Mercer sat at the table, both hands wrapped around a cold cup of coffee. Across from him, Corbin waited. Vance leaned against the wall.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
"You want to start," Vance said, "or should we guess."
Mercer managed a thin smile. "I'll start. The organization doesn't use one name — deliberately. Shell companies, foundations, investment groups, government contractors. Layers on layers."
"You said you'd tell us everything," Corbin said.
Mercer nodded. "Above Level One, I never got higher. The records go back fifteen years, but every time I got close to the main accounts, people disappeared."
"Killed?"
"Some. Others just stopped existing on paper." Mercer looked down at his cup. "New identities. New addresses. Fake death certificates."
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small notebook, and handed it to Corbin. Names and dates filled the pages. One entry was circled: BLACKBRIAR FINANCIAL SERVICES.
"What's Blackbriar?"
"The broker. The hit on you came through them, but the request didn't originate there. It came through a private, encrypted network — the kind you can't buy."
"And my real name?"
"It was in the original authorization. Whoever placed the hit gave Blackbriar your actual identity."
Mercer reached into his pocket again and set a small flash drive on the table. "I copied the authorization file. The original request, the routing codes, internal notes. It's all on there."
"Why hold onto this?"
"I didn't know if I could trust you," Mercer said. "I thought you might still be working for them."
"And now?"
"Now I think they made a mistake hiring you."
Vance gave a short laugh. Mercer looked between them. "You two are strange."
"We've been told," Corbin said, slipping the drive into his pocket. "We need to see Blackbriar. Now."
Corbin turned to Mercer. "You stay here and lock the doors behind us. I know you have a gun upstairs; you're still safer here." Corbin scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and handed it over. "If we aren't back in an hour, leave. Memorize this. It's another location."
"An hour. I have a good memory."
"Better hope so."
"How many of these places do you have?"
"Enough."
Mercer looked at Vance. "How long have you known him?"
"Long enough to want him dead." Vance pulled on his coat. "Now long enough to need him alive."
They headed downstairs, past the massive iron furnace, and out into the night.
Mercer watched their car disappear into the dark. He locked the heavy doors, closed the curtains, and sat back down at the table. For the first time in weeks, he felt almost safe.
Then a metallic click echoed from the floor below.
He froze. Pulled the gun from his belt. Crept to the top of the stairs. "Corbin?"
No answer.
He went down the concrete steps into the dark factory. The side entrance stood wide open, cold night air blowing inside.
"Who's there?"
Slow, measured footsteps echoed behind the heavy machinery. Mercer backed toward the stairs.
The overhead breaker tripped. The building went pitch black.
* * *
Across town, Corbin and Vance stood across the street from a renovated office building. Blackbriar Financial Services occupied the eleventh floor.
"Eleventh floor," Vance said. "Fancy."
"Fancy people launder money," Corbin said.
"Says the man with a furnace."
"You ever been in a place like this?"
"No."
"You have."
Vance paused. "Fair."
They crossed the street, slipped past the night guard in the lobby, and took the elevator up.
The doors opened onto a dark, silent hallway. A glass door read BLACKBRIAR FINANCIAL SERVICES. Corbin pressed a small electronic tool against the lock. Thirty seconds later, the mechanism clicked.
"Fast," Vance said.
"Practice."
Inside, the office was spotless. Desks clear, drawers empty, personal items gone.
"Nobody works here," Vance said.
"They did until today. Someone cleared this place out — look at the clean patches in the dust."
"They knew we were coming."
"They knew someone was."
Corbin opened the back office door. "Stay close. Watch the hall."
"I've got it."
He walked into a back office and powered up the main terminal. The screen prompted for a password. He plugged in Mercer's flash drive.
The screen flickered, went black. Then a single line appeared:
AUTHORIZATION ACCEPTED
IDENTITY VERIFIED: CORBIN HALE
ACCESS ROUTED TO: LEVEL ONE
The monitor died completely.
"Level One," Vance said.
"Don't say it. And don't use my name."
"Your name was in their system, Corbin. They traced us the moment you plugged that drive in."
"Probably." Corbin pulled the drive free. "Let's go."
"You think they saw more than the request."
"They saw enough to answer." Corbin slipped the drive into his pocket. "That was the point of showing us."
They reached the elevator. Corbin's phone rang. An unknown number.
"Don't answer it," Vance said. "That's how they find you."
"They already found me."
Corbin answered. "You should have stayed away," a distorted voice said.
"Who is this?"
"Keep asking questions, and you'll disappear like the rest."
"Then send someone," Corbin said.
The line went dead.
Before he could speak, the phone rang again — Samantha. "Where are you? You said an hour, Corbin. It's been longer."
"On my way back. We're fine."
"Mercer?"
"He's at the factory. He'll be fine."
He checked his watch. She was right. He dialed the factory phone on his second line. It rang until voicemail. He tried Mercer's number. No answer.
Corbin's face hardened. "Drive," he said to Vance. "Now."
They reached the factory access road. The building was completely dark.
The side entrance sat unlocked and slightly open.
"You locked this," Vance whispered.
"I did."
"Then who opened it."
"Someone with a key."
They cleared the main floor. The weapons, supply crates, and gear remained untouched.
"Mercer?" Corbin called out.
Silence.
They took the stairs two at a time. In the upstairs office, Mercer sat motionless in the wooden chair. A single gunshot wound marked his chest. Blood pooled across his shirt.
"Jesus," Vance breathed. "How?"
"Professional."
"Like you."
"Like me."
"He never had a chance."
"No."
Corbin checked the windows, the lock, the floor. No signs of a struggle. No broken glass. No forced entry.
"They didn't have to break in," Vance said softly. "They knew this place existed."
Corbin didn't answer. He walked back down to the factory floor and stopped in front of the massive furnace. He rested his hand against the cold iron door.
Years. This building had been the one place nobody knew about. Now that was gone.
"He had an hour," Corbin said.
"He was back in the chair," Vance said. "They put him there."
Corbin said nothing. "What do we do now?" Vance asked.
"Could be anyone," Corbin said.
"It's not me."
"I know."
Corbin lowered his hand and turned toward the exit, his voice quiet and steady.
"Now we find out who gave them this address."