Reed and his team are gathered in their temporary control room in Las Vegas. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and electrical ozone, and the soft hum of computers filled the silence. Four monitors flickered in unison, each displaying fragmented security footage from Harry Reid International Airport.

  Reed stood, eyes locked on one particular screen—the grainy clip showing Barry Cox stepping onto the tarmac, the faint silhouette of a sleek private jet in the floodlight haze.

  “There he is,” Reed said evenly, breaking the silence. “We’ve got him boarding, but that’s where the trail ends.”

  Grimes, sitting at the main terminal, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Flight logs are either altered or gone. Someone erased this perfectly. No transponder codes, no tail numbers, no flight path.”

  Carter leaned against the table, tablet in hand, frustration evident in every line of his face. “So what now? We know Barry’s airborne. Great. That narrows it down to everywhere.”

  Kranch, with his arms always crossed and his jaw tight, spoke up from his corner. “Barry doesn’t run without a purpose. He’s got a destination, a plan, and probably a head start.”

  Reed nodded, eyes wide as he studied the footage. “He’s not running scared—he’s regrouping. And we’re wasting time.”

  The tension hung thick in the room as the monitors switched to news feeds. Global headlines screamed across every screen:

  "PPI EXPOSED: GLOBAL CORRUPTION SCANDAL ROCKS INTERNATIONAL TRUST."

  "BARRY COX—THE ARCHITECT OF DECEPTION."

  "FBI AND INTERPOL RAID PPI HEADQUARTERS: A FALLEN EMPIRE."

  Video loops showed law enforcement raiding PPI headquarters—agents storming boardrooms, executives being escorted out in handcuffs, shredders practically overworking themselves into plumes of smoke.

  Grimes scanned the news feeds, shaking his head. “It’s a feeding frenzy. Every government agency, financial watchdog, and freelance hacker on the planet is clawing at whatever scraps of Barry’s empire are left.”

  “Headquarters is locked down,” Carter added grimly. “Operatives are resigning. Lawyers are billing overtime. The entire infrastructure is collapsing, and yet…” He trailed off, locking eyes with Reed.

  Reed finished the thought. “Barry’s still out there. Still pulling strings.”

  Kranch stepped forward. “He’s not hiding in plain sight anymore—he’s gone dark. And dark means isolation. He’s pulling himself as far from this mess as possible.”

  Reed turned to Grimes. “Can you track high-value transactions? Anything out of place—yachts, compounds, offshore accounts?”

  Grimes was already typing, lines of code scrolling down his screen. “I’m on it. But if Barry’s using shell corporations, cryptocurrency, or offshore proxies, it’s going to take time.”

  Reed checked his watch. “Time, we don’t have.”

  Far away from the Vegas strip, a hot breeze swept through the balcony of a remote, high-security compound perched on the edge of jagged cliffs overlooking the Caribbean Sea. The sky was overcast, the waves below crashing violently against the rocks.

  Barry Cox stood at the edge of the balcony, staring out into the endless gray horizon. His tailored suit was slightly wrinkled, his usually sharp features drawn with fatigue. Behind him, the glow of computer monitors cast faint shadows against the marble floors.

  He turned away from the view and walked back into the compound’s central control room. A lone operative—a nervous young man with slicked-back hair—stood by the desk.

  “Status?” Barry asked, his voice cold and sharp.

  “We sent out the signal, sir. The meeting point was established. But…” The operative hesitated.

  “But what?” Barry’s tone turned lethal.

  “No one showed up, sir. Not one. We monitored every access point. No operatives arrived.”

  Barry tilted his head, and he turned away, his fists clenched at his sides. His empire was gone—abandoned, betrayed, and dismantled in real time.

  After a long moment of silence, Barry muttered, almost to himself, “Loyalty is currency. And mine has been spent.”

  A flicker of movement below caught Barry’s eye—a police boat patrolling too close, its spotlight cutting across the water. A second vessel followed in its wake.

  Barry’s paranoia flared to life.

  “Too much activity. Too many eyes,” Barry said. His voice was calm, but the edge of fear cut through.

  The operative swallowed hard. “Sir, what are your orders?”

  Barry turned sharply, his mind already racing.

