Reed Sawyer moved through the terminal with practiced ease, blending into the current of travelers. With a camera hanging from his neck and a bag slung over his shoulder, he appears to be like every other passenger scanning the crowded expanse ahead. But Reed wasn't here for vacation nor business. And he wasn't alone.
The Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport pulsed with life—loud and busy, a swirling mass of sound and movement. Normally, that chaotic energy made Reed feel secure, invisible in the crowd. But today was different. There was something discordant in the air, a subtle tension that set his nerves on edge.
He turned and drifted into a magazine shop, positioning himself behind a rack of travel guides. His eyes swept the terminal with slow, deliberate glances. That's when he spotted him.
At Gate C13 to Chicago, a man stood out—too sharply dressed for this hour. His slate-gray suit was impeccably tailored, its crisp lines unwrinkled. He carried no luggage, just a phone held loosely, almost like a stage prop. But he wasn't looking at the screen. His gaze was locked on Reed.
Reed shifted his focus, nervously thumbed through a magazine without seeing it. He drew in a shallow breath, forcing his body to relax. One wrong move could give him away. This was what his years of training were for—the discipline that now kept him poised as he flipped another page, while his mind raced through possibilities.
Had his cover been blown? The Professional Photographers Institute (PPI) operated under a polished exterior—a global organization dedicated to advancing photography through education, networking, and professional resources. But beneath that respectable veneer lay PPI's true purpose: the Private Protection Initiative—a covert intelligence network that uses photographers as operatives. Their cameras often more valuable than any weapon. Photographers were invisible—a fixture at events, ignored by most, and allowed to move freely, even in places others could never access. It was the perfect cover: slipping through embassy checkpoints, blending into private events, wandering restricted areas with the plausible excuse of adjusting a lens or tweaking the lighting. But now, here in his own city's airport, something unnerving.
Reed shifted, setting the magazine down and stepping back into the flow of the terminal. The man in the suit was still there, watching. A surge of instinct told Reed to move. He turned toward the coffee stand, weaving into the line and letting the crowd of travelers and families shield him from view.
A few minutes later, he risked a glance back. The man was gone.
Reed merged into the boarding line, moving with the steady tide of passengers, blending as he always did. But Reed's mind fixated on the man in the slate-gray suit. It could have been coincidence, but the air crackled with an unease that made his instincts prickle. PPI had trained its agents to trust that feeling.
Settling into seat 17D, Reed stowed his bag under the seat in front of him, letting his eyes scan the cabin in a practiced sweep. Everything appeared normal—parents wrangling strollers, a man furiously typing on his laptop, a teenage girl glued to her phone, oblivious to the world. Reed released a slow breath, easing back into the seat. Maybe he'd overreacted.
Then, he saw him.
The man was dressed as a flight attendant now—dark slacks, crisp white shirt, navy vest. The slate-gray suit had been replaced with the calm, professional uniform of the crew. But Reed's mind caught on the familiar features: the sharp jawline, the dark, calculating eyes. Recognition hit him instantly. The man moved up the aisle, checking overhead compartments and greeting passengers with the detached efficiency that came with the job.
Although his pulse quickened, Reed forced himself to stay composed, to move naturally. As he adjusted his camera lens, the action serving as cover to steal another glance. The man paused a few rows ahead, offering a polite smile to a passenger fumbling with a seatbelt. To the untrained eye, he was just another flight attendant. But Reed knew better. This man wasn't supposed to be here.
Their eyes met for the briefest moment, a flicker of recognition crossing the man's face before he turned and continued down the aisle, expression flawlessly neutral.
Reed sat back, resisting the urge to act on impulse. PPI had warned him about moments like this—when the line between his cover and reality would blur, when the role of the "photographer" would be tested. He'd trained for this, but training was nothing compared to the raw sensation of being hunted, of knowing that someone was closing in while he remained in character.
What did they know? How had they found him?
The man slipped behind the curtain to the crew's quarters, vanishing from sight. Reed leaned his head back, mind racing. There was no backup, no signal to guide him. It was just him, his camera, and instincts honed through years of work. And those instincts screamed that this was no coincidence. Whoever this man was, he was here for Reed.
As the plane taxied, engines humming steadily, he closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow. But his mind refused to quiet. Who was this man? And why was he here now?
