Reed got out of the rideshare van and took a look around. Lenscape Photography Rentals was tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, far from the touristy part of Vienna. The shop’s exterior was as unassuming as the row of small businesses lining the street—a bakery, a shoe repair shop, and a bookstore with dusty window displays.

  The neighborhood felt lived-in, the cobblestone streets dappled with afternoon sun through the branches of the tightly packed trees. It was the kind of place locals went to, where conversations lingered and the occasional cyclist zoomed by. There was a sense of calm in the air, totally different from the storm raging inside Reed’s head.

  Lenscape was a single-story building, the front modest but clean. A large display window showed off a curated selection of cameras and lenses, their shiny surfaces positioned to catch the light. The shop’s name was painted in clean sans-serif letters on the glass door, with the slogan: Focus Where It Counts.

  Reed scanned the street again, his instincts on high alert. Nothing out of place—no idling cars, no lurking figures in trench coats, no glint of surveillance lenses. But experience had taught him danger often hid in the ordinary.

  Reed opened the door to Lenscape Photography Rentals and the soft chime above went off. He looked up at the logo etched into the glass panel beside the entrance. A clean circle—the PPI logo with its seven-bladed aperture. Seven blades. The mark of legitimacy, the symbol for PPI’s surface-level operations that dealt with photographers and their craft.

  This was different from the logo at Box Galleries. But the difference was as distinct as night and day for those who knew. Six blades meant covert ops, the underworld of PPI’s world where intelligence, espionage and danger lived. The subtlety of the distinction was genius, invisible to outsiders but glaringly obvious to insiders trained to see it. Reed liked it for what it was—a clever signal to separate the hunters from the prey.

  But seven blades on the door didn’t necessarily mean Lenscape was safe. He’d learned long ago not to take anything at face value. He stepped inside, moving slow and deliberate, every nerve on high alert as the door closed behind him. The interior was bright and functional, the kind of place that put photographers at ease. Rows of shelves lined the walls, stocked with lenses, tripods and lighting kits. A faint smell of plastic and metal hung in the air, mixed with the hum of a nearby printer. Behind the counter, a young man looked up briefly before going back to his computer. It was all so ordinary, so boring, but Reed’s instincts were still ticking.

  He scanned the space, making mental notes of the exits, the security cameras and the rental equipment. On the far wall, a sleek sign hung with the company’s name and slogan: Lenscape Photography Rentals—Focus Where It Counts. The tagline felt weirdly normal. He hoped the shop was exactly what it seemed—a legitimate photography rental store and nothing more.

  He needed clean equipment—gear without bugs, tracking devices or hidden microphones. The equipment from Box Galleries sat like dead weight in their cases, every piece a tool of surveillance. He had to ditch them before his next move.

  Reed approached the counter, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. The young man looked up again, his polite but distracted smile giving nothing away. “Need some help?”

  “Yeah,” Reed said. “I need a full lighting setup for a high-profile shoot. Reflectors, softboxes, stands—the works, stills, video & audio. And a couple of lenses for wide-angle and close-up shots. Something reliable.”

  The young man nodded, his fingers already typing into the computer. “We’ve got you covered. Any specific brands or models in mind?”

  “Not picky,” Reed said, faking nonchalance. “Just need it to handle a fast shoot.”

  The man typed a few keys on the keyboard, his eyes flicking between the screen and Reed. A moment later, the printer behind the counter went off, spitting out a neatly formatted list of equipment. He grabbed the paper, scanned it quickly before handing it to Reed. “Here’s what we have. If anything catches your eye, let me know and I’ll pull it from the back.” Reed looked at the list, nodded thoughtfully and met the man’s gaze with a smile. “Great. I’d rather take a look at the equipment first if that’s okay—save you the trouble of pulling it out and putting it back if it’s not what I’m looking for. Can we head back and take a look?”

  The man nodded, folded the paper and set it aside. “Sure, this way,” he said, gesturing for Reed to follow him.

  As Reed trailed behind, weaving through the narrow aisles of neatly arranged gear, his mind raced. Was this place really as normal as it seemed? The 7-blade logo suggested legitimacy, but PPI’s reach had taught him that appearances were often carefully constructed lies.