  “Purchase something they can’t follow,” Barry said, a glint of manic calculation in his eyes. “Something mobile. Something that cuts us off entirely.”

  Hours later, in a dimly lit back room of a broker’s office, Barry signed the final digital documents on a secure tablet.

  The Hampshire Feadship Yacht was his now.

  92 million dollars, wired in full. Overpaid, but immediate.

  Barry stared at the photos of his new acquisition on the screen—a gleaming marvel of nautical engineering. A helicopter perched on the rear deck, a glass-enclosed lounge overlooking endless ocean horizons, and state-of-the-art security systems woven into every inch of its luxurious structure.

  He turned to the broker. “Hire the best crew money can buy—pilots, cooks, deckhands. Pay them all upfront. One year of service.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cox,” the broker replied, his voice trembling slightly.

  “Make sure there’s no paper trail,” Barry added. “No lingering signatures, no breadcrumbs.”

  Forty-eight hours after Barry's yacht purchase, back in the temporary control center, Grimes’ monitor flickered with fresh intel.

  He called the team together. They rushed from their hotel rooms. Grimes explained, 'Got something,” he said, voice tight with excitement. “Someone just bought a luxury yacht—a Hampshire Feadship—for ninety-two million. Paid in cash, no financing. Immediate ownership.”

  Kranch straightened. “Barry!?”

  Reed stepped closer, studying the data on the screen. The yacht had already been flagged on maritime records—a massive vessel anchored far from standard shipping lanes, somewhere near Puerto Rico.

  Reed’s eyes narrowed. “He’s running to the sea. Isolated, mobile, untouchable.”

  Grimes leaned back. “A yacht like that doesn’t move without leaving ripples. If we track those, we’ll find him.”

  Carter cracked his knuckles, a rare grin tugging at the corner of his face. “Then let’s make sure he doesn’t get too comfortable out there.”

  Reed looked at each member of his team. “Kranch, Carter—we need a strategy session in New Orleans. Grimes, stay here in Las Vegas and keep your eyes on the digital feeds. We need someone with your expertise watching every angle.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Later, in the Big Easy, tucked away just beyond the loud chaos of Bourbon Street, the bar felt like a relic—dimly lit, its faded wallpaper peeling at the corners, a sticky sheen of time-worn residue clinging to the wooden tables. Overhead, a ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the thick scent of bourbon, aged wood, and fried oysters.

  Reed, Kranch, and Carter occupied a corner booth, their faces half-hidden in the shadows cast by a flickering neon sign buzzing faintly from the window. Outside, faint jazz notes floated in from the street, blending with the distant chatter of tourists and the occasional burst of laughter from passing crowds.

  Carter scrolled through a tablet in front of him, his brow furrowed as he scanned maritime records and offshore financial transactions. Kranch, stared into his whiskey glass like it might offer him answers. Reed sat across from them, hands clasped, his sharp eyes bouncing between the two men.

  A tired waitress placed three drinks on the table—two whiskeys, one black coffee—and disappeared without a word.

  Reed broke the silence. “Barry isn’t just running—he’s rebuilding. He’s out there somewhere with just enough resources to make this a long, drawn-out chase. If we don’t cut him off now, he’ll regroup. He’ll rise again.”

  Carter set his tablet down with a sigh. “We know he’s on that yacht. We know he’s isolated. But he’s got cash reserves, encrypted accounts, and connections in places we probably haven’t even thought of yet. Guys like Barry? They don’t run out of favors overnight.”

  Kranch took a sip of his whiskey, and said, “Then we starve him. Cut him off at every point—money, fuel, food, supplies. The yacht’s big, but it’s not self-sustaining. Sooner or later, he’ll need to resupply. That’s when we catch him.”

  Reed nodded. “Agreed. But supplies aren’t the only thing keeping him afloat. He’s got people—loyalists. And Dovere is at the top of that list.”

  Kranch snorted. “Dovere’s not loyal. He’s… useful. There’s a difference.”

  Carter leaned forward. “Dovere’s not stupid, either. He knows Barry’s empire is crumbling, and he’s sharp enough to see which way the wind’s blowing. We just need to push him over the edge.”