Suddenly a vibration buzzed in his pocket—was it an incoming message? Against his better judgment, he pulled out his phone and opened it. It wasn't a text or an email. It was something else entirely. It was as if something had hijacked the cellular network and forced words to appear on his screen:
"Reed, we need to talk. Now."
No signature, no clue as to who had sent it—or how it had been sent. Just six stark words.
His stomach tightened. PPI contacts never reached out like this, especially not openly. Communication was always done through Pro4uM.com, encrypted and buried behind layers of misdirection. This kind of direct message was unheard of. Whoever sent it either didn't know the rules... or didn't care.
The plane jolted as it lifted off, and his phone switched automatically to airplane mode. Reed's grip tightened, eyes locked on the screen, the message now frozen in its final moment of connection. This wasn't just a warning. Someone was watching him and playing by their own rules. Someone who knew his real name, his true purpose.
While trying to process the unfolding set of events the flight attendant returned. Moving down the aisle with a tray of drinks. He stopped at Reed's row, his smile professional but his eyes cold. He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Hope you're comfortable," he said. "It's a long flight."
Their eyes met, the man's stare daring him to respond. Reed managed to kept his face impassive, while his mind churning beneath the surface. This was more than just a shadow trailing him; it was a deliberate signal, a warning delivered up close and personal. Reed was being followed, and whoever was behind it was far closer than he had imagined.
As the man moved on, a new kind of fear crept into Reed, sharper than the edge of any lens he'd ever handled. This wasn't the controlled thrill of a mission; this was fear of exposure, vulnerability. And for the first time in years, Reed Sawyer had no idea what would come next.
As the steady hum of the plane vibrated through the cabin; a sound that now felt suffocating. Reed's awareness lead him to the realization: he was cornered, thousands of feet in the air, no backup, no exit plan. And no weapon. Not even a pocketknife. Just a bag packed with camera gear.
Feigning calm, Reed leaned back and let his hand drift over his equipment. As his fingers brushed the cool metal of his telephoto lens, and an idea clicked into place. In skilled hands, these weren't just instruments of photography. They were improvised weapons, ready to be used if the need arose.
The image of incapacitating someone with a lens and a tripod brought a grin to Reeds minds eye.
Then a deeper realization set in. What if the man wasn't alone?
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The calculated smile on the "flight attendant's" face and the cryptic message on Reed's phone were puzzle pieces that wouldn't align. Could there be another operative on the flight, someone blending in seamlessly like him, hidden in plain sight?
Suddenly, the passengers around him looked different, his gear seemed sharper, heavier. Reed was no longer just a traveler with a camera; he was a hunter armed and poised to defend himself.
As soon as the plane's Wi-Fi activated, Reed connected and logged into Pro4uM.com. The familiar homepage loaded, filled with PPI Sales Info and other advertisements aimed at "professional photographers." The site was PPI's perfect camouflage. Reed had been drawn in by this very guise years ago—it was his entry into the world of espionage.
To the untrained eye, Pro4uM.com was just another photography site, boasting "educational resources" on lenses, lighting techniques, and editing tips. But Reed knew it was an ingenious facade, concealing layers of coded messages and hidden links disguised as photography articles. To outsiders, it was a community of passionate photographers. To insiders, it was a tightly controlled communications hub for PPI agents.
Reed had stumbled upon Pro4uM.com by chance, attracted by its promise of "exclusive techniques" and "cutting-edge education." It didn't take long for him to sense that something was amiss—posts appearing at odd hours, strange phrasings in comments, occasional redirects to encrypted pages. Cracking one of those codes had been an idle act of curiosity, but it hadn't gone unnoticed. Days later, he'd received a message from PPI, inviting him to a meeting he couldn't fully comprehend it's agenda, but felt compelled to attend.
And that was how it had all begun.
Now, years later, he was back on the site—not as an eager professional photographer, but as a covert operative. Reed logged into Pro4uM.com with practiced ease, navigating seamlessly to the private area. Once there, he keyed the cryptic message he'd received into the special "Search" feature: Reed, we need to talk. Now.
The screen flickered, momentarily going dark before lines of encrypted text scrolled across it. Reed's pulse quickened. This wasn't how the Pro4uM normally worked.
Then, a single line appeared, blinking to life at the top of the page:
Look closer, Reed. You're in the frame.
