Reed woke up before dawn, the gray light of Vienna seeping through the thin hotel curtains. His laptop glowed on the desk, his screen full of notes and plans. The day was pressing in on him and he decided coffee was necessary. He checked his watch – 5:47 AM. The early hour gave them an advantage, as the hotel staff wouldn’t be in for another hour.

  He ran through his mental checklist, inventorying his equipment bag. Three Canon R5 bodies, a bunch of prime lenses and his trusty 70-200mm zoom. Each piece of gear had been modified to house tiny recorders, a delicate operation that had taken lots of prep. The cameras weren’t just cameras anymore – they were weapons in a war without bullets.

  Reed got to the hotel meeting room early, armed with coffee and donuts. The staff greeted him with smiles, none the wiser to the operation that was unfolding around them. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, making it seem like business as usual. Reed knew it was anything but.

  “Nothing like coffee to start the day,” he said, setting the box down on a side table. The casualness belied his high alertness, scanning every person that entered the room, every shadow on the wall.

  As he unpacked his gear, Reed chatted with Kessler’s assistants, asking about their lives, their routines. It wasn’t small talk – it was reconnaissance. Each question was calculated, each answer filed away for later.

  “This setup looks good,” one of the assistants said, nodding at Reed’s gear. The assistant lingered a beat too long, his eyes scanning the equipment with an intensity that set off alarms in Reed’s head.

  “Thanks,” Reed said, smiling. “Just trying to make you guys look good. Speaking of which, can I tweak the lighting a bit?” He headed for the softboxes, adjusting them with precision. Each move was choreographed, a dance of deception.

  Under the guise of adjustments, Reed planted hidden recorders: in a light stand, under a table, even in a decorative plant. Each move was evidence of a pro doing his job. The recorders were tiny, about the size of a coin, and could pick up conversation from across the room. He’d placed them strategically – one by the water cooler where people congregated, another by the window where private conversations would happen. While Reed worked the room, Carter walked the hotel, his camera slung around his neck. His Canon R3 looked legit, enough to justify his presence but modified with surveillance gear. He stopped to chat with the security team, feigning interest in their protocols, his face calm and professional.

  “Just want to make sure everything’s smooth for the Secretary,” he said, easy. “You know how these high-profile shoots can get.” Every word was calculated, every interaction designed to seem natural while gathering intel.

  As they talked, Carter’s eyes scanned. A man dressed as hotel staff hung around the service entrance, fiddling with an earpiece. A van parked in the loading dock. Carter’s gut told him these weren’t coincidences. The van was in perfect position to see both the main entrance and the service area – too perfect to be random.

  As he snapped photos discreetly, uploading them to the team’s shared drive, it was clear PPI was here and they weren’t being subtle about their interest in the Secretary. The photos weren’t just documentation – they were digital breadcrumbs, archived in case everything went sideways.

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

  Kranch moved through the hotel with quiet purpose, his military training evident in every step. His camera bag was bigger than just photography gear – backup weapons, comms devices and extraction gear were hidden among the lenses and filters. He placed a stack of luggage carts near a stairwell, blocking access if needed. A maintenance sign in front of a service door. Furniture in a lounge area was rearranged, creating obstacles to slow down an exit.

  To anyone watching, Kranch’s actions looked normal, just hotel staff doing their job. But they were defensive traps, carefully laid to give the team an edge if things went bad. Each move was calculated, measured against scenarios.

  When Secretary Kessler arrived, the atmosphere changed. His entourage moved with precision, their suits crisp, their faces unreadable. The air seemed to vibrate with tension as they swept through the lobby. Reed greeted him with professional courtesy, guiding him through the setup, all while watching the reactions of those around them.

  “We’ve got everything ready for you, Mr. Secretary. Tonight, will be smooth,” Reed said, calm. He watched Kessler’s face for any sign the Secretary understood the subtext of his words. Kessler nodded, his face a mix of command and concern. As his team went over the schedule, Reed noticed a flicker of exchange between two aides: a glance too quick, a gesture too stiff. They moved too synced, too calculated. The realization hit him like a shot—PPI operatives. They carried themselves differently from regular security - more aware, more controlled, more deadly.

  Reed chatted with Kessler’s team, throwing in purposeful misdirection. He adjusted his camera settings as he spoke, each movement precise and professional, hiding the fact he was reading their reactions.

  “I might need to step out for a few minutes during the shoot tonight,” he mentioned casually, knowing PPI’s operatives would latch onto the detail. “Probably around 8:30 PM, is that okay?” The time was chosen carefully - far enough away to seem plausible, close enough to keep them focused.

  Kessler nodded in approval, but Reed saw the faint tightening around his eyes. The Secretary was trapped, and couldn’t escape alone.

  It was a calculated risk, a red herring to distract them. Meanwhile, the hidden recording devices captured every word, every glance, every nuance. The data streamed silently to secure servers, building a digital evidentiary record.

  Reed, Carter, and Kranch met mid-morning in a quiet corner of the hotel. The location wasn’t random - it had clear sightlines to both exits and enough background noise to cover their conversation. Carter pulled up the photos he’d taken, pointing to the man with the earpiece and the van near the loading dock.

  “These guys aren’t hotel staff,” Carter said, his voice low and intense. “They’re too polished. Too aware. Look at their posture, their positioning. Classic PPI formation patterns.” He swiped through more photos, each one revealing another layer of surveillance around them.

  Reed nodded, studying the images. “The two aides with Kessler... they’re PPI. They’re not here to help him—they’re here to control him. Look how they bracket him, never letting anyone get too close.” He paused, thinking. “They’re good, but they’re not subtle. They’re showing force, trying to intimidate.” Kranch’s face hardened as he watched the security footage on his tablet. “Traps are set. If they move, we’ll have time to react. I’ve got emergency exits covered, and the hotel’s security cameras are feeding us real-time updates.”

  Reed placed one final recording device in Kessler’s briefing folder, his hands steady despite the knot in his gut. This one was the most important - smaller than the others, almost undetectable, but capable of picking up everything within a ten-foot radius. As he walked back into the meeting room, one of Kessler’s aides, hand on his hidden microphone, whispered, “We’re in position. Waiting for the word.”

  This was it. The plan was in place, the stage set. Now, all that was left was to see who would make the first move. Reed glanced at his watch again - 11:23 AM. Hours until the event, but seconds could be the difference between success and failure.

  Tonight, this ends here, Reed thought. One way or another. The weight of his camera felt good against his chest, a reminder sometimes the best weapon wasn’t a gun, but the truth through a lens.