  As the clerk pulled items from the shelves, each one felt like a step further away from PPI’s surveillance—a step towards reclaiming some control. Just as Reed was about to look at a lens, the bell above the front door went off.

  The clerk looked up and set down the lens cap he was holding. “This will only take a minute,” he said with a smile, brushing his hands on his apron. “I’ll let them know I’ll be with them shortly.”

  Reed nodded, forcing his face to remain neutral as a shiver ran down his spine. He kept his hands steady, focused on the lens in his hand as the clerk walked towards the front.

  “Can you give me five minutes?” the clerk asked.

  “No problem,” the other man replied. “We’re not in a hurry.”

  Reed froze. His breath caught and the lens slipped in his hand. That voice. He hadn’t seen the man, but he knew the tone, the inflection of it. His heart was racing in his chest as he tensed, peering cautiously from behind the shelves.

  Through the gap between two cases, he saw them. 16B, leaning against the counter, and the flight attendant beside him. Both were dressed in plainclothes—jeans, neutral jackets—but their presence in the shop made Reed’s alarm bells go off. What were they doing here? Coincidence was a concept he no longer believed in, not after everything that had happened. If they had followed him to this quiet shop, then his plans were coming apart faster than he’d thought.

  Reed crouched behind the shelf, muscles tense, his mind racing. Could PPI have orchestrated this? His rational side rejected the idea. He’d had at least an hour’s head start, even counting the slow ride-share and traffic jam. And Lenscape wasn’t a place you stumbled upon by accident.

  Reed forced himself to focus, to clear his head of paranoia. If this was intentional, there would have been breadcrumbs leading here and he would have seen them.

  But there weren’t. No whispers on Pro4uM, no coded messages. That left only one conclusion: coincidence. A genuine, unscripted event.

  Reed exhaled slowly, his tension easing just enough for clarity to kick in. A PPI unplanned encounter. If it wasn’t part of their plan, then it could be used. Advantage Reed.

  He crept closer to the front counter, positioning himself behind a stack of equipment cases. From here he could see 16B leaning against the counter while the flight attendant examined a display case full of filters and adapters. Their body language gave away nothing—but their conversation was another story.

  “...just doesn’t add up,” 16B said, his voice low and agitated. “We’re given one set of orders, then halfway through it’s like the whole mission flips. And now we’re here with nothing but a vague directive and no target?”

  The flight attendant shook his head, his hands on his hips. “I know. They’ve always been tight-lipped but this feels different. Like we’re not supposed to know what’s happening. Almost like we’re being tested.”

  Reed’s heart was racing. A test? They were as confused as he was, which confirmed what he’d thought since Bratislava: even operatives like them weren’t in the loop.

  “Do you think it’s Sawyer?” the flight attendant asked. His tone was cautious, as if saying the name itself was a risk.

  16B’s jaw clenched, his face darkening. “If it is, they’re playing us. Either he’s rogue or they’re setting him up as one. Either way, we’re the ones on the block not him.”

  The frustration in their voices, the underlying distrust, said it all. They were just as lost as he was. PPI’s maze was targeting not just him but them too.

  He could feel the gears turning in his head, recalibrating. If they were confused, doubting their orders then they weren’t the threat he thought. They might even be allies, caught in the same web of deceit.

  Reed’s heart pounded in his chest as he listened more. The words between 16B and the flight attendant had already shifted the narrative in his head, but he needed more. A single phrase, a slip of truth, to confirm they weren’t part of the setup to frame him.

  The flight attendant sighed in frustration, crossing his arms. “I’m telling you, something’s not right at the top. I’ve seen how PPI handles rogue agents and this isn’t it. They’re using us to clean up a mess they don’t want traced back to them.”

  16B growled. “And what if Sawyer isn’t rogue? What if they’ve set him up because he knows too much? You’ve seen Barry’s playbook. He always works an angle, always finds someone to pin it on when the heat is on.”

  The flight attendant shook his head. “Then we’re all expendable, aren’t we? If this goes south, we’ll be tied to it, just like Sawyer. They’re burning the bridges and we’re standing on one.”