Reed squinted, the meaning of each word gnawing at him. "In the frame" wasn't a casual choice—it was some sort of warning.
Suddenly another line materialized:
Section: 3. Page: 16. Code: 105-B
A frown deepened across his brow as he instinctively glanced at his camera gear. He knew the protocol— "in the frame" likely meant the answer was hidden in something he carried. But he hadn't received a physical update from PPI in months.
Before Reed could take any action, another message appeared:
Someone's watching. Play your part.
Reed's throat tightened. Whoever sent this knew he was being followed—and they knew far more than they were revealing. The numbers in the message might referrer to a hidden document, an embedded file, or something buried within his camera or an archive from a past mission. But one thing was clear: "play your part" meant staying in his cover, keeping up the photographer facade.
He closed the laptop, the message's weight pressing down on him like a lead vest. His eyes swept the cabin. The man in the flight attendant uniform had retreated behind the curtain, but Reed knew he wouldn't stay hidden for long.
The encrypted message echoed in his mind: Look closer, Reed. You're in the frame. A warning, layered and ominous. The numbers—Section 3, Page 16, Code 105-B—pulled at his thoughts, a riddle he needed to unravel. It had to point to something specific, something he'd encountered before.
Reed took out the telephoto lens from his bag, pretending to clean it, his fingers tracing the familiar notches along the metal barrel. This lens held a hidden compartment, a trick PPI agents used for storing microfilm or compact storage drives. It wasn't likely that this was what the man behind the curtain was after—Reed hoped not—but it could buy him a crucial moment if things got physical.
The plane hummed as passengers settled, a tense calm filling the cabin. Reed shifted, angling the lens to peer through its glass and catch a reflection in the window. The man reappeared. Slipping out from behind the curtain, scanning the rows with a practiced nonchalance. His eyes paused on Reed for a fraction of a second before moving on.
Reed's mind raced, connecting fragments at lightning speed. If he was "in the frame," it wasn't just surveillance—it meant he was the focal point of whatever operation was unfolding. Was the man part of PPI? Or an outsider who'd cracked Pro4uM.com's real purpose? Either scenario spelled danger.
He needed to act.
Reed stood, camera in hand, and moved into the aisle as if heading to the lavatory. Space—he needed space, a vantage point, somewhere he could think without the eyes on him feeling like a tightening noose. He had only barely stood up in the aisle when the plane rocked with a slight bump of turbulence, and the man in the flight attendant uniform blocked his path with a tray of drinks.
"Can I help you with something, sir?" The words were polite, but the glint in his eyes said otherwise.
Playing the part of a passenger, caught mid-walk, Reed said., "Just stretching my legs," adding a casual smile that didn't reach his eyes.
The man tilted his head just a fraction. "I suggest you sit back down. The ride's about to get bumpy."
Reed noted the subtle tension in the man's stance, the way his fingers tightened around the tray, ready to drop it at a moment's notice. The threat was silent but unmistakable.
"I'll take my chances," Reed said, shifting his weight, fingers wrapping around the camera body. It wasn't much, but it was something.
As he prepared for whatever came next, a number caught Reed's attention out of the corner of his eye: 16B. The seat was just a row up, to his left. Its occupant—a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit—sat with his head tilted back, seemingly dozing. But under the seat in front of him rested a small, nondescript case. Most would overlook it, but not Reed. This was no ordinary case—it was a covert camera case provided by PPI, designed to blend in seamlessly.
Reed's heartbeat quickened, adrenaline flowing, fueling a new sense of purpose. Reed forced a smile, and gave a nod that implied surrender.
"I'll be happy to sit back down," he said, shifting in the aisle, allowing the flight attendant to step aside. But his attention never left 16B. He was no longer merely observing; he was preparing for what came next.
Reed's mind turned as he slipped back into his seat, his eyes darting between passengers in order to focus on the man in seat 16B. He watched as the middle-aged man shifted slightly, as though aware of Reed's presence. The case under his seat, so inconspicuous moments before, now seemed to radiate importance. Reed had to get closer, to determine if this man was the key or just another complication.
Reed once again adjusted his camera, angling it to keep 16B within the frame of his telephoto lens. The pretense of camera work gave him the perfect excuse to observe without drawing suspicion. He zoomed in, noting the worn edges of the case, the rhythmic tapping of the man's fingers against the armrest.
