Marty was already logged in to Pro4uM.com when Barry sent him the message in the Chubby Senior thread. Its casual tone was a thin veil over its deadly intent:
"I had a Chubby Senior to photograph this week. His name was Tom. I told him he had to go—he needed to lose weight. I ended the session. Under no circumstances was I going to allow him in my studio. I recommend you do the same with any of your observations."
Marty’s heart sank. The meaning was unmistakable. “Tom” was Reed Sawyer and he wasn’t just being observed—he was the target. Barry’s message left no room for misinterpretation. He wanted Marty to kill Sawyer today.
Marty sat back in his chair, his pulse racing. This wasn’t what he signed up for. He’d always known PPI operated in the shadows but this? This was something else. His mind was racing with excuses but each one was being crushed by Barry’s implied threat. Failure wasn’t an option—especially not when it came to Barry Cox.
Marty closed his laptop and stared at the innocent camera bag on his bed. He reached for it instinctively, his hands shaking as he opened the compartment. His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the concealed weapon Barry had made him carry—a “just in case” precaution that now felt like a setup, a ticking time bomb.
His mind spun. What if I don’t do it? What if I miss? What if Barry finds out? He tried to calm his breathing but the knot in his chest tightened. Barry always found out.
Marty replayed the message in his head, clinging to the absurdity of it. Marty knew what it meant. Kill Sawyer.
It wasn’t the first time he’d followed orders that walked the line but this? This was different. This was kill or be killed.
Marty’s mind went back to memories he’d tried to forget—operatives who had failed Barry. Their excuses had seemed reasonable at the time: hesitation, uncertainty or inability to deliver. But Barry had no tolerance for failure.
Marty remembered when Barry had casually mentioned a previous operative who “lacked loyalty”. The story had been told with a detachment but the message was clear: obedience was survival. Barry’s words echoed in Marty’s head: “Disloyalty isn’t a mistake. It’s a choice. And choices have consequences.”
Marty had always been loyal—or at least compliant. But he’d never been asked to kill someone before, let alone someone like Reed Sawyer.
Marty’s hand hovered over the weapon, his mind flicking back to Reed. He remembered their brief conversation at the café that morning. Reed had been calm, almost casual but there was something in his tone—a hint of knowing.
“Things aren’t always what they seem, Marty,” Reed had said, his eyes piercing. “Sometimes, the picture isn’t as clear as you think.”
Marty had brushed it off at the time, attributing it to Reed’s cryptic nature. But now the words gnawed at him. What if Reed wasn’t just another cog in Barry’s machine? What if Reed knew something—something Barry didn’t want him to know?
The idea was ridiculous. Barry was The Architect. He saw everything, controlled everything. The notion that someone could outsmart him was laughable.
And yet…
Marty shook his head, trying to silence the flicker of doubt.
He reasoned with himself, trying to push away the growing unease. Barry knows what’s best. He’s always known what’s best. If he says Reed has to go, then Reed has to go. It’s not my job to question it. It’s my job to follow orders.
But what if Barry was wrong?
Marty stood up, pacing the room. He muttered to himself, “Barry doesn’t make mistakes. Barry doesn’t make mistakes. Barry doesn’t—”
But the doubt lingered, faint but persistent.
What if Reed really is onto something? And what if Barry knows it too?
Marty paced again, then sat on the edge of his hotel bed, staring at his phone as Barry’s message replayed in his head.
He gripped the bedframe, his knuckles white. Reed was right. Barry’s making me the fall guy. If anything goes wrong, it’s my name that’ll be in the reports, not his.
Reed had hinted at secrets—about Barry, about PPI. Secrets Marty had been too scared or too loyal to consider. But now? Now the pieces were falling into place and the picture wasn’t one he wanted to be a part of.
Marty rubbed his temples, his mind racing. Telling Reed the truth wasn’t just dangerous—it was treason. But what choice did he have?
He looked at the schedule for the photoshoot, the tight timeline leaving no room for deviation.
Marty’s gaze flicked to his camera bag, reasoning kicking in. If I follow Barry’s orders, I’m complicit in this. If I tell Reed, I’m dead. Either way, I lose.
But a spark of determination emerged from the fear. Maybe, just maybe, Reed has a plan. And if he doesn’t, he needs to know what he’s walking into.
The shoot was soon, very soon, and Marty might have a very small window of opportunity!
Five minutes. Maybe less. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.
Marty went through the possibilities in his head. What if Barry’s watching? What if someone else sees me talking to Reed? What if this is already a setup, and Barry’s testing my loyalty?
