The tracker signal pulsed steadily on Warren's pad, a red dot moving through the digital map of Avalon like a blood cell through arteries. The squad had piled into an unmarked hover-van borrowed from Vex Mercantile's fleet—technically without permission, but Byron figured their contract still held, regardless of Vex's bizarre behavior.

  Geneve sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the cityscape flowing past the window. The neon glow of Avalon's nightlife painted her face in alternating hues of blue and red.

  "Never thought I'd be chasing a company we were hired to protect against," she said. "If this is how Vex runs his business, no wonder his shipments keep getting hijacked."

  "We're not," Byron replied, hands tight on the steering controls. The van hummed as it weaved through late-night traffic. "We're following the evidence. Wherever it leads."

  In the back, Warren monitored the tracker's signal, Clare checked her rifle for the third time, and Lyssa fidgeted with her medkit, reorganizing supplies that were already perfectly arranged.

  "Target's moving south on Meridian Avenue," Warren reported. "Heading toward the financial district."

  Byron adjusted their course, the van banking smoothly around a corner. The cityscape changed as they drove—entertainment districts giving way to the glass-and-steel monoliths of corporate Avalon. Fewer pedestrians here, more private security drones patrolling building perimeters. The streets were wider, cleaner, designed for the kind of people who didn't walk when they could ride.

  "What's the play here?" Clare asked, snapping her rifle case closed. "We following or confronting?"

  "We observe," Byron said. "Find out where she's going, who she's meeting. Then we decide."

  The tracker's path turned sharply east, toward a sector dominated by research facilities and corporate headquarters. Warren frowned at his pad. "She's taking an odd route. Lots of unnecessary turns."

  "She's checking for tails," Geneve said. "Standard counter-surveillance. Keep your distance, Byron."

  He nodded, pulling the van into a side street and cutting the propulsion to idle. They waited, watching the signal continue its erratic path through the district.

  "Should we tell the boss?" Lyssa asked suddenly. The question hung in the air, unanswered for a moment.

  Warren shook his head. "Not yet. We need something concrete first. If we call it in now with just 'Argent Shield is involved somehow,' he'll want details we don't have."

  "Agreed," Byron said. "Let's get facts first."

  The signal finally stabilized, coming to a stop at a location on the eastern edge of the financial district. Warren zoomed in on the map, his expression darkening. "Well, that's interesting."

  "What?" Clare leaned forward, peering over his shoulder.

  Warren turned the pad so everyone could see. "Our Argent Shield friend just entered Metcom Solutions headquarters."

  Byron's eyes narrowed. "Metcom Solutions? The one Vex mentioned before?"

  "I don't remember," Warren admitted, already tapping at his pad. "Let me check the Avalon city directory... Here it is. 'Metcom Solutions: Integrated Security and Resource Management.' Sounds like a competitor to both Vex Mercantile and Argent Shield."

  Geneve whistled low. "So Argent Shield is working with another security firm to hit their competitors? That's... ambitious."

  "And suspicious," Clare added.

  Byron started the van again, pulling back onto the main road. "Let's get closer. I want eyes on that building."

  Metcom Solutions headquarters loomed over the eastern skyline—a large building of black glass and gleaming metal that spiraled upward for at least forty floors. Unlike the sleek, unified designs of other corporate towers, Metcom's headquarters looked almost crude, a jigsaw puzzle of angular slabs that protruded and overlapped at odd intervals. It was a design statement, clearly meant to set Metcom apart from its competitors.

  It succeeded. The tower was impossible to miss.

  They parked the van two blocks away, in the shadow of a smaller office building. From here, they had a clear view of Metcom's main entrance, where private security drones patrolled in precise patterns and uniformed guards stood at rigid attention.

  "Place is locked down tight," Clare observed, peering through her rifle's scope. "Military-grade security systems, full-spectrum scanning at all entry points."

  "Can we get in?" Byron asked.

