Barry sat at his desk, refreshing Pro4uM. The screen blinked back at him: no new posts, no messages, no updates. For days, the cryptic threads had gone quiet. No leaks. No chatter. Just silence.
He frowned, his finger tapping against the mouse. Silence wasn’t normal—not here, not now. Silence was strategy.
“They’re either scared—or planning something,” Barry muttered. His words carried weight in the stillness of the room.
He hit the intercom. “Seth, ramp up surveillance. Full spectrum. I want alerts on every flagged account, every encrypted ping.”
Seth appeared moments later, a tablet in hand, his expression cool. “I’ve already doubled the algorithms and swept for any backdoor activity. Nothing’s coming through.”
Barry didn’t look up. “Do it again. This time, widen the parameters. Assume they’ve found a workaround.”
Seth hesitated, the briefest flicker of doubt crossing his face. “We’re running everything we’ve got. If there’s something out there, we’ll find it.”
“It’s too clean,” Barry said, his voice sharper now. “Too quiet. It’s never this quiet on Pro4uM—not this group.”
Seth shifted but said nothing. He’d worked under Barry long enough to know when to push back—and when to stay quiet. Barry didn’t trust silence. Silence was camouflage. A weapon. A warning.
By the second day, Barry was pacing the office, his confidence unraveling at the edges. He barked orders, scrutinized every minor detail, and cross-checked the intel himself. By the third, he hadn’t slept. The silence wasn’t just suspicious; it was personal. It felt directed, deliberate.
“They’re playing with us,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the dark monitors. “They want us to blink first.”
Seth entered, his tablet still in hand, his tone steady. “Barry, you’ve got the best surveillance team in the game working this. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe the silence is just…silence.”
“No,” Barry snapped, his gaze fixed on the screen. “It’s never just silence. Not with them.”
Seth nodded and left, but Barry could feel the unspoken doubts hanging in the air. For now, Barry held his ground, but the seeds of doubt were there, growing in the quiet spaces.
Back in New Orleans, Reed was sitting at his desk, the glow of his laptop reflecting off the window. He’d been reviewing plans for hours, each line more critical than the last. SYNC was just weeks away, and every decision from here on out mattered.
He exhaled sharply, closing the laptop. SYNC wasn’t a secret—not to PPI, not to anyone in the industry. It was the biggest international photography convention of the year, drawing professionals, hobbyists, and every sort of vendor imaginable. Its scale made it the perfect cover, but it also made it dangerous. The more public the event, the harder it was to stay unseen.
Reed stood, pacing the length of the room. “We can’t leave this to chance,” he muttered, grabbing the burner phone from the desk. Online coordination had worked so far, but the next stage of planning required precision—and trust. Both were best handled in person.
He typed the message to his team: Secure passports. Meet in Cabo. Two days.
Cabo wasn’t just a getaway—it was a calculated move. Its distance from SYNC’s host city, Las Vegas, kept them off PPI’s immediate radar. The tourist-heavy atmosphere made it easy to blend in, a place where strangers came and went without scrutiny. But the real advantage? Cabo was a blind spot. One of the only places where PPI had no official operational presence—a dead zone for their surveillance.
At least, that’s what the records said. And if there was one thing Reed had learned, it was that Barry Cox never left anything truly unchecked. Even in the shadows, they had to stay sharp.
The replies came in quickly: a mix of confirmations and one-word acknowledgments. Each one felt like a piece of the puzzle falling into place. Reed double-checked the details in his head: their cover stories, the route to Cabo, the contingency plans if anything went sideways.
He slipped the phone into a drawer and turned back to the window, the city lights twinkling in the distance. Cabo was a way for team to make sure everything was working in their favor. Everything had to be airtight before they walked into SYNC. If PPI got even the slightest whiff of their real agenda, they’d be finished before the event even began.
Each team member made their way to Cabo, following carefully staggered schedules designed to avoid suspicion. The routes were deliberate, the cover stories seamless.
Carter was the first to move, booking his flight under the guise of an official PPI assignment. As a mid-level coordinator, he had just enough visibility to make the cover plausible without drawing undue attention. His supposed task? Scouting potential locations for PPI’s expansion efforts in Mexico. If anyone checked his itinerary, it would appear routine—a company man on a routine trip.
Kranch took a different approach, arriving a day early. His cover was tied to a local photography workshop, a believable fit given his reputation as a mentor in the industry. He checked into a modest hotel near the waterfront and immediately made appearances at a few tourist-heavy spots, snapping photos and engaging with locals. If anyone was watching, he looked like exactly what he claimed to be: an enthusiastic instructor soaking up Cabo’s scenic backdrops.