But the alternative was worse. If he stayed silent, Reed would walk into the shoot blind and Marty would be the one holding the gun—literally and figuratively.
Marty pulled out his phone and texted Reed:
"Prep area. NOW."
He hit send and shoved the phone into his pocket, his hands shaking. He couldn’t back out now. Whatever happened next, he was in.
With that, Marty headed to the prep area, his resolve solidifying with every step.
Down in the ballroom, Reed adjusted the settings on his main camera, the lens glinting under the fluorescent lights. Every angle, every shadow was perfect—not for the photos, but for the hidden cameras. With Barry coming, the stakes had gone through the roof. The cameras weren’t just tools anymore; they were weapons. He reviewed the layout in his mind. One device embedded in a light stand, another in the decorative molding near the entrance. His most critical piece, a pinhole microphone with camera, was nestled near the main stairwell. This would be a perfect meeting spot to talk “business” if he were Barry. Every device was positioned to capture Barry’s every word and movement.
Just then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his heart skipping when he saw the sender: Marty Grimes.
The message was short and to the point: "Prep area. NOW."
Reed checked his watch. Less than an hour to the photoshoot. He hesitated, his instincts flaring. Marty was a wild card—someone caught between loyalty to Barry and his own survival. But he couldn’t ignore the message.
He typed a quick reply: “On my way. Has to be quick.”
As he hit send, the Lyt Meeter vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, the message glaring up at him in bold text:
“The shoot is a go. Finalize setup. Removal of Kessler follows immediately. No deviations.”
A shiver ran down his spine. This wasn’t a vague hint or coded phrase—it was as plain as day, Secretary Kessler had less than an hour left.
Reed’s voice remained steady as he spoke into his earpiece, masking the panic beneath. “Carter, Kranch. Prep room. Now.”
Moments earlier, while Grimes was figuring out what to do, Barry strode into the dimly lit stairwell, a light flickering above. His execution team—a woman and two men—was already assembled, their black suits blending into the shadows. They stood at attention as Barry approached, his presence commanding and deliberate.
He didn’t waste time, speaking in a low, measured tone. “The photoshoot goes as scheduled. No deviations. The Secretary will be eliminated on my signal. I’ll handle it personally.” Barry’s hand touched the camera bag on his shoulder, where the modified gun/lens with the hidden silenced weapon lay waiting. “It must look clean, unavoidable. A tragic, unforeseeable accident. No loose ends. Do you understand me? I’ll make sure it’s done right, and then we move forward—unshaken, untouchable. There will be no mistakes.” The operatives nodded in unison, their faces expressionless. Barry’s gaze landed on the tallest of them, a big man with a scar along his cheek. Antonio Dovere was one of Barry’s most trusted operatives. Only Seth Gauthier, Barry’s number one, was closer to him.
“Sawyer,” Barry said to Dovere. “He’s next. Marty Grimes will take care of him, as ordered. But we can’t leave this to chance.”
Barry’s eyes bored into Dovere. “You’ll tail Grimes. Stay close, but not so close he notices. If he hesitates—or worse, if he betrays us—you take out Reed. And you do it in a way that everyone thinks Grimes pulled the trigger—but make it messy. A struggle, something that fits the narrative. In the mess, take out Grimes too. Got it?”
Dovere smiled faintly, confidence oozing from him. “Got it, sir.”
Barry nodded, still calculating. He didn’t trust Marty, not completely. Grimes had always been competent, but soft—a man who followed orders but lacked the killer instinct. Barry had seen the hesitation in his eyes during past assignments, the flicker of doubt that could blow everything.
“The timing is critical.” Barry said. “The photoshoot goes as planned. Kessler is first—personally, by me. Sawyer’s next, courtesy of Grimes. And Grimes? He won’t leave the building either. This ends today.” Barry chuckled humorlessly, “We’ll be the heroes, making sure no one else gets hurt. I want it airtight—clean, precise, and above all, believable.”
Barry continued, “The world will see what I want them to see. Nothing more. Nothing less. And if anyone tries to screw up, well… accidents happen all the time in this business.”
Barry paused, scanning the team for any sign of panic. There was none. These were pros, loyal to him and his vision. He allowed himself a small, pleased smile. “Any questions?”
“No questions, sir.” Dovere replied, his voice flat. The others just shook their heads. Barry turned, his mind working with precision and control. Every piece was in place. The Secretary, Sawyer, Grimes—they were all pawns in his game, pieces to be sacrificed for the greater good. As he descended the stairwell, a dark thought flickered through his mind: This is why I’m the Architect. No loose ends, no liabilities, only results.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Unbeknownst to him, every word, every calculated instruction had been recorded, captured by Reed’s hidden devices. The trap was closing, though Barry, ever the puppet master, thought he was the one pulling the strings.
