condition, you didn't see me."
She reached out, gently but firmly turned his face toward hers.
"Repeat after me, John."
He gave a small nod, one eyebrow quirked with dark amusement.
"I didn't see you."