Ethan spent the better part of the next few hours finishing the last of the fortifications. His movements were deliberate, cautious, as if every step had to be calculated to perfection. He wasn't just working on setting traps and reinforcing doors—he was preparing for the inevitable. With the supplies he had left and the minimal resources from the System, he knew he was working with limitations. The remaining Agent Points were almost entirely exhausted, but he made sure to make every one of them count.
The tripwires he had set along the perimeter were basic but functional, each one tied to a small but effective incendiary device. The entrances were reinforced with steel plates he had purchased from the System, the cheapest available, but they would slow down any intruder long enough for him to plan an escape or make a stand. Each window was reinforced with heavy-duty bars, disguised well enough to blend with the rustic look of the old safehouse, and his surveillance was now upgraded to include thermal detection.
"Sir," Iris's voice hummed through his earpiece, "the security reinforcements are functional, though they won't hold off a professional team for long. The perimeter is now at a twenty-meter radius with full surveillance."
Ethan wiped the sweat from his brow and surveyed his handiwork. It would have to do.
"Good enough for now," he muttered, adjusting one last camera. His mind was already racing with what came next. The fact that they were isolated meant they could avoid detection for a while, but they were far from safe. Especially now that Roan Mendoza's son, Alejandro, was out for blood.
Iris's voice cut in again. "Speaking of which, I have intercepted several conversations from local mercenaries and bounty hunters. The hit put out by Alejandro Mendoza is spreading fast. It's only a matter of time before someone picks up the trail."
Ethan exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. "How far are they from us?"
"Most are still gathering information, but a few seem to be aware of activity in this region of Venezuela. It won't be long before they come knocking."
Ethan nodded to himself. "Alright. Keep monitoring the chatter."
He turned toward the safehouse, eyes narrowing as he saw Isabella sitting in the corner, her knees drawn up to her chest. She hadn't moved much since he'd started reinforcing the place. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, her expression distant, almost hollow. Every so often, she would glance his way, but the moment their eyes met, she would look away again.
As he approached, Ethan made sure to keep his distance, recognizing that she still wasn't ready for any close interaction. The PTSD from her trauma lingered heavily in the air between them, thick like fog.
"How are you holding up?" he asked softly, leaning against the wall across from her.
Isabella shifted but didn't respond immediately. Her eyes flickered toward him before she looked back down. "I don't know…" Her voice was a mere whisper, weak but not entirely lifeless.
For the first time since he'd found her, Isabella appeared to be somewhat present, engaged. It wasn't much, but it was progress.
Leaving her to continue speaking with Iris, Ethan stepped away, returning to his earlier thoughts.
"Iris, any updates on the bounty hunters?" he whispered through his earpiece, careful not to disturb Isabella.
"I have some intel on a few notable mercenaries who might be interested in the hit," Iris replied, switching back to her usual tone. "One in particular, Guillermo 'El Serpiente,' is known for operating in these parts. He's ruthless but efficient—perfect for this kind of job. I'll keep you posted if I detect any movement from him or others in the area."
Ethan frowned. "Understood. Any luck tracing Alejandro directly?"
"Not yet. He's staying out of sight, likely working through intermediaries. But I'll keep tracking him."
Ethan sighed, glancing toward the fortified windows. He knew they were in for a storm—one that wasn't going to blow over anytime soon. His immediate priority was ensuring Isabella's safety, but every second they stayed in one place felt like the world was closing in around them.
As he returned to the center of the room, Isabella stopped speaking to Iris for a moment and looked up at him.
"Is it bad out there?" she asked, her voice fragile but curious.
Ethan took a seat across from her, keeping his tone calm and reassuring. "Things are under control for now. But I won't lie to you—there are people looking for us. We'll be okay, though. I've made sure of that."
She stared at him, searching his face as if trying to find some semblance of truth in his words. After a moment, she nodded slightly and resumed her conversation with Iris.
Ethan leaned back, rubbing the tension from his neck. He couldn't afford to let his guard down—not for a second. With bounty hunters and mercenaries potentially closing in, every hour was precious.
He glanced toward the door, then at the traps he'd laid around the perimeter. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing.
Let them come, he thought to himself grimly. I'll be ready.
...
Far away from the seclusion of Ethan's safehouse, the MI6 team had assembled in a covert safehouse of their own, located in the outskirts of La Vela. The small town didn't look like much to any casual observer, but for Rachel Hawkins and her team, it was a central point in their current investigation.
Inside the safehouse, the air was thick with tension. A collection of documents, laptops, and surveillance equipment cluttered the central table. Agents were speaking in low tones, their faces illuminated by the dim glow of the screens. The operations room was modest—bare bones by MI6 standards—but functional enough for the team to carry out their mission with precision.
Rachel Hawkins, the team leader, stood by the window, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon. She had the air of someone used to being in charge. Her dark hair was tied back tightly, and the faint lines of stress around her eyes were the only sign of the sleepless nights she'd spent on this mission. The recent developments had left her with more questions than answers, and that didn't sit well with her.
"Still no trace of him?" she asked, her voice calm but firm as she turned back to the agents working behind her.
Agent Matthews, a wiry man with glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose, shook his head. "Nothing, ma'am. We've combed through every possible surveillance feed we could get our hands on—traffic cameras, satellite feeds, even local shop CCTV. It's like he's a ghost."
Hawkins narrowed her eyes, stepping closer to the table where the monitors displayed multiple feeds, all showing the same dead ends. Whoever this man was, he was good—too good. Even their best analysts couldn't find a single trace of his movements after the incident at the Mendoza mansion.