Reed headed toward the prep room, and his moves didn’t go unnoticed by one of Barry’s operatives, who watched him with narrowed eyes. Reed was moving with that same easy confidence he always had. Sawyer had a way of blending in, of becoming invisible—but the operative had been trained to notice even the smallest deviations. And this? This wasn’t routine.
He had just seen Carter, pacing just outside the door, and Kranch, leaning against the frame. Strange.
Those two had gone in the room and now here comes Reed Sawyer. They weren’t supposed to be gathering like this.
Should he report this? The instructions he had received earlier couldn’t have been clearer: No deviations.
He hesitated, his hand hovering over his encrypted communicator. Doubt crept in—was this a real opportunity to act or another one of Barry’s famous loyalty tests? Barry had a rep for setting traps, for sending false directives to flush out operatives with divided loyalties. But this was just a photoshoot. It was about to start and they had to be ready. His heart raced as he weighed the risk of delaying against the fallout of reporting too soon. He set a mental timer—two minutes. That’s it. Less than two minutes would be normal for last minute prep at an important shoot. Anything more—just a second over—and he would report it as suspicious.
Just then Reed walked into the prep room, with Grimes right behind him.
The room was already hopping when Reed arrived. Carter was against the wall, his face tight with tension. Kranch was peering through the crack in the door, scanning every shadow like a hawk on the hunt.
Grimes burst in last, his face white as he clutched his phone. Grimes spoke first, his voice shaky. “Did you read the ‘Chubby Senior’ thread? Barry’s ordered me to kill you, Reed. At the shoot. Today.”
Carter’s shoulders shot up as he cut in, “Operatives are swarming this place. They’re everywhere, watching us right now—bellhops, waiters, you name it.”
Kranch added grimly, “Barry’s on the move. I saw him with three operatives near the stairwell—looks like his execution team.”
Reed held up his hand, silencing the group. His voice was calm but his eyes blazed. “Team, this is what we train for. Remember, to them we’re just a photography team getting ready for a normal photoshoot. Nothing suspicious about that. But let me show you something.”
He tapped into the surveillance feed on his phone, pulling up the footage from the hidden camera in the stairwell. The grainy screen flickered to life and there was Barry, right out in the open, with his operatives flanking him. His voice, smooth and deliberate, filled the room:
“The photoshoot goes as planned. Kessler is first—personally, by me. Sawyer’s next, courtesy of Grimes. And Grimes? He won’t leave the building either. This ends today.”
The room was silent, the weight of Barry’s words crushing them. Reed looked around at the team. Grimes looked like he was going to puke. Carter’s fists were clenched, his knuckles white. Even Kranch, usually unflappable, looked shaken.
Reed pocketed his phone and stood up, his voice firm. “Mission is scrubbed. We’re not playing Barry’s game anymore. We’ve got the intel we need. Only thing left to do is get the mission code to the Secretary.”
He looked at Kranch. “You’ve got defensive maneuvers in place, right?”
Kranch nodded. “Kessler will be safe. I’ll get him out.” Reed’s voice dropped slightly. “As soon as the shoot starts, I’m sure the mission code will come in and I’ll give it to the Secretary. Then I’ll give the Secretary a secret phrase signaling danger. Kranch, as soon as I say, ‘Great shot, you’re all done. This shoot is over. Get out from in front of my camera.’ move Kessler. Get him out of here immediately. Don’t stop for anything.”
Kranch nodded. “Understood.”
“Good.” Reed’s eyes fell on Carter and Grimes. “You two are on the execution team. Do not let them execute Barry’s plan. Stick to them like glue. Barry has backups—he always does. Make sure they don’t get near Kessler.”
Reed’s gaze shifted to Grimes. “Marty, you’re part of this team now. Take this earpiece and stick close to Carter, and do not let Barry’s team take control. Got it?”
Grimes nodded. “Got it.”
They had Barry on tape. They had him dead to rights. But now they had to get that mission code to the Secretary. Then get out alive.
Outside the room the Operative hesitated, uncertainty crossing his face. Just as he was about to report this strange meeting. The Prep Room door opened.
Sawyer stepped out first, looking calm as if he hadn’t just been in a secret meeting. The others followed, equally expressionless. Each went in a different direction, a coordinated dispersal that drew no attention.
The Operative was still questioning this unusual meeting. The instinct to report rising. But just as he was about to report this, from down the hall a familiar voice called out.
“Reed!”