  16B looked around, lowering his voice further, but Reed caught the words: “If I thought for one second that Sawyer wasn’t what they’re making him out to be I’d back him. Heck, he’s one of the best operatives they’ve got. But we don’t even know where he is or if we can reach him before it’s too late.”

  That was it. They were questioning everything, doubting the very orders they’d been given. They weren’t on Barry’s payroll; they were as lost as he was. In their confusion, Reed saw opportunity. Reed pressed himself against the shelf, his mind racing. Should he approach them now? If they could be swayed—if they could trust him—then for the first time since this craziness began, he wouldn’t be alone.

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  Reed took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the shelves, moving slow and deliberate. His voice, low and firm, broke the silence. “Start gathering that equipment. I’ll take it all.”

  His gaze snapped to the two men standing nearby. “Seems like PPI’s got us all working different angles. Or maybe… just one.”

  Both men spun around, their eyes wide with surprise. As Carter, the flight attendant, reached for his jacket—a reflex learned from training Reed raised his hands slightly, palms out. “Easy. If I wanted a fight, you wouldn’t have seen me coming.”

  16B narrowed his eyes, his body tense. “Sawyer,” he muttered, his voice low and full of suspicion. But something in Reed’s calm demeanor made him hesitate. “How in the world—”

  “Does it matter?” Reed cut in, his tone steady. “We’re here now. And by the look on your faces, you have as many questions as I do.”

  Carter exchanged a wary glance with 16B then stepped back. “You’re not… running?” he asked, his tone a mix of confusion and grudging respect. “After that move at the airport I would’ve bet my life, you were bailing. That was genius.”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Reed said. He gestured towards the front of the shop. “But we’re wasting time standing here. Either we figure this out together or we keep walking into Barry’s trap.”

  The mention of Barry’s name made both men flinch. That was the crack Reed needed. He moved closer, his gaze steady. “I know enough to know we’re all being played. And I think you do too.”

  For a long, tense moment no one spoke. Then 16B nodded, a small but telling movement. “Let’s talk,” he said, his voice losing some of its edge.

  Carter looked towards the front of the store. “Five minutes tops. That clerk will be coming back.” He turned to Carter and 16B. “More than enough time. Start talking. What’s your role in this?”

  16B’s jaw clenched, his words sharp and precise. “Protection detail. My assignment was to follow you—no contact, no interference. Orders were to step in only if your life was in danger. Beyond that I was left in the dark.” He paused, his gaze steady. “I broke protocol when I gave you that safe house card. I was hoping you’d realize we’re on the same side.”

  Reed frowned. “Protection from what?”

  16B laughed, a humorless sound. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? PPI doesn’t give details. Just orders.”

  Carter crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “My orders were different. They told me to watch you for… suspicious behavior.” He looked at Reed, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “I thought you’d gone rogue.”

  Reed’s stomach churned but he kept his face neutral. “And now?”

  “Now?” Carter’s voice was laced with frustration. “Now none of it makes sense.”

  Reed let their words hang in the air, each piece falling into place like shards of a broken mirror. PPI wasn’t a network of support—it was a machine of manipulation, one that thrived on isolating its operatives, keeping them uncertain and expendable.

  “Barry’s not just pulling strings,” Reed said finally, his tone deliberate, his words cutting through the tension. “He’s orchestrating something bigger, something designed to keep us in the dark while he tightens the noose. This isn’t about Kessler or the assignments they’ve given us. It’s about power—control. And if we don’t figure out how to break that hold, we’re not leaving this alive.”

  16B’s jaw clenched again, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. He didn’t speak but the subtle shift in his stance said it all. Carter exhaled sharply, shaking his head before nodding. “Alright,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “But what’s your play, Sawyer? Because right now it feels like we’re still chasing shadows.”

  Reed turned, his eyes scanning the shelves as if the answer might be hidden among the rows of gear. “We move like nothing’s wrong,” he said, “I finish the gear run, and you two keep watching me. PPI, Barry, whoever—they only see us sticking to protocol, doing our jobs. Whatever Barry’s building, it’s got cracks in the foundation. We find them and we bring the whole thing down.”