As Reed focused his lens, the man opened his eyes, shifting slightly to nudge the case further beneath the seat. 16B turned his head slightly to the right, their eyes met, and in an instant, the man's expression changed from feigned sleep to full alertness.
A subtle nod. Just enough to confirm what Reed suspected. This wasn't a random passenger. He was involved, and he knew Reed was too.
Reed stood, stretching as though loosening his muscles. As he passed 16B, the man spoke without turning his head, his voice low and steady.
"Check your case," he said, the words nearly lost beneath the engine's steady hum.
Reed kept moving, pretending he hadn't heard, but inside, everything shifted. The man in 16B had either just handed him a lifeline—or set a trap. The air in the cabin seemed to thicken, every second dragging.
A quick glance back caught the flight attendant's narrowed eyes, tracking Reed with a sharpness that suggested he hadn't missed the exchange. The plane dipped slightly, a reminder of their altitude, and Reed returned to his seat, gripping his camera.
Look closer, Reed. You're in the frame. The coded message replayed in his mind. Check your case. Whatever was hidden in his own case was a clue that was part of a larger game; one he was now deeper in than ever.
The numbers ran through his mind again: Section 3. Page: 16. Code: 105-B. It had to be more than just random numbers; it was a key. Reed's eyes drifted to 16B. The man sat with a composed stillness, the kind only a trained operative could manage. The cryptic message from Pro4uM.com wasn't a warning. It was a lifeline.
Reed struggled to get comfortable in his seat, the low drone of the engines a constant hum in his ears. His mission had been clear—at least before today: photograph Secretary Lucien Kessler, one of the most powerful figures in the U.S. government, at an exclusive event in Vienna. The press pass, courtesy of PPI, was his cover. But the real task was embedded in the shoot—passing on a coded sequence hidden within a seemingly routine photo opt. An opt designed to prompt a response; a confirmation that the silent message had been received from Kessler.
It was supposed to be simple. Almost too simple. Too simple to justify extra operatives shadowing him now. Reed's confusion deepened. And now, that plan felt precarious. The man in 16B was the missing piece—whether ally or threat remained uncertain.
Reed glanced at his bag, pretending to rummage through it. Section 3—could it reference a chapter in his camera manual? And Page 16? Perhaps it wasn't a literal page but an image or technical reference within Chapter 3. PPI often concealed messages in the mundane, using the complexities of photography as camouflage. Camera manuals were perfect for this: dense with diagrams, jargon, and obscure details—ideal for hiding critical information in plain sight.
105-B. To most, just a description. But to Reed, it was a signal, a directive only a trained PPI operative would understand. The genius of embedding codes in camera manuals lay in their overlooked nature—no one read them in detail, making them the perfect hiding spot. PPI's cryptographers were masters at embedding these hidden cues, ensuring agents had access to covert instructions where others would never think to look.
His excitement grew as the pieces were starting to fall into place. If the answer was hidden in the manual, then the next step was already in his hands.
Play your part, the Pro4uM message had instructed. Reed leaned back, his fingers brushing the well-worn edges of the camera instruction manual. The familiarity of it steadied him as he flipped it open to Section 3—Emergency Alerts and Error Messages.
His pulse quickened as he turned to Page 16 and quickly scanned it. There it was: an image of possible emergency alerts associated with his camera, and beneath it, Item 105-B:
Flash unit that does not support red-eye reduction attached, and flash mode set to red-eye reduction or red-eye reduction with slow sync.
To most, it was technical gibberish, the kind only a photographer might notice. But to Reed, it resonated like a code song. It signaled an operative, or unit working without conventional support—a PPI agent in the field using improvised means to signal presence. Flash mode was code for need for subtle synchronization without drawing attention.
Reed's heartbeat leveled, confusion giving way to clarity.
Reed kept the manual open, his eyes scanning the page as if lost in technical details. But now, it was more than a manual; it was a map to staying alive. And the man in 16B wasn't just an incidental presence—he was Reed's lifeline.
The flight attendant stepped out from behind the galley, eyes sharp as steel. Reed's heart skipped, but he masked it with a small smile, holding his cover intact.
He'd figured it out in time. Now he just needed to survive long enough to act—and get to Vienna and photograph Kessler.