Barry Cox walked towards the ballroom, his voice warm and friendly, his face relaxed. Reed turned and smiled at Barry like an old friend. They exchanged a few words and Barry’s body language was so relaxed he could have been on a Sunday stroll.
The Operative froze, his hand dropping away from his communicator, sliding back into his pocket. If Barry was this casual, if he was talking to Sawyer like they were buddies, then surely... this was all part of the plan. He hesitated for only a moment before logic and loyalty took over. The Architect didn’t make mistakes.
The operative stood up straight, his body relaxing. Whatever had just happened in the Prep Room didn’t matter. The photoshoot was about to start and the plan would go off without a hitch.
Barry’s smile was disarming, his face bland. Barry’s voice boomed warmly, his hand out for a handshake. “It’s been too long, my friend. I really enjoy working with you. We always have so much fun, don’t we?”
Reed clasped Barry’s hand, matching the friendly energy though his guts twisted with unease. “Always a pleasure, Barry,” he said, keeping his tone light.
Barry leaned in slightly, his grin growing wider as if they were sharing a joke. “I brought all my special equipment. You know how I am—I like to do things my way. Can I borrow your tripod? I’ll save some time.”
The request was harmless enough but he knew its true meaning. Barry wasn’t here to help; he was here to control.
So this is how it’s going to go down, Reed thought, his mind racing. If Barry used his tripod it would give him a direct line of execution—whatever that was. And Reed couldn’t let that happen.
Maintaining his façade, Reed chuckled. “Barry, you always make my gear work overtime.” He looked at his watch then back at Barry. “Tell you what, let’s set up side by side. We’ll make it a team effort. You take point and I’ll do backups. That way we’ve got all angles covered.”
Barry’s smile faltered for a second before he recovered. “Sounds good,” he said, his tone friendly but calculated.
Reed nodded and stepped past Barry with his camera bag slung over his shoulder. His mind was racing. He had to stop whatever Barry was planning but he couldn’t tip his hand—yet. In the ballroom the time had come. The air was heavy with an invisible energy that made every movement feel weighted. Reed stood behind his camera, adjusting the focus ring with precision. His hands were steady but his eyes flicked briefly to his phone. Still no codes for Kessler. His mind was racing. Come on. Come on. This is too close.
The room was spotless. The floor reflected the lights, their stands casting long shadows on the walls. Every piece of equipment was in place but the room felt anything but orderly. Tension simmered beneath the surface, certain and electric. Reed could feel it in the tiny movements of the other players in the room.
Kessler walked in, his shoes clicking on the floor like a countdown. His face was blank—years of political training had carved his mask of calm—but Reed saw the tiny twitch of his fingers as he clasped them together. He knows something’s off, Reed thought.
“Right this way, Mr. Secretary,” Reed said, his tone professional. He led Kessler to the small stage-like area where the lights and camera were set up. The backdrop, a Denny Mfg. OM-2542, a gradient of blues and grays, was meant to be soothing. Reed moved with purpose, positioning the Secretary under the lights. “This will only take a few minutes.”
Kessler nodded curtly, his lips pressed together. Stay calm. Trust the plan. But his eyes darted to the edges of the room as if the walls could betray him.
Barry’s voice boomed out. “Everyone and everything in place? Let’s get rolling.”
Reed turned to Barry who was standing a few feet away, leaning against the table. His posture was relaxed but his eyes were anything but. They were sharp, hungry, scanning the room with a precision that sent a shiver down Reed’s spine. Barry bent to pick up his camera, his hand brushing over the lens with the red cap in a ritualistic gesture. His face tightened for a second—almost imperceptible—but Reed saw it. This is it. This is how he’s going to do it. Reed turned back to the Secretary, his heart racing. His camera felt heavy, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He adjusted the angle, framing Kessler in his viewfinder. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck but his hands were steady.
His eyes flicked to his phone. Still no mission code. Come on! This is too close.
Behind him Kranch moved, his massive presence a shadow at the edge of the room. His eyes narrowed as he watched Barry, his stance ready, waiting for the phrase cue. Carter stood near the far corner, his back to the wall, looking like a tourist to anyone who didn’t know better. His fingers tapped against his side but his eyes were on the Secretary, then Barry, then back again.
The room felt stopped, every movement slow and deliberate like a scene stretched to the breaking point. Barry stepped forward, his camera ready, the red lens cap off but dangling on a string. “Alright, ready Secretary? Smile for the camera,” Barry said, his voice smooth, almost sneering. His finger hovered over the shutter release.
The Secretary adjusted his tie, completely oblivious to the storm around him. The lights hummed in Reed’s ears, amplified by the tension in the air. Barry’s camera about to click—and it would all be over for the Secretary.