  Warren was already typing furiously on his pad. "Not through the front door. But their west service entrance has a security rotation coming up in... twelve minutes. There's a small window where the systems reboot."

  "That's our way in," Byron decided. "Clare, Lyssa, two you stay with the van. Keep comms open and be ready for a quick extraction if needed. The rest of us will go in, locate our target, gather what intel we can, and get out. No engagement unless absolutely necessary."

  "Got it," Clare nodded, settling into position at the van's rear window, her rifle assembled and ready. Lyssa gave a thumbs up.

  The rest of them geared up quickly—light armor under civilian clothes, comms checked, weapons concealed but accessible. Warren distributed small devices to each of them. "Modified scrambler. Should make us invisible to most security sensors. Won't help with actual guards, though."

  "That's what charm is for," Geneve said with a wink, tucking the device into her pocket.

  Byron checked his sidearm one last time. "Move out. Keep to the shadows, stay off their cameras."

  They slipped from the van, moving through the darkened streets with practiced ease. Metcom's security drones swooped overhead, oblivious to their passing.

  Warren led them to the service entrance, a nondescript door set into the building's western face. Two guards stood watch, looking bored but alert. Above them, a security camera swept back and forth in a regular pattern.

  "Three minutes to reboot," Warren whispered, checking his pad. "When I give the signal, the cameras will glitch for exactly twenty seconds. That's our window."

  They waited, crouched in the shadows of a nearby maintenance alcove. Byron could feel his heartbeat, steady and controlled. This wasn't so different from their usual work—infiltration, intelligence gathering, extraction. The stakes were different, perhaps, but the skills were the same.

  "Now," Warren hissed.

  As one, they moved. The security camera above the door froze, then jerked erratically as Warren's remote hack disrupted its feed. The guards, focused on checking an approaching delivery drone, didn't notice three figures slipping through the darkness behind them.

  Warren placed his palm against the service door's security panel. The device on his wrist interfaced with it, bypassing the standard security protocols. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and they were inside.

  The service corridor was dimly lit and utilitarian—bare metal walls, exposed conduits, the distant hum of the building's systems. They moved quickly, following the tracker's signal on Warren's pad.

  "She's up on the thirty-eighth floor," Warren whispered. "Executive level."

  "Stairs or elevator?" Geneve asked.

  "Neither," Warren replied, pointing down a side corridor. "Maintenance shaft. It'll take us straight up without logging our presence in the system."

  The maintenance shaft was a narrow tube running the height of the building, with access ladders and platforms at regular intervals. It smelled of machine oil and ozone, the walls vibrating with the hum of nearby machinery.

  Geneve scaled the ladder first, her natural agility making it look effortless. Warren was next, his ascent slower but steady. Byron brought up the rear, scanning the darkness below them for any signs of pursuit.

  They climbed in silence, passing floor after floor of Metcom's operations. Occasionally, they caught glimpses through service hatches—laboratories where technicians in white coats tended to glowing equipment, storage areas filled with crates bearing unfamiliar logos, office spaces where late-night workers hunched over holoprojections.

  Thirty-eight floors was a long climb, even for Tower Agents used to physical exertion. By the time they reached the executive level, sweat beaded on their foreheads, their breathing carefully controlled to stay silent.

  Warren checked his pad. "Signal's coming from the northeast corner. Some kind of conference room."

  Byron nodded. "Lead the way."

  They slipped out of the maintenance shaft into a plushly carpeted corridor. The executive level was a stark contrast to the utilitarian service areas—rich wood paneling, subtle lighting, artwork hung at tasteful intervals. The air smelled of expensive fragrance and money.

  They moved like ghosts, Warren's scramblers keeping them off the internal sensors. Two guards passed at an intersection, but Geneve pulled them into a darkened office before they were spotted.

  "Close," she breathed, her heart pounding against Byron's chest where they were pressed together in the darkness. He could smell her hair, a scent of jasmine and steel.

  He nodded, waiting until the guards' footsteps receded before moving again.

