The smoke was dense and acrid, curling around the safe house like a coiled predator. Ethan's muscles tensed as he yanked the escape hatch harder, the latch groaning in protest. His piercing gray eyes darted between the sealed door and Clara, who clutched the smoke pellets like they might explode in her hands.
"Focus," he murmured, barely audible. The shuffle of boots outside grew louder, deliberate and measured—predators circling their prey.
The door gave a single, ominous creak. Clara's green eyes locked on Ethan's, wide with fear.
"They're right outside," she whispered, her voice trembling like a frayed wire about to snap. "We'll never make it out in time."
Ethan didn't flinch. "I've handled worse," he replied, his voice calm, resolute. "Trust me."
The assurance hung in the air, fragile as the thin wood between them and the assassins. The sharp crack of the door bursting open shattered the moment. Smoke grenades clattered across the floor, hissing as they expelled choking plumes of gray.
Ethan moved. His baton flashed as he stepped into the smoke, each strike precise. A knee crumpled. A rifle clattered to the ground. Another figure surged toward him, dark and menacing. The butt of a rifle swung for Ethan's head, but he ducked, his wiry frame moving like water. His baton lashed out, connecting with a satisfying crack to the attacker's wrist.
"Ethan!" Clara's scream cut through the chaos.
He didn't look. The third assailant loomed behind her. Ethan reacted, hurling a smoke pellet with unerring accuracy. It detonated at the man's feet, and the room filled with a blinding haze.
"Move!" Ethan barked, his voice slicing through Clara's panic.
She scrambled down the narrow ladder, coughing as the smoke clawed at her lungs. Ethan followed, his descent swift and controlled. The hatch slammed shut above them, and Ethan secured it with a twist of the locking mechanism.
"They'll find us," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible in the suffocating silence of the tunnel. "They'll—"
"They won't," Ethan interrupted, his tone razor-sharp. He pulled a flashlight from his bag, its beam cutting through the suffocating darkness. "Not yet."
The tunnel was a claustrophobic labyrinth of dirt and damp air. Clara stumbled, her breath ragged as she followed Ethan's lead.
"Who were they?" she rasped, desperation creeping into her voice. "Why are they after us?"
Ethan paused, the flashlight casting his shadow like a phantom on the walls. His gray eyes bore into hers, unreadable yet heavy with meaning.
"Not who," he said finally. "What. The cipher. It's worth more than you can imagine. To the right people, it's power."
Clara's lips curled in a bitter smile. "Then why do I feel like the bait in this?"
Ethan said nothing. He turned and pressed on, his silence louder than any words.
They emerged into the clearing like fugitives breaking the surface of a dark sea. Rain dripped from the canopy above, the storm reduced to a persistent drizzle. Ethan's gaze swept the area, every nerve alert for the faintest sign of movement.
"Clear," he muttered, more to himself than to Clara. "For now."
Clara collapsed onto a mossy log, her hands trembling as they covered her face. Ethan crouched beside her, his hands steady as he pulled out his phone. The scrambled interface flickered to life—a secure line to Gwen Alderidge.
"What the hell happened?" Gwen's voice was sharp, a knife cutting through the static.
"Ambush," Ethan said, his tone flat, deliberate. "Your grandfather's cipher—someone knew we had it."
A beat of silence. Then Gwen's voice, tight with anger. "Damn it, Drake. I told you this wasn't just about money. They'll kill for it."
Ethan's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to Clara, pale and motionless, her fear written in every line of her face.
"They already tried," he said softly.
Another pause. When Gwen spoke again, her voice was softer, tinged with hesitation. "What now?"
Ethan rose, his shoulders squared, his gray eyes fixed on the shadowed forest ahead.
"We decode it," he said. "And we end this."