Reed glided through the terminal wearing a cloak of calm, his heart racing underneath. He’d tried to wipe his digital footprints from Pro4uM, but he knew better than to think he was completely invisible. Pro4uM’s eyes were trained, and Barry—if Barry was behind this—had the resources and reach to catch him off guard.
Every stare from a security camera, every passing airport employee or wandering traveler could be another set of eyes on him. Reed’s instincts were honed to a fine point.
He walked into Terminal 3 and made his way to the bathroom at the back, not looking over his shoulder too often, not breaking stride. He passed the row of stalls and headed to the last one at the back wall. He knew the spot by heart. Months ago, he had hidden the gun, wrapped in gaffer’s tape and concealed in the compartment for extra tissue rolls.
Reed reached up into the compartment and felt nothing but smooth cold metal. His heart skipped—a sickening moment of doubt that made his pulse stutter. Then his fingers brushed the familiar bumps of the tape. Relieved, he pulled it back and felt the weight of the Walther PPK with the silencer. A gun designed for discretion, small enough to fit in his hand like a trusted friend. He slipped it into his camera bag, amidst his equipment.
Exiting the restroom at the same pace, Reed’s thoughts turned to Secretary Kessler. Should he involve him? Kessler’s public position made him a powerful asset—a guy who could be used to draw attention away from Reed. But the man could just as easily be another pawn in Barry’s game, manipulated like everyone else, unaware of the dark undercurrents pulling the strings. Reed had to be careful; using Kessler as a decoy was tempting but without knowing PPI’s true intentions it was a gamble.
More questions than answers swirled in his head. His hand went to his pocket where he felt the card he’d been given on the plane: Box Galleries. A “safe house” in name but Reed knew better than to trust the promise of sanctuary from an organization that had seemingly brought him down. Box Galleries was on the edge of Vienna’s old town, a warren of cobblestone streets and ancient buildings. It presented itself as a high-end art space, but Reed knew it for what it was—an artifice, a place where PPI operatives met, where secrets were as carefully curated as the photographs on the walls. It was Reed’s next move, his chance to get answers.
Approaching Box Galleries, he felt that familiar unease. It was like stepping into a shadow of David Tompkins Fine Art Photography back in New Orleans—a gallery deep in the French Quarter, draped in the same quiet, too-perfect stillness. No curious tourists, no patrons browsing the photographs on the walls, just one person at a desk in the back, barely looking up as he entered.
He couldn’t shake the comparison. In New Orleans, David Tompkins Fine Art Photography was an open secret, a place everyone knew was a front for the mob. Not a single photograph ever left those walls, yet every day the gallery logged huge cash deposits—hundreds of thousands, all in cash—through the books without a single sale. Photography as cover, art as a shield for something far darker.
Box Galleries felt the same, culture as a mask for its true purpose. This was no ordinary safe house. Every detail—the perfectly arranged prints, the minimalist decor, the silence—seemed to be carefully crafted to lull, to mislead.
The air was scented with varnished wood and archival paper, an odd comfort to Reed but also a reminder of the carefully constructed illusion.
Reed’s eyes swept the young woman behind the desk, taking in her relaxed posture and her absent expression as she scrolled through her phone. Early twenties, brown hair, black blouse and jeans. No obvious signs of covert work. But he couldn’t be sure. Sometimes the most invisible people were the most trained. He’d have to test her to see how aware she was. Reed ambled over to a large black-and-white photograph of a wharf, framed in a minimalist border. Another cliché, every fine art photography gallery seemed to have one. He leaned in close, studying the image, and adjusted his stance as if examining some hidden detail.
He glanced over his shoulder to see if she noticed. Nothing. She looked up, met his gaze for a beat, then went back to her phone.
Time to try another approach. Reed turned to her, smiling. “Do you know the story behind this one?” he asked, his voice smooth with a hint of curiosity.
She looked up, surprised, then shrugged. “Not really. I think it’s supposed to be solitude or something. Lots of people say it’s peaceful?”
Reed nodded thoughtfully, showing a glimmer of interest. “Interesting. I thought it might be one of Tompkins’ originals. You don’t see many of those around here.”