  Warren directed them through a maze of corridors, following the tracker's signal. They passed executive offices, private lounges, a fully stocked bar. Finally, they reached a set of double doors, unmarked but imposing. From within, they could hear the faint murmur of voices.

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  Warren checked his pad once more. "The tracker signal is coming from inside this room. Our Argent Shield friend is in there right now."

  He pulled a small device from his pack—a directional microphone that could pick up conversations through walls. He pressed it against the door, adjusting the settings on his pad. The voices became clearer, transmitted directly to their comms.

  "...assured us this wouldn't happen." A woman's voice, sharp with authority. "Your people were supposed to be the best in the business, Lieutenant Orwin."

  "A minor setback," came the reply, a man's voice, smooth but with an edge of irritation. "One team compromised out of a dozen successful operations. The plan remains intact."

  "Does it?" A third voice, deeper, with a slight accent. "Because from where I'm sitting, we now have witnesses. People who can identify our operatives. People who know Argent Shield is involved in corporate theft."

  Then came a fourth voice—one Byron recognized immediately. The Argent Shield operative they'd captured earlier that night.

  "With respect, Ms. Chandler, the situation was unprecedented," she said, a defensive edge to her tone. "They had some kind of technology that could see through our camouflage. Glowing eyes appeared out of nowhere. It completely neutralized our tactical advantage."

  "And yet you're the only one who managed to escape," the accented voice said coldly.

  "Only because their employer ordered my release," the operative replied. "This man Vex—he folded exactly as expected when Lieutenant Orwin arrived. The security team had no choice but to let me go."

  "People who have no proof," the man—Orwin—added. "And a client who's too scared to back them up. By morning, they'll be dismissed, their contract terminated, and any accusations will look like the desperate flailing of fired contractors."

  "You seem confident," the woman—Chandler—said.

  "I am. This is hardly the first time we've dealt with... witnesses."

  There was a pause, then the accented voice again. "What about these strange lights she mentioned? The technology that allowed them to see through our camouflage systems? That wasn't part of the briefing."

  Orwin sighed audibly. "Some kind of experimental countermeasure. We're analyzing it. It won't be an issue in future operations."

  "It better not be," Chandler said coldly. "We're investing too much in this venture to tolerate incompetence. The Synergy Project has a timetable, and we're already behind due to these... complications."

  "Victoria, be reasonable." Orwin's voice took on a placating tone. "The overall strategy is sound. We've already forced seven smaller companies to either accept our 'protection' or close their doors. Vex was just stubborn enough to require a more direct approach. But he's in line now. The fear of his tax fraud being exposed to the DIR was all it took."

  Byron exchanged glances with Geneve and Warren. Tax fraud. So that was the leverage they had on Vex.

  "And what about this new player?" the accented voice asked. "The one that supplied the security team that interfered tonight?"

  "A non-entity," Orwin dismissed. "Some upstart trying to break into the security market. No connections, no history, barely even a legitimate business license. We'll deal with them if they become an actual problem."

  "See that you do, Varik," Chandler said. "Marcus, what's the status on the next shipment?"

  "On schedule," the accented man replied. "The materials will be diverted through our shell company and delivered to the facility by week's end. The prototype is nearly ready for testing."

  "Good. And the diversionary operation?"

  "The Resurgents have been supplied with enough equipment to make a convincing show of it. They believe they're striking a blow against Avalon's 'unnatural convergence,' of course. They have no idea they're simply a distraction."

  The Argent Shield operative spoke up again. "What about the team I lost? Do we need to retrieve them?"

  "No," Chandler said coldly. "They've been disavowed. Standard protocol. Argent Shield has already filed reports claiming they were rogue operators who stole equipment. Orwin will handle the cleanup."

  "Understood, Ms. Chandler."

  Byron felt his blood chill. The callous way they discussed abandoning their own people was chilling enough, but the mention of using some extremist group as cover for their operations was worse.