"What about Isabella?" Hawkins asked, her eyes scanning the room for more information.
Agent Patel, another member of the team, looked up from her laptop, pushing a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. "She's still our only solid lead, but she hasn't shown up anywhere either. It's as if she vanished alongside him."
"That doesn't make sense," Hawkins muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "Isabella doesn't have the skills to disappear like this. Someone's helping her… or holding her."
Agent Patel nodded, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "I'm running her name through some additional databases to see if there's any indication of her being moved, but so far, nothing unusual is popping up."
Hawkins crossed her arms, pacing slowly around the table. "What's unusual is how well-hidden this man is. We should have something—anything. No one just vanishes into thin air without leaving a digital footprint."
Agent Matthews chimed in again. "We could be dealing with someone from the intelligence community. Or a contractor—someone who knows how to cover their tracks."
"Possibly," Hawkins said, her mind racing. "But if he's an agent, why the secrecy? Why go through so much trouble to remain off the grid? And why would he involve himself in local cartel business?" She shook her head. "This doesn't add up."
The Mendoza operation had been delicate from the start. Their interest in Roan Mendoza and his network was more about what the cartel leader had in his possession than the man himself. The package—something MI6 had been tracking through whispers on the dark web—was the key. They had intelligence that suggested Mendoza was moving something valuable through his channels, something that had caught the interest of several international factions. It was supposed to be a straightforward retrieval mission, but now it had spiraled into chaos with the appearance of this mystery man.
"We've already contacted Interpol," Matthews continued, "but they haven't flagged anything that matches his description in their databases."
Hawkins wasn't surprised. Whoever this man was, he was operating at a level far beyond the standard criminals or mercenaries they usually dealt with. If Interpol didn't have anything, then he was either deep undercover or working for an agency that was burying his identity.
"I've already reached out to our own intelligence divisions back in London," Hawkins said. "They're scouring the databases for anything unusual—recent resignations, black ops missions gone wrong, missing agents. We need a match."
Agent Patel tapped a few keys on her laptop, pulling up a secure communications line to headquarters. "I'll send another request for any potential off-the-books operatives that might have gone rogue. If this guy isn't showing up in any conventional systems, it's possible he's part of something more classified."
Hawkins walked back to the window, her brow furrowed in thought. The pieces of the puzzle weren't fitting together. Someone with this level of skill, disappearing without a trace, was not an ordinary operative. And the fact that they hadn't found a single surveillance trace of him suggested that he wasn't just good—he was trained for this.
She turned back to her team. "Keep pushing on all angles. I want every agency database scoured for anyone that matches his description. Former agents, contractors, anyone with a history of black ops. There's something off about this whole situation."
Just then, one of the younger agents stationed at the far end of the room, Agent Walker, raised his hand.
"Ma'am," he called, his voice uncertain but urgent. "I think I found something."
Hawkins and the rest of the team turned toward him. Agent Walker, a rookie compared to the others, had been going through some of the more obscure data sources—old black ops mission reports, anonymous tip-offs, and dark web chatter. He quickly switched the feed on his screen to the main display.
"This is strange," Walker muttered, his eyes scanning the data on the screen, fingers tapping rapidly across the keys. "I've never seen anything like it."
Hawkins, standing behind him, crossed her arms as she observed. The rest of the MI6 operatives were scattered around the temporary base, but her focus was on the strange information they were uncovering—or rather, not uncovering.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice carrying the tension they all felt. They'd been trying to trace this man for days, and every lead led to a dead end.
Walker gestured to the screen. "The files… they're corrupted. Not just in one system, but across multiple databases. Every time I try to pull up a profile, it's like the information has been scrambled. There's no operational history, no clear identification. Whoever this guy is, he's been systematically erased—or corrupted beyond retrieval."
Hawkins frowned, leaning in. "Intentionally?"
Walker nodded slowly. "It's too consistent to be an accident. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."
Before Hawkins could respond, another agent, Lewis, walked over with a tablet in hand. "Ma'am, you need to see this," he said, his tone unusually serious.
Hawkins took the tablet, her eyes narrowing as she read the intelligence report. "There's been chatter in intelligence circles… about a rogue agent who recently broke out of a Russian maximum-security prison. The breakout caused a massive stir, and the details of his escape are classified, but this guy fits part of the description."
Walker's eyes widened. "A Russian prison? That's next level. No wonder we're having trouble tracing him."
Hawkins scrolled further through the report. "They're calling him a ghost. No name, no traceable identity, but his escape has everyone on high alert. It's not just MI6—it's across multiple agencies. If this guy is the same person we're tracking in Venezuela, then he's more dangerous than we realized."
Lewis nodded. "We don't have a concrete ID on him, but the fact that we can't find anything in our own databases is troubling. It's like someone scrubbed him clean, just enough to avoid detection but still left enough to raise red flags."
"Or corrupted it," Walker added, his fingers still tapping at his keyboard. "It's like someone's trying to walk the line between keeping him hidden and not drawing too much attention."
Hawkins' mind raced as she processed the information. "So we're looking for a highly trained operative who just escaped from a high-security Russian prison, and now he's here in Venezuela? We need to get ahead of this before things spiral out of control."
Walker looked up from his screen, a grim expression on his face. "If this is the same guy, he's not just some rogue agent. He's a ghost. And ghosts like him don't just disappear—they come back with unfinished business."