Grimes was extremely busy with last minute SYNC duties, but he made the time for the sake of the team. He followed shortly after Carter. Leveraging his well-known role as an event coordinator for SYNC, he arranged meetings with local venues under the pretense of exploring options for “future SYNC-related events.” His inquiries about lighting setups, catering packages, and breakout spaces were so mundane they bordered on boring—exactly as he intended.
Reed was the last to arrive, slipping into Cabo with little fanfare. His persona was that of a tourist photographer, someone looking to build a portfolio of vibrant street scenes and striking landscapes. He traveled light, carrying only a single bag and a vintage camera hung casually around his neck. To anyone paying attention, he was just another traveler chasing inspiration in Mexico’s golden light.
The team had arranged to meet at a local golf course, Puerto Los Cabos. Just four strangers sharing a round of golf was hardly noteworthy, even to the most watchful eyes.
Puerto Los Cabos was perfect for this type of meeting. Its design was both luxurious and strategic: every third hole circled back to a comfort station offering food, drinks, and—most importantly—privacy. The layout was ideal for discretion; no one could keep track of what hole you were on, and the team could vanish into the course for hours without raising suspicion. Play three holes, strategize at the comfort station, then finish the round. Clarity and cover in equal measure.
Each team member had booked the 9:13 tee time, ensuring they’d be paired together seamlessly. They arrived with the calm demeanor of men out to enjoy a leisurely round, blending effortlessly into the sunny, tourist-filled atmosphere. Golf bags slung over their shoulders, they played the first three holes with practiced ease, their silence broken only by casual chatter.
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Carter, ever the smooth talker, made light jokes about his errant shots. “Guess I’ll need a better caddie next time,” he quipped as his ball veered into the rough. Kranch played his role as the gruff instructor, muttering complaints about the heat and glaring at his golf glove as if it were to blame for his poor grip. Grimes took on his usual role as the perfect organizer, fussing over their pace and offering tips on reading the greens. Reed, quiet as always, blended into the group like a shadow, listening intently to every word and watching for anything out of place.
The weight of their real purpose loomed beneath the surface. To any onlookers, they were just another group of golfers enjoying a round under the Mexican sun. But the tension was discernible, simmering beneath their calm exteriors.
By the time they reached the comfort station, the transition was seamless. They ordered cold drinks and snacks, staking out a shaded corner where they could talk without being overheard. The comfort station was small but well-stocked, its rustic charm adding to the illusion of an ordinary outing.
Reed in a hushed tone, keeping his voice low. “Alright, let’s keep this in code. Carter, start us off.”
Carter nodded, adjusting his cap. “We’ll take the shot on the 16th hole,” he said, his tone measured. The phrase was loaded with meaning: the planned moment during SYNC when Reed would expose Barry’s crimes.
“Watch for the wind,” Grimes added, using the code they’d agreed upon for monitoring Barry’s operatives during the event. “There’s a strong chance they’ll adjust their approach.”
Reed listened carefully, then glanced at Kranch. “Your read?”
Kranch leaned back in his chair, his voice gruff but steady. “If we stick to the plan, Barry won’t even see us lining up. But if there’s any shift—any shift—I’m calling for a mulligan.” Mulligan: code for pulling the plug and initiating an immediate escape.
Reed nodded, his face impassive. He unfolded a course map, a practical stand-in for SYNC’s floor plan, and began outlining the broad strokes of their strategy. “The key is to keep Barry overconfident. He has to believe he’s untouchable. That’s our window. If we press too soon, he’ll see it coming. Too late, and we lose the edge.”
The discussion carried on for hours, moving in careful, measured steps. Each member played their part, asking questions, proposing adjustments, and refining details. The coded language flowed effortlessly, sounding to anyone nearby like nothing more than a passionate debate about golf strategy.
By the time they left the comfort station and returned to the course, the sun had shifted lower in the sky. The final three holes passed in deliberate calm, their focus shifting back to their covers. Each step and swing appeared routine, but the weight of their plans pressed invisibly on their shoulders.
In the golf cart, Carter sat beside Reed, his posture tense. The hum of the cart was the only sound for a moment before Carter broke the silence. “Reed,” he said, his tone edged with frustration, “why not just call Kessler and give him the code? It’s the same as if you’d handed it to him that night. It’d be over.”
Reed’s gaze snapped to Carter, sharp and unyielding. “You think this ends with a phone call?” His voice was low, deliberate. “If I call him, it doesn’t just blow back on me—it paints a target on Kessler’s back. Barry’s eyes are everywhere. If he catches even a whisper that Kessler has the code, he’ll bury him—and us—before we can take our next breath.”
Reed was gripping the wheel of the cart, his words weighted with urgency. “And let’s say Kessler gets the code. What then? On its own, it doesn’t mean anything without the evidence we’ve gathered—images of Barry with that weaponized lens, the audio from the stairwell where he outlined the assassination plan, every single piece of proof tying him to the attempt on Kessler’s life. The code alone doesn’t expose Barry; it’s just the key. Without everything we’ve compiled, it’s useless.”