  "Then we proceed as planned," Chandler concluded. "Orwin, I expect your people to be more careful in future operations. No more witnesses. No more complications."

  "Understood, Ms. Chandler."

  Warren was recording everything, his face grim in the dim light of the corridor. They had what they needed—evidence of a conspiracy between Metcom and Argent Shield, blackmail, corporate sabotage, and worse, collaboration with what sounded like a terrorist group.

  Byron gestured for them to retreat. They'd pushed their luck far enough.

  They were halfway back to the maintenance shaft when an alarm began to blare through the building. Red emergency lights bathed the corridor in a bloody glow.

  "Security breach detected, level thirty-eight," an automated voice announced. "All personnel initiate lockdown procedures. Security teams to executive level immediately."

  "They've made us," Geneve hissed. "How?"

  Warren checked his pad, face paling. "The scrambler's signal was detected. They have counter-measures I didn't account for. Shit!"

  "New plan," Byron said, drawing his sidearm. "We fight our way to the emergency stairwell, then down and out through the lobby. Warren, contact Clare. Tell her to bring the van to the main entrance in five minutes."

  "That's insane," Geneve protested. "The lobby will be crawling with security!"

  "So will every other exit," Byron countered. "At least the lobby has civilian witnesses. They'll be less likely to use lethal force with an audience."

  There was no time to argue further. The sound of running footsteps echoed from around the corner—security responding to the alarm. Byron led them in the opposite direction, toward where building schematics had shown an emergency stairwell.

  They made it halfway there before the first security team intercepted them—four guards in Metcom uniforms, armed with shock batons and pulse pistols. Byron moved first, his shield expanding from his wrist gauntlet as he charged the lead guard. The impact sent the man sprawling, giving Geneve the opening to slip past and engage the others.

  She was a blur in the corridor, her knives flashing in the red emergency lighting. Two guards went down with nonlethal cuts to their arms and legs—painful but not permanently damaging. The fourth managed to get off a shot with his pulse pistol, the energy blast sizzling past Byron's ear close enough to raise the hair on his neck.

  Warren returned fire, his shots set to stun. The guard convulsed and dropped, twitching but alive.

  "Move!" Byron ordered, already heading for the stairwell again. They reached it just as another security team rounded the far corner, pulse rifles raised.

  "Drop your weapons! On the ground, now!" one shouted.

  Byron slammed the stairwell door shut behind them as energy blasts impacted against it. "Down, fast as you can!" he commanded, taking the stairs three at a time. The others followed, the sound of their boots on metal steps echoing in the narrow space.

  They'd descended maybe ten floors when the door above them crashed open. Guards poured into the stairwell, shouting for them to stop. Pulse rifle shots ricocheted off the railings, forcing them to press against the wall as they ran.

  "Warren, status on Clare!" Byron called over the commotion.

  "She's en route," Warren replied, breathing hard. "Two minutes to main entrance."

  "We need to slow them down," Geneve said, pulling a small device from her belt. She activated it and tossed it up the stairwell. The flash-bang detonated with a thunderous boom and a blinding flare, momentarily halting their pursuers.

  They continued downward, the sound of alarms growing louder as they neared the main floors. The entire building was on high alert now, security protocols in full effect. When they reached the tenth floor, Byron paused, holding up a fist for the others to stop.

  "We can't just burst into the lobby," he said. "They'll have it locked down tight."

  Warren nodded, checking his pad. "Service corridor on this floor leads to the main atrium. From there, we can access the lobby through the public areas. Might give us enough cover to reach the entrance."

  "Do it," Byron ordered.

  They exited the stairwell, finding themselves in a corporate workspace—rows of desks with holographic displays, now emptied by the security alert. They moved swiftly through the abandoned office, following Warren's directions to the service corridor.

  The corridor led them to the atrium, a vast open space that rose the full height of the building's public section. Even at this late hour, there were still civilians present—late-working employees, cleaning staff, visitors caught in the lockdown. Security personnel were herding them toward designated safe areas, away from the entrances and exits.