The name-drop was intentional, a way to gauge her reaction to a high-profile art connection back in New Orleans—an art dealer everyone in Reed’s circle knew was mob-connected. If she had any PPI experience, even peripherally, it might trigger a flicker of recognition.
But she just smiled politely. “Tompkins? No, we don’t carry his work. Mostly local artists here.”
Reed nodded slowly, maintaining the innocent tone. “Local talent. That’s nice. So, do you get many private viewings? Special showings in the back?”
She hesitated, looked unsure, then nodded. “Yeah, sometimes. If a client is interested in something specific, we, uh, take them back there.”
Her wording was hesitant, confirming she wasn’t in the know about PPI’s operations. This was just a job to her, the same as working at a coffee shop or boutique. She probably didn’t even know why the gallery had a private back room. Reed let the conversation die, nodded thanks, and moved back to the wharf photograph. Now he had a better sense of the woman’s role, he felt the tension ease in his shoulders. She was no operative, no hidden threat. Just a minimum-wage employee who let certain people into the back when they asked the right way.
For a moment he felt a pang of sympathy for her, trapped in this strange world without knowing it. But that passed as he focused on his goal. With his cover secure, he looked back at her. “How much for this one?”
She answered almost mechanically, as if reciting a line. “$210 thousand.”
That was the phrase Reed had been waiting for. He took a breath and delivered the rehearsed response, the one that meant nothing to a casual visitor: “The tonalities remind me of Le Violon d'Ingres by Man Ray, and it sold for 12.4 million. Do you have something like that, something a little more exclusive… something in the back?”
The woman blinked, her expression changed, and for the first time, her gaze sharpened. She looked him over with a glimmer of recognition—or perhaps just awareness—flickering in her eyes. Without a word, she slid a keycard across the desk. “Room 5… it’s locked,” she murmured, almost as if testing him. Her eyes held a hint of challenge as she added, “But I bet you already knew that…”
Reed smiled slightly, pocketed the keycard and nodded. She didn’t seem surprised, but there was an edge to her calm now, as if the mention of Man Ray and the back room had flipped a switch. He took his cue and headed back. She didn’t look up.
As Reed made his way down the narrow, dimly lit corridor to Room 5, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and faint metal.
The soft lighting cast a warm glow over polished wood floors and carefully placed art. He knew from experience every detail was calculated—down to the art-gallery lighting, which kept faces in soft shadow and identities ambiguous. Standard PPI procedure dictated Room 5 would have all the camera gear he’d need for his current job. Lenses, stabilizers, lighting setups—everything he’d need, or so it seemed. But Reed also knew this setup came with strings attached. Any gear in Room 5 would be rigged with tracking devices to monitor his every move under the guise of support. At this stage, he couldn’t use any of that equipment. He’d have to come up with a work around.
The gallery’s backroom layout interested him. He’d only been cleared for Rooms 4, 5, and 6. Each room was purposefully designed. Room 4 was storage and prep—always stocked with basic gear and disposables he could use and leave behind. Room 5 had mission-specific gear. Room 6 was the strategy hub where agents would gather for briefings and review intel.
But Rooms 1 through 3 had always been off-limits. Reserved for higher-ranking operatives or special assignments, their contents were a mystery. Reed had never questioned them before, but now, with the full weight of the setup against him, he found himself drawn to the secrets they might hold.
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As he approached Room 3, his mind spun. The message from the plane had come through an unusual channel: Reed, we need to talk. Now. This wasn’t PPI’s style, nor was it Barry’s. PPI communicated exclusively through Pro4uM coded channels. A deviation like this couldn’t be ignored. Then there was the message that had saved him before: Section 3, Page 16, Code 105-B.
Could it be that simple?
He felt a rush of adrenaline as he punched in 1-6-1-0-5. The hallway fell silent as the door to Room 3 creaked open—a sign of the unknown ally who had risked everything to send that code. As the door swung open, Reed’s heart beat faster. He had no idea what he’d find behind this door, but he was certain it wouldn’t be protocol. Inside, the room was different from the other back rooms he’d seen on previous assignments. Unlike Rooms 4 through 6, which had the functional setup of equipment storage and briefing spaces, Room 3 had a more private, detailed design. The walls were lined with file cabinets, sleek and built into the room itself, each drawer labeled only by numbers and dates. A large central table was empty except for a dim reading lamp and a stack of old-fashioned notepads. Reed noticed how it differed from the high-tech gear in other safehouses, as if Room 3 served a unique and more confidential purpose.