  Reed tapped a finger against the table thoughtfully. “Barry’s not subtle. Seth didn’t see it coming, but Dovere? He’s too careful to miss the signs. If Barry’s even thinking about cutting him loose, Dovere could smell it.”

  The faint creak of the bar door opening caught Reed’s attention, but it was just a lone figure shuffling in, head down, shoulders hunched. The bartender didn’t even glance up as he poured another drink. However, Reed stopped tapping his finger and lowered his voice cautiously.

  “Barry’s got himself cornered, which means he’ll start leaning harder on Dovere. Trust, loyalty—it’s all transactional to guys like Barry. And Dovere? He’s no fool. He’ll notice when the balance starts tipping out of his favor.”

  Carter raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking we can use that?”

  Reed’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m thinking… if we plant the right seed, in the right way, Dovere will start asking himself some dangerous questions. About Barry. About survival. We don’t need him to switch sides outright—we just need him to hesitate when it counts.”

  Kranch asked, “And what’s the ‘right seed,’ Reed? You’re dancing around it.”

  Reed exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Let’s just say… Barry has a pattern. A way of cleaning up loose ends when the walls start closing in. Dovere’s sharp enough to recognize it if he sees it. We just need to make sure he gets the right glimpse—at the right time.”

  The silence stretched between them as the faint sound of jazz drifted in from outside. Carter broke it first. “That’s a thin wire to walk, Reed.”

  Reed nodded. “Thin, yeah. But Barry’s running out of shadows, and Dovere’s smart enough to know he’s standing in one.”

  The three men sat in silence for a moment, each weighing the risks, the possibilities, and the razor’s edge they were about to walk.

  In Washington DC, in an office bathed in fluorescent light and buried beneath layers of bureaucracy, Secretary Kessler worked tirelessly. The weight of international cooperation pressed on his shoulders as phone calls rattled through encrypted lines and diplomatic documents piled high on his desk.

  Kessler leveraged every resource, every connection, every ounce of authority to clamp down on Barry Cox’s offshore assets. The U.S. Coast Guard intensified maritime patrols, while financial watchdogs combed through offshore accounts with surgical precision.

  Amid the chaos, Kessler uncovered something chilling: a folder Marcus had been working on before his death. The documents inside painted Barry not just as a corrupt manipulator, but as a key architect of a far-reaching conspiracy. The evidence pointed to financial crimes, espionage, and—most incriminating—a clear motive and timeline for Marcus’s murder.

  Barry Cox wouldn’t face mere charges of fraud or conspiracy—he would stand trial for murder.

  While Kessler tightened the net, back in bar in New Orleans, Reed’s team had unknowingly walked straight into a trap.

  Up to this point, nothing seemed out of place in their clandestine meeting—the bar was dim, worn, unassuming. Shadows danced across the peeling wallpaper, cast by the slow-turning ceiling fan. The jukebox was silent, and the bartender wiped an already-clean glass.

  Reed had spent years reading rooms, attuned to the smallest inconsistencies. But this one had too many.

  Kranch took a slow sip, eyes scanning the room over the rim of his glass. “Place feels wrong, Reed. Like someone’s waiting for us to make the first move.”

  Carter sat kind of sideways in his chair, his casual posture betrayed by the sharpness in his eyes. “Not enough noise. Not enough movement. People are here, but no one’s really here.”

  Reed’s gaze flicked to the far end of the bar. Two men sat apart but carried the same stillness—their drinks untouched, their attention subtly shifting toward Reed’s team. At the back corner, a woman sat at a table, her gaze dipping to her phone but rising just often enough to watch them.

  The bartender disappeared through a door marked PRIVATE, the faint glow of a phone screen flashing briefly before the door clicked shut behind him.

  Reed set his drink down with deliberate care. His voice was low, steady, but sharp as glass. “We’ve been burned. Dovere’s got eyes on us.”

  Carter’s jaw tightened. “You sure?”

  Reed gave the faintest nod toward the two men at the bar. “Watch their hands. Watch their eyes. They’re waiting for a signal.”

  Kranch’s voice rumbled from deep in his chest. “We’re sitting ducks, boss. What’s the move?”