  16B crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “You’re talking about taking on PPI’s golden boy. You know how that ends, don’t you?”

  With a sharp edge of defiance in his voice, Reed replied. “This only ends one way—together. Barry’s long game isn’t perfect. He’s meticulous, sure, but he’s not untouchable. He’s counting on us to follow orders, to play by his rules. But if we pool what we know we’ll find the thread that unravels everything. And when we do we expose him for what he really is.”

  For a moment the weight of Reed’s words hung in the air, unspoken questions passing between them. Then 16B nodded, his reluctance replaced with determination. Carter hesitated a second longer before adding his own quiet agreement.

  “Alright,” Carter said, his voice steady. “We follow the thread. But we’d better move fast—because if Barry finds out we’re working together he’ll cut us loose before we have the chance.”

  Reed held his gaze, his face resolute. “Which is why we don’t rush. Two objectives: first, gather irrefutable evidence—something that ties Barry Cox directly to this setup. Second, ensure Secretary Kessler’s safety. Whatever Cox is planning we can’t let it play out. If Kessler’s the pawn, then he’s also the key.”

  “Alright,” 16B said, his voice short. “How? What’s the play?”

  Reed’s eyes moved to the back of the shop, scanning the rows of shelves and cases filled with gear. “We use what’s here,” he said, his voice measured but sure. “Cameras, lighting rigs, audio setups—they’re more than tools for a shoot. We turn them into instruments of evidence. Every shot, every mic, every setup—they’ll all work for us. And for Kessler.” Carter glanced again at the door, his unease clear. “And the shoot itself?” he asked. “You’re going to use it as a staging ground?”

  “Exactly,” Reed said. “It’s our best shot. If we set this up right, we can expose the Architect’s hand before he knows we’ve flipped the script.”

  Before Carter could respond, the soft sound of wheels on tile announced the store clerk’s return. A dolly stacked with gear rolled into view, the clerk’s eyes flicking between the three men with mild curiosity. “Everything you asked for,” he said, his voice polite but with a hint of skepticism.

  Reed stepped forward, his face blank. “Perfect. Let’s get started.”

  As the clerk began checking the inventory Reed adopted a casual tone. “Quick question,” he said. “Who handles buying equipment around here? I have a few items I want to move.”

  The clerk paused, tapping the counter with his pen. “That’s my boss. He’s not in though—he won’t be back until next week.”

  Reed smiled politely, his mind already working two steps ahead. “No problem. Can I leave the gear here with you? Once he’s back you can contact me for an estimate.”

  The clerk hesitated, his brows furrowing as he considered the request. Then he shrugged. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Great,” Reed said, nodding toward the gear. “Let’s get another dolly.”

  The clerk nodded and disappeared into the back. Moments later he returned with another dolly. Together Reed and the clerk began moving the gear from Box Galleries onto the dolly. Cameras, cases, everything—all neatly stacked onto the dolly as if they were just buying new equipment.

  Each item added to the pile felt like shedding a layer of surveillance, a silent unwinding of PPI’s grip. Finally, the clerk wheeled the loaded dolly into the storage area, none the wiser to what he was taking away.

  Reed turned to 16B and Carter, his mouth twitching into a small smile. “If they’re trying to track me or listen in all they’ll get is silence now.”

  Carter chuckled low in his throat, his unease easing. “Good move.” “Necessary,” Reed said, his voice sharp. “This has to be perfect. No mistakes, no oversights. The Architect’s meticulous but we’re going to have to be better.”

  The three men looked at each other, a silent understanding forming. Trust wasn’t there, but need had created something stronger—an unspoken agreement.

  Manipulated as they had been, their individual skills and fragmented knowledge were now tools to dismantle PPI’s web of deceit.

  Reed moved forward, his presence commanding yet calm. “Here’s how this works,” he said, gesturing to the gear. “Every piece serves double duty. Cameras, lighting rigs—they’re not just for the Secretary’s shoot. They’re our surveillance, our evidence. If Cox is involved these will catch him.”

  “Every lens, every angle—they’re witnesses. If there’s something we’re not supposed to see we’ll get it.”

  16B leaned against a nearby shelf. “And the Secretary? If this blows up he’s the one in the crosshairs.”