He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room. A framed photograph hung on the wall, the kind of scenic shot that would belong in a gallery. But to Reed, the scene looked all too familiar. It was a landmark in Vienna, a location he’d been briefed on during another mission—a sign that this room was designed for those with inside knowledge. Was this a strategy room for high-level operatives? Or a private vault of some kind?
The realization hit him that whatever secrets PPI kept in Rooms 1 through 3, they were for top-tier agents, like Barry Cox. Reed wasn’t authorized to be here.
He steeled himself and approached the file cabinets. Opening one carefully, he found files marked with dates and mission codenames—info that if uncovered by anyone outside PPI would destroy years of covert operations. He realized this room held more than intelligence. It held leverage, info that could expose PPI’s inner workings.
He reached for a folder with a familiar codename—one tied to his current mission. As he flipped through the contents, a cold fear crept into his chest. This wasn’t just a dossier on Secretary Kessler; it was a meticulously designed plan to discredit the operative. Strategically timed leaks, fabricated cover stories, carefully chosen scapegoats—it was all there, laid out with precision.
And Reed was the main subject.
The documents painted a picture: Barry Cox’s fingerprints were all over every decision, every thread of the operation. His control was so fine-tuned it was like a photographer adjusting a shot—every detail framed to tell one story. Reed wasn’t surprised. Barry’s “composition” was far more calculated than he could have ever imagined. But one thing cut deeper. In the margin of a page, written in ink, were the words: “Remove Kessler. Frame Sawyer. No loose ends.” Below it, a signature—sharp, deliberate, and unmistakable: Barry Cox, Director PPI.
Reed froze. He wasn’t an agent on assignment—he was bait. A carefully placed pawn to take the fall if things went sideways.
His heart pounded in his ears as he read the note again. Each word seared into his brain. Every mission Barry had given him over the years, every piece of guidance and advice—in hindsight, it all added up to something sinister. Had every assignment been a stepping stone to this moment? Was every nod of approval, every piece of advice, just another thread in the noose Barry was tightening around his neck?
Reed’s jaw clenched as the weight of the betrayal hit him. This wasn’t just professional—it was personal. The cold precision of Barry’s plan, combined with the intimacy of years of grooming Reed for this role, hurt more than any operational betrayal ever could. And now the truth was in his hands, written in Barry’s own handwriting.
He strained to keep the anger from boiling over. Barry might have framed the shot, but Reed wasn’t going to let him finish the story. Whatever advantage PPI thought they had; Reed now had a piece of leverage. Whoever had helped him had known more than they were letting on, guiding him here with the knowledge this file would change everything.
He turned on the reading light, angling it to capture the pages. With practiced efficiency, he lifted his camera and took photos of each page, making sure every word, name and code was captured. Shadows danced as he moved the light, revealing more of the room.
Reed set up his camera’s Wi-Fi, transmitting the files to his computer. While the files transmitted, he glanced around the room, his eye caught on a description on the bottom of the filing cabinet. “Lyt Meeter.” He knew the misspelling wasn’t a mistake. It was a signal or misdirection; a clue for those who would know what it meant.
He got up and opened the drawer. Inside, a neatly organized space held ten slots, each one exactly the same size as a light meter. Nine of them were empty. The tenth held a single device, its sleek casing bearing faint scratches as if it had been handled many times. Reed picked it up and turned it over in his hand. This wasn’t a light meter; it had a code generator with a secure cellular link, hardwired to Pro4uM’s private channels. He realized this was a direct line to the organization, disguised as photography equipment.
But he couldn’t take it, not without raising alarms. A new plan formed in his mind: the equipment in Room 5. Standard PPI protocol meant his next instructions would be there, along with a set of supplies for his mission. He could swap this device with the standard light meter in that room and no one would ever know. Satisfied, Reed put the folder back where he found it.
Exiting Room 3, Reed felt a new sense of purpose. He wasn’t just on the run anymore; he was armed with the truth that could blow PPI’s corruption wide open. And as he headed for Room 5, he knew exactly where he was going.