Reed’s chest tightened. No. No way. Not this time Barry!
Instead, Reed stepped in front of Barry—blocking his camera and more importantly the red-capped gun disguised as a lens. With his own camera on a tripod, effectively blocking Barry’s line of sight to the Secretary, Reed took one shot.
Reed breathed out sharply, his voice cutting through the air. “Great shot, you’re all done.”
His words were short, purposeful, each syllable weighted. The phrase hung in the air, breaking the stillness. Kessler’s eyes went wide for a second but Reed didn’t falter. His voice rose, firm and commanding, his eyes on the Secretary.
“This shoot is over. Get out from in front of my camera.” Kranch moved fast, stepping forward with precision. His big hand wrapped around the Secretary’s arm. “Come on, Secretary,” he said, his voice low and command.
Kessler hesitated for a second, his eyes flicking to Reed. Confusion crossed his face.
Reed looked at the Secretary and nodded sharply. Yes, this is part of the plan.
Kranch’s grip didn’t relax, his movements purposeful and calculated. The Secretary nodded and allowed himself to be led out, his steps smooth and composed like a man used to following orders when the stakes were high.
Barry’s smile fell, his eyes narrowing. “What’s going on here?” he said, his voice sharp. The mask of friendliness slipped. His hand clenched on his camera. “We’re not done.”
“Oh, we’re done,” Reed said. His tone was cool, confident and sarcastic but his heart was racing. “That’s a wrap.”
Barry’s eyes darted between Reed and the Secretary, calculating. Suspicion clouded his face but he didn’t move, his control slipping by degrees.
Reed’s phone buzzed finally, the notification vibrating on his palm. He looked down, the code on the screen: Section 3. Page: 16. Code: 105-B. Reed’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had the mission code all along? What is going on? What does this mean? His mouth compressed into a hard line. What exactly does this mean?
As Kessler and Kranch reached the door the room seemed to cool. Reed met Barry’s gaze, unflinching. “So, Barry,” he said evenly. “What’s next?”
Reed kept one hand on his camera, the other on the table as he scanned the room. His eyes flicked to Kessler’s security team—three big agents near the exits. They were moving now, their eyes on the Secretary like they sensed the storm.
“Stand down,” Kessler said, his voice calm but firm. He raised his hand, halting them. “It’s all going according to plan. I’m fine.” Reed thought Good cover, Secretary. Now let’s hope that’s true. But Kessler’s words did nothing to calm the growing storm in the room. Reed’s focus shifted back to Barry who now stood still, his hand on the red-capped gun disguised as a lens, his face a blank mask.
Barry signals to his number one, Seth Gauthier near the hallway. Reed caught it. Not good. He thought.
Gauthier left the ballroom and headed for the hotel’s electrical room, moving swiftly but smoothly, blending into the background noise. Carter’s voice crackled in Reed’s earpiece, low and urgent. “Heads up—one of Barry’s guys is going to the electrical room. My guess? They’re going to shut off the power.”
Reed’s heart raced but his voice was calm. “Stay with him, Carter. We can’t let them cut this room dark.”
Carter’s response was short and tense. “On it.”
Barry shifted slightly, raised his camera—the gun/lens with the red cap now pointed at Reed. His movements were deliberate, each step a calculated move. He was calm—but too calm. The kind of calm that sent shivers down Reed’s spine like the silence before a storm. Barry’s finger rested on the shutter release but his grip tightened ever so slightly. His eyes were on Reed, piercing and unblinking, a predator sizing up his prey.
Reed’s hands were on his own camera, still on the tripod but now pointed at Barry. Every muscle protested to move, to react, but he held firm, waiting, calculating. The room seemed to freeze, the tension coiling like a spring about to snap.
Barry spoke, his voice soft and conversational, a knife wrapped in velvet. “Sometimes,” he said, tilting his head. “The best shots are the ones you don’t take.”
The words hung in the air, cold and unfathomable. Reed’s mind raced to interpret the layers of meaning. Barry’s small smirk grew, a hunter savoring the final seconds before the pounce.
Then it happened. A soft pop—a silenced shot, muffled but fatal. The sound was a thin slice of air, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a scalpel. At the same moment Reed’s instincts kicked in. He pressed his finger down on his shutter release and the camera clicked as the bullet was fired. The simultaneous actions seemed to reverberate through the room, a bizarre harmony of danger and resolve.
The air shifted, the weight of the moment crashing down like a wave. Reed’s eyes widened for a second before it hit him like a slap in the face—Barry had fired his lens gun. And Reed’s camera had gotten it all.