  Reed answered, unshakeable. “Then we make sure it doesn’t blow up. The photo shoot isn’t just a setup—it’s our safety net. Whatever Cox has planned it stops with us. The Secretary stays alive. That’s non-negotiable.”

  The room was silent as his words hung in the air, binding them together with an unspoken agreement. Their fractured alliance now had direction, a purpose stronger than the distrust between them.

  They turned to the shelves, pouring over the rental agency’s inventory with precision. Cameras, lenses, tripods—every piece of gear was scrutinized for its surveillance potential. Reed’s expertise proved invaluable as he flagged items that could be modified for surveillance or intel gathering. Each selection was a small win, a tangible step towards unraveling Cox’s control.

  The quiet work had an unspoken understanding. Together they were up against a force that had manipulated every move they made, spinning lies and half-truths to keep them in the dark. But now, with each calculated decision, they were clawing back control.

  Reed looked up, a small smile on his face. “Well, I suppose it’s time we got to know each other. You know me, but who are you?”16B straightened, his posture deliberate, and offered a firm hand. “Keith Kranch,” he said, his voice dry. “Freelance muscle, occasional babysitter for rogue photographers, and apparently, the guy who needs a crash course in spotting setups.”

  Carter chuckled, the sound releasing the tension in the air. “Craig Carter,” he said, bowing low with a flourish. “Photographer, jack of all trades, master of none—but I make it look good. Here to help, or so I tell myself.”

  Reed nodded. “Nice to meet you both. Now, what brings you here? A rental shop, of all places?”

  Kranch shrugged, gesturing to the shelves of gear. “Blew out a softbox on my last job. Thought I could get a good deal on a used one here.”

  Carter jumped in, a grin on his lips. “Needed a polarizer for this outdoor shoot—some ‘artsy’ nonsense. Figured I might as well pick up some good glass while I’m at it. After what you did at Bratislava airport, we knew we had to get to Vienna fast. So, we hopped on a train, thinking that’s what you’d do. Found this place after a quick Google search—first photography shop on the list. And, surprise, you’re here.”

  Reed raised an eyebrow, his mind working as he processed their answers. Coincidence? Blind luck? Or the invisible threads they couldn’t see yet? Whatever the reason, here they were—the three of them—in a rental shop, of all places—with just enough common ground to start fighting back.

  Reed stepped back, his eyes scanning the gear. “This is it. The tools we need to turn their game against them.”

  “Let’s hope we’re better players,” Carter said, with a small smile.

  Kranch cracked his knuckles. “We’d better be. There’s no second chance here.”

  Reed leaned against the counter, his tone light but inquiring. “So how did you two get into this business?”

  Kranch grinned. “Logistics turned into something… bigger. Let’s just say PPI knows how to find people with ‘hidden potential.’” Carter shrugged. “Same here. They start you out in photography, probably like you, then show you what’s underneath—the espionage, the surveillance. It’s all layers of secrets, wrapped up in a camera strap.”

  Reed nodded, his smile fading. “And Barry Cox is at the center of it all, pulling every string.”

  They finalized their plan quickly and called a rideshare van to take them to the hotel where Secretary Kessler’s photo shoot was scheduled. The location would be crawling with surveillance—bugged rooms, hidden cameras and layers of covert operatives. This wasn’t paranoia; it was protocol. To avoid suspicion, they would have to arrive separately, staggered in time, each staying in character. Reed knew the drill well—it was standard PPI tradecraft: blend in but keep all connections invisible.

  As the van pulled away from Lenscape Photography Rentals, Reed looked back at the small storefront. The irony struck him: this unassuming place, found by accident, was the key to his mission. PPI’s carefully laid plans hadn’t accounted for this moment, this alliance.

  They’d been manipulating every move, every pawn for years. But this unplanned turn—this little bit of unpredictability—was something PPI hadn’t seen coming. Reed was going to make it count.

  As Vienna’s city lights rose up ahead, Reed fingered the Lyt Meeter in his pocket. The road ahead would be rough, the fight brutal. But he wasn’t running anymore. He was setting himself up for the takedown of a lifetime.