In Room 5, Reed saw the fully loaded dolly with camera gear—right on protocol, neatly arranged as if to give him everything he needed for the assignment. If he left the equipment behind, someone would notice and wonder. He had to take it with him, no matter the risk.
He moved through the equipment with deliberate slowness, his hands casually inspecting each item. Among the neatly stacked gear, his fingers brushed against something familiar—the standard light meter. Under a stack of lenses, he felt the usual tool everyone expected, perfect for the swap. He wheeled the dolly out of Room 5 and past Room 3, glancing back to make sure he was alone. In one swift motion, he placed the light meter in the drawer and swapped the "Lyt Meeter" into his camera bag. The weight of the device in his bag felt heavier than the original, a reminder of the stakes.
Now armed with the "Lyt Meeter", Reed felt the weight of its importance. This was no ordinary device; it was a tool that could blow everything wide open if used correctly. But he knew it was as dangerous as it was valuable. One misstep, one wrong move and it would show his hand as clearly as if he’d set off an alarm. As he continued down the hall, Reed’s mind spun with the possibilities—and risks—of having PPI’s secrets in his hand.
Reed took a deep breath, quickly assessing his options. Standard protocol was to exit through the side door where a car would be waiting to whisk him to a hotel—no doubt bugged and monitored. But because he was an hour ahead thanks to the Bratislava diversion, the car service wouldn’t be there yet. He had a window of opportunity.
As he wheeled the dolly forward, Reed’s thoughts raced. The dolly creaked under the weight of the gear—cameras, lighting, and lenses, all PPI-issued and no doubt bugged. Every piece of equipment felt like a shackle, binding him to the mission, to their control.
And then it hit him, like a bolt of inspiration. Photography rental shops. Neutral ground. A place where gear came and went, no questions asked. Reed smiled at the simplicity of the idea: swap out his PPI gear for clean, untraceable rentals. The move would sever the surveillance without raising an alarm.
He pulled out his phone and searched for the nearest rental agency. Top result: Lenscape Photography Rentals. Reed tapped the address without hesitation, his instinct telling him this was the way to go. A quick ride share later, he was on his way.
As the ride share van wove through the congestion of downtown Vienna, the midday traffic crawled. A drop of sweat rolled down his neck as he remembered the code generator in his bag at Box Galleries. The persistent code, Section: 3. Page: 16. Code: 105-B, had haunted him like a ghost, each time revealing more of PPI’s nasty plan. Maybe now the code was once again the key to flipping their strategy. He pulled out the generator and typed the letters and numbers—S3P16C105B—watched as the screen flickered to life, its circuits spinning before a line of text appeared. “Barry Cox” in bold, unmistakable font.
Then the words read like an execution order: "Sawyer must die. PPI will be clean. Operatives in place. Plans in motion. Kessler is the disguise. P4M code ‘Chubby Senior.’"
Reed’s hands shook as he read each line, his mind racing to keep up with the brutal clarity of the plan. This wasn’t just a setup; it was a takedown. Kessler was just a smokescreen, a “disguise” for PPI’s real goal. They’d created a perfect cover to make Reed a turncoat, a threat to international security, a ticking time bomb to the public. By discrediting him as a traitor, PPI could protect its own dirty secrets, sever ties with Reed in a way that left no room for his survival or his reputation.
The van felt claustrophobic, the air thick. The walls closed in, the weight of betrayal crushing him down. He’d known he was a pawn, but now he saw the full extent of the game—and the depravity behind it. His fingers clenched on the code generator as his resolve hardened. If they thought he’d go down quietly, they were wrong.
He could disappear, slip off the grid and let PPI claim victory—live the rest of his days as a ghost, always on the run, always looking over his shoulder.
But the idea turned his stomach. Running was surrender, acceptance of the fate they’d written for him. And Reed Sawyer had never been one to let others write his story. He felt a fierce determination rise up in him. PPI had trained him well, and now he would use every trick they’d ever taught him to unravel the system that had brought him down.
He didn’t hesitate. He would take back his story, use every piece of information, every skill, every contact he’d made along the way.
As the van pulled up to Lenscape Photography Rentals, Reed’s heart rate slowed. He’d made his decision. He would set the trap, lure them in and expose the web they had spun for him. He wasn’t just in this to live anymore—he was in it to win.
