The black sedan moved smoothly through London's midnight streets, but Agent X was already thinking five steps ahead.
His mission had failed. Not because of incompetence, but because someone had wanted him to fail.
The empty chamber. The guards reacting too quickly. The fact that Jonathan Reynolds had expected him.
Echelon's rules were clear: failure was death.
His mind worked fast. If Control was calling him back, it wasn't for a debrief. It was an execution order.
They were going to kill him.
The driver—one of Echelon's faceless operatives—didn't say a word as they wove through the streets. X watched him through the rearview mirror.
No tension in his grip. No nervousness. He doesn't know.
Which meant the kill order wasn't public knowledge yet.
Good. That gave him time.
He reached down, unzipping his duffel bag. His fingers brushed the grip of his silenced pistol—loaded this time. He had checked before getting in the car. No more mistakes.
His other hand went to the combat knife hidden at his waist.
The driver glanced up. "Something wrong?"
X didn't answer.
Two options.
One: Kill the driver, take the car, disappear.
Two: Let the driver take him back, walk into the base, and get shot in the head.
It wasn't much of a choice.
The streets were empty. No witnesses.
X moved fast. His arm shot forward, looping around the driver's throat in a vice grip. The man gasped, hands jerking the wheel. The car veered hard, skidding against the pavement before slamming to a stop in a dark alley.
The struggle lasted three seconds.
By the fourth, the driver was dead.
X dragged the body into the passenger seat, wiping his blade clean before slipping behind the wheel. Now what?
If he went into hiding, Echelon would hunt him to the ends of the earth.
If he wanted to survive, he had to fight back.
And that meant finding out who had set him up.
He needed information. Reynolds. The senator had known something—he had expected the attack.
X's hands tightened on the wheel. Did Reynolds set him up? Or was the senator just another pawn in the game?
There was only one way to find out.
He pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed a number. A female voice answered after two rings.
"This is Whisper."
A ghost of a smirk crossed X's lips. Whisper was the best hacker-for-hire in the underworld. She had helped him on past missions, always staying in the shadows.
"I need intel on Jonathan Reynolds," X said. "Fast."
A pause. Then, "That's dangerous. Who's asking?"
"I don't have time for games."
Silence. Then, a soft chuckle.
"You're burned, aren't you?"
X didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Another pause, then Whisper spoke again, her tone all business. "I'll dig. But if I do this, you owe me."
X exhaled. "Fine. Just be quick."
He ended the call and stared out at the city.
He was no longer an assassin.
He was a target.
And the hunt had just begun.