Carter rested his hands on his biceps, his gaze steady but laced with skepticism. “So we just hold onto it? Hope for the best?”
“No,” Reed said, his voice firm and unflinching. “We deliver it all. Together. Strategically. When it hits, it has to hit so hard that Barry has no way out. This isn’t just about the code—it’s about tying his hands so tightly that nobody can cover for him.”
Carter exhaled sharply, the weight of Reed’s words sinking in. He sat back, his expression unreadable, the tension in the cart thick enough to cut. Finally, he nodded, though reluctance lingered in his posture. “Okay, Reed. But this better work.”
Reed adjusted his cap, his tone unwavering. “It has to.”
As the cart slowed to a stop near the 18th hole, Reed stepped out, glancing toward the others who waited at the green. His voice dropped to a quiet but commanding tone. “Stay sharp. This game isn’t over until the final putt.”
The others nodded, their expressions unreadable, their roles intact. Together, they walked off the green with unhurried strides, blending seamlessly into the relaxed atmosphere of the course. But as they left, the tension lingered, as heavy as the heat rising off the manicured grass.
Back in Tulsa, Barry leaned back in his leather chair, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he reviewed the report. “Threats neutralized.” The words were simple, definitive, the kind of message he liked to see. His operatives believed they’d handled the situation, contained whatever had been brewing. And Barry believed them—mostly.
He set the tablet down, steepling his fingers as he let the feeling of control wash over him. They thought they could play against him, but he’d outmaneuvered them, just as he always did. SYNC was only weeks away, and with no more distractions, Barry could focus on his keynote. He could already hear the applause, see the admiration in the faces of attendees as he took the stage. SYNC would cement his place, not just as a leader in the photography world, but as untouchable.
Yet, as he spun his chair toward the wide windows of his office, something nagged at the edge of his thoughts. A faint unease he couldn’t quite pin down. The silence on Pro4uM.
Barry reached for his phone, opening the forum out of habit. Nothing. No cryptic messages, no hidden codes. The threads were active, but only with the usual chatter—camera specs, editing software, upcoming contests.
“What’s going on?” he muttered under his breath, the smirk fading from his face. The silence had stretched on too long. It was unnatural. He had expected more—panic, retaliation, something to signal his opponents’ next move. But the quiet unnerved him far more than any noise ever could.
His finger hovered over the refresh button one last time before he closed the app. They were planning something. They had to be. And if they weren’t, than he had won. Barry leaned back in his chair, forcing his smirk to return. He’d already won. This was just paranoia.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Back at the clubhouse, Reed was just slinging his bag over his shoulder when a voice called out behind him. “Excuse me, señor, are you Señor Sawyer?”
Reed froze mid-step, his mind racing. Now what? Slowly, he turned to face the man, his expression neutral but his pulse quickening. “Yes, I’m Reed Sawyer.”
The speaker, one of the club’s professionals, approached with a small envelope in hand. “Message for you, señor.”
Reed’s eyes narrowed slightly. His voice was calm, measured. “Where did you get this message?”
The man shrugged, his tone casual. “A boy from the village brought it by. I do not know who he was.”
Reed reached for the envelope, his fingers brushing the crinkled paper. The club professional nodded and stepped back, busying himself with a cart of clubs as if the exchange was nothing out of the ordinary. But Reed knew better.
He tore the envelope open with deliberate precision, unfolding the single sheet inside. Five words, hastily scrawled, stared back at him:
Keep moving to the light.
Reed’s jaw dropped as he studied the note. Cryptic. Too cryptic. He turned the paper over, searching for more, but it was blank on the back.
He glanced around, scanning the clubhouse and the surrounding grounds for anything—or anyone—out of place. Nothing. Just tourists laughing at the bar, caddies wiping down carts, and players coming off the course.
Reed slipped the message into his pocket, his stern expression masking the unease settling in his chest. The phrase wasn’t familiar, but it had the unmistakable fingerprints of someone in the network. Someone who knew where to find him. Someone who wanted him to know they were watching.
He adjusted his cap and stepped toward the parking lot, his stride unhurried. Outwardly, nothing had changed. But inside, his thoughts churned.
Was this a warning? A signal? Or something worse?
Reed reached his rental car, pausing just long enough to glance back at the clubhouse. He saw the club professional walking away, chatting with another golfer. No sign of the boy who’d delivered the message.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Reed pulled the note from his pocket again, reading it once more. “Keep moving to the light.” The words felt more like a riddle than an answer.
He started the car and drove off, his instincts kicking into high gear. Whoever had sent the message, they’d just added another variable to an already dangerous game.