  The jukebox let out a sharp crack of static, loud enough to make heads turn. One of the men at the bar slid off his stool, his hand lingering near his jacket pocket as he moved into a nearby booth.

  The second man moved almost in tandem, slipping toward and into the same booth, his movements too casual to be natural.

  Reed’s voice was tight, controlled. “We’re not staying to see how this ends. Move. Now. Regroup, Pirates Alley behind the Church.”

  Reed signaled with his eyes. Kranch shifted first, his large frame moving deliberately toward the back exit, shoulders squared. Carter tucked a slim tablet under his arm and angled toward the side door, his steps precise and quick.

  Reed stood last. He pulled a few bills from his pocket, dropped them onto the table, and walked calmly toward the front door. His pulse drummed in his ears, but his expression betrayed nothing.

  Just then, the bartender reappeared from the PRIVATE door, a phone clutched tightly in his hand, his gaze locking directly onto Reed.

  A faint vibration—a phone buzzing—cut through the low hum of the bar. One of the men stiffened, his hand twitching slightly near his pocket.

  Reed stepped through the front door just as the woman at the table raised her phone to her ear, whispering urgently into it.

  Everyone took a different route to Pirates Alley. In what only seemed like seconds, the entire team had regrouped in the narrow alleyway. The damp air was heavy with the smell of fried food and stale beer, but it felt clearer than the stifling tension inside the bar. Reed knew this spot well—it was one of his favorite places to take portraits. The lighting was always impeccable, day or night.

  Kranch spoke first, breathing heavy from the run to the alley.

  “They weren’t amateurs, Reed. Those guys were waiting for us. Dovere’s people?”

  Reed gave a sharp nod, his jaw tight.

  “Yeah. And they weren’t there to intimidate us—they were there to box us in.”

  Carter breathed heavily, barely catching his breath, his eyes darting down both ends of the alley. “Dovere’s good, Reed. He’s cutting off our routes, our resources—pushing us exactly where he wants us to go.”

  Reed’s gaze swept the darkened alley, his mind buzzing. “Barry’s mobility at sea is his biggest advantage. Dovere knows it. He’s trying to keep us locked down here, spinning our wheels while Barry slips further out of reach.”

  Kranch stepped up on the sidewalk, his voice carrying a note of urgency.

  “So what’s the play? We can’t stay here—Dovere’s got this city mapped out.”

  Reed exhaled, trying to get the pieces of the puzzle to fall into place in his mind.

  “We can’t stay here. We have to move. But we don’t just run—we use Dovere’s tracking against him. He’s watching us, which means he’s revealing himself in the process.”

  Carter frowned slightly, processing Reed’s plan.

  “You want to let him track us… intentionally?”

  Reed nodded, “Grimes is still monitoring digital movement back in Vegas. Every move Dovere makes, every order he gives—it leaves a trace. If we’re careful, we can make Dovere lead us straight to Barry. Under the circumstances, that is the best plan I got for now guys.”

  Carter smirked, a faint spark of confidence returning to his eyes.

  “Turn the predator into the prey. I like it.”

  Kranch cracked his knuckles, his scowl shifting into something closer to determination.

  “Then let’s give Dovere something worth chasing.”

  Reed’s gaze flicked to the end of the alley, where the faint glow of streetlights painted lines of light across cracked pavement. “Let’s move. Every second we waste here, Barry gets further away.”

  With that, the team melted into the shadows, slipping through the maze of alleys and neon-lit streets of the French Quarter.

  Somewhere, Dovere’s men were regrouping, recalibrating. Somewhere, Barry Cox was moving farther out to sea.

  But Reed and his team were moving too—and they weren’t chasing shadows.

  As they moved silently through the streets, Reed’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The team stopped as he answered.

  “Reed, it’s Kessler,” came the sharp, direct voice on the other end. “We’ve got something—a lead. Maritime intelligence picked up irregular patterns in Barry’s yacht movements. It’s faint, but it’s there. He’s anchored somewhere remote, off the standard shipping lanes. I’m sending you the coordinates now.”

  Reed’s eyes flicked to Kranch and Carter as a map loaded onto his phone, a blinking red dot marking the yacht’s last known location. His voice was steady, but the sharp edge of determination was unmistakable.

  “We’ve got him.”