  "Blend in," Byron instructed, holstering his weapon and straightening his clothes. "Act like confused employees."

  They separated slightly, moving with the flow of people being directed by security. It was working—the guards were focused on controlling the situation, not identifying individual faces.

  They were halfway across the atrium when a voice cut through the commotion. "There! That's them!"

  Byron turned to see a man pointing directly at them, flanked by a squad of security personnel in full tactical gear. These weren't regular guards—they wore the distinctive black and red armor of Metcom's elite security force.

  "Run!" Byron shouted, dropping all pretense. They broke away from the crowd, sprinting toward the lobby. Behind them, civilians scattered in panic as the security team gave chase.

  The lobby was just ahead—a vast space of polished marble and glass, with the main entrance visible beyond. Outside, through the transparent doors, Byron could see their van pulling up, Clare at the controls.

  They were going to make it.

  Then the lobby doors slammed shut, security barriers dropping into place with metallic finality. They skidded to a halt, trapped.

  "Warren!" Byron barked.

  Warren was already at a control panel, fingers flying across the interface. "Working on it!"

  Geneve took up a defensive position, her back to Warren as he worked.

  Byron faced the approaching security team, shield activated, sidearm raised. "Stay back!" he warned. "We're not looking for casualties!"

  The man with the accent stepped forward. "You have nowhere to go," he said calmly. "Surrender now, and perhaps we can discuss terms."

  "Like the terms you offered Vex?" Byron replied. "No thanks."

  The man's expression hardened. "You've made a grave mistake, coming here. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

  "Try me," Byron said. "A corporate conspiracy to force businesses to use Argent Shield for protection while you steal their resources? Using blackmail and threats? Working with extremists as a distraction? Sounds like we understand perfectly."

  Something flashed in the man's eyes—surprise, quickly masked. "You've been busy little spies." He raised a hand, and his security team readied their weapons. "Unfortunately, you won't be sharing that information with anyone."

  "Got it!" Warren called. The security barriers began to retract, the lobby doors sliding open once more.

  "Go!" Byron ordered, backing toward the exit, shield raised to cover their retreat.

  The security team opened fire, pulse rounds slamming into Byron's shield with enough force to make him stagger. He could feel his energy draining with each impact.

  Geneve grabbed Warren, pulling him toward the exit. "Come on!"

  They made it through the doors just as Byron's shield failed, collapsing back into his gauntlet with a dying whine. A pulse round caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around. Pain lanced through his arm, but he kept moving, staggering toward the van where Clare had the side door open, covering their retreat with precise shots from her rifle.

  "Byron!" Lyssa called, already in the van, medkit open.

  With a final surge of effort, Byron dove into the vehicle, the door slamming shut behind him as Clare gunned the engines. The van shot forward, tires screeching against pavement as they accelerated away from Metcom headquarters.

  Pulse rounds impacted against the van's rear, the reinforced armor barely holding. Clare swerved through traffic, taking random turns to shake any pursuit.

  In the back, Lyssa was already treating Byron's wound, her face tight with concentration. "Clean through," she reported. "No major damage, but it'll hurt like hell for a while."

  "Did we get it?" Byron asked through gritted teeth. "The evidence?"

  Warren held up his pad, a triumphant smile on his face despite the chaos. "Every word. Audio recording of the entire conversation, plus footage from the building's own security cameras that I... borrowed during the escape. It's all here."

  Byron let his head fall back against the van's wall, relief washing through him despite the pain. "Then it was worth it. Get us back to the Tower. The boss needs to hear this."

  As the van sped through Avalon's nighttime streets, Byron looked at his team—tired, disheveled, but alive and successful. They'd stumbled onto something big. A conspiracy they barely understood, in a city they were still learning to navigate.

  But one thing was certain: whatever game Metcom and Argent Shield were playing, they'd just changed the rules.

  And Zark'thul, he suspected, would be very interested in evening the odds.