Reed moved through the bustling terminal wearing a calm like armor, while his pulse hammered beneath. Despite his meticulous efforts to erase his digital footprints on Pro4uM, he knew better than to assume he was truly invisible. Pro4uM’s watchers were skilled, and Barry—if Barry was the one orchestrating this—had the resources and reach to catch him off guard.
Every glance at a security camera, every passing airport employee or idle traveler could be another set of eyes tracking him. Reed’s instincts honed to a razors edge.
He slipped into Terminal 3 and navigated to the bathroom’s far end, careful not to look over his shoulder too often, not to break his stride. He walked past the row of stalls and approached the last one near the back wall. He knew the spot by heart. Months earlier, he had carefully hidden the gun, wrapped in gaffer’s tape and concealed in the compartment for extra tissue rolls.
Reed reached up into the compartment, fingers feeling nothing but the smooth, cold metal inside. His heart skipped—a moment of gut-wrenching doubt that made his pulse stutter. Then his fingertips brushed the familiar ridges of the tape. Relieved, he peeled it back and felt the cool weight of the Walther PPK with the attached silencer. It was a weapon designed for discretion, small enough to fit into his hand like a trusted companion. He quickly slipped it into his camera bag, nestled between his equipment.
Exiting the restroom with the same steady pace, Reed’s thoughts flickered to Secretary Kessler. Should he involve him? Kessler’s public role made him a powerful asset—someone who could be used to draw attention away from Reed. But the man could just as easily be another pawn in Barry’s game, manipulated like everyone else, unaware of the dark undercurrents pulling at his strings. Reed had to tread carefully; using Kessler as a decoy was tempting, but without knowing PPI’s true intentions, it was a gamble.
More questions than answers churned through his mind. His hand moved to his pocket, where he felt the card given to him back on the plane: Box Galleries. A “safe house” in name, but Reed knew better than to trust the promise of sanctuary from an organization that had seemingly orchestrated his downfall.
The galleries lay on the edge of Vienna’s old town, a maze of cobblestone streets and antique buildings. It presented itself as an unassuming, high-end art space, but Reed knew it for what it was—an artifice, a place where PPI operatives met, where secrets were as carefully curated as the photographs that lined its walls. It was Reed’s next move, his chance to find answers.
Approaching Box Galleries, an unsettling familiarity set in. It was like stepping into a shadow of David Tompkins Fine Art Photography back in New Orleans—a gallery buried deep in the French Quarter, draped in the same quiet, too-perfect stillness. No curious tourists, no patrons browsing the photographs on the walls, just a single figure at a desk in the back, barely glancing up as Reed entered.
He couldn’t shake the comparison. In New Orleans, David Tompkins Fine Art Photography was an open secret, a place everyone knew was a front for the mob. Not a single photograph ever left those walls, yet every day, the gallery logged massive cash deposits—hundreds of thousands, all in cash, flowing through the books without a single sale. Photography as cover, art as a shield for something far darker.
Box Galleries felt the same, wearing culture as a mask for its hidden purpose. This was no ordinary safe house. Every detail—the pristine arrangement of prints, the minimalist decor, the silent atmosphere—seemed meticulously crafted to lull, to mislead.
The air was tinged with the scent of varnished wood and archival paper, an odd comfort to Reed but also a reminder of the careful illusion at play.
Reed’s eyes scanned the young woman behind the desk, taking in her casual posture and the absent way she scrolled through her phone. Early twenties, long brown hair, dressed in what looked like the usual gallery attire—a simple black blouse and jeans. No obvious signs that would hint at covert work. But he couldn’t be sure. Sometimes the most inconspicuous people were the best trained. He’d need to test her to gauge her level of awareness.
With a casual air, Reed strolled over to a large black-and-white photograph of a wharf, framed with a minimalist border. It was the type of image every so-called fine art photography gallery seemed to have—a cliché that screamed “authentic” but was a dime a dozen. He leaned in close, studying the image, and made a small show of adjusting his stance, as if inspecting some hidden detail.
He glanced over his shoulder to see if she noticed. Nothing. She looked up briefly, met his gaze for a heartbeat, then went back to her phone.
Time for another approach. Reed turned to her, adopting a friendly smile. “Do you happen to know the story behind this one?” he asked, his voice smooth but with a hint of curiosity.
She looked up, clearly caught off guard, then shrugged. “Not really. I think it’s supposed to represent solitude or something. Lots of people say it’s peaceful?”
Reed nodded thoughtfully, letting a trace of intrigue show in his expression. “Interesting. I thought it might be one of Tompkins’ originals. You don’t see many of those around here.”
The name-drop was deliberate, a subtle attempt to gauge her reaction to a high-profile art connection back in New Orleans—an art dealer everyone in Reed’s circle knew was mob-connected. If she had any PPI experience, even peripherally, it might prompt a flicker of recognition.
But she just gave him a polite, confused smile. “Tompkins? No, I don’t think we carry any of his stuff. Mostly local artists here.”
Reed gave a slow nod, maintaining the air of casual conversation. “Ah, local talent. That’s refreshing. So, do you get many private showings? Special viewings in the back?”
She hesitated, looking unsure, but then nodded. “Yeah, sometimes. If a client is interested in something specific, we, uh, take them back there.”
Her phrasing was tentative, confirming she wasn’t briefed on PPI’s operations. This was just a job to her, the same as working at a coffee shop or boutique. She probably didn’t even know why the gallery had a private back room at all.
Reed let the conversation fizzle out, a polite nod of thanks as he moved back to the wharf photograph. With a clearer sense of the woman’s role, he felt the tension ease in his shoulders. She was no operative, no hidden threat. Just a minimum-wage employee following loose instructions to let certain people into the back when they asked in the right way.
For a moment, he felt a pang of empathy for her, caught in this strange world without realizing it. But that quickly passed as he focused on his goal. With his cover secure, he glanced back at her. “May I ask how much for this one?”
Her response was almost mechanical, as though reciting a line by rote. “$210 thousand.”
That was the key phrase Reed had been waiting for. He took a breath, then delivered the carefully rehearsed response, the one that would mean nothing to a casual visitor: “The colorations remind me of Le Violon d'Ingres by Man Ray, and it sold for 12.4 million. Do you have something like that, something a little more exclusive… something in the back?”
The woman blinked, her expression shifting, and for the first time, her gaze sharpened. She looked him over with a hint of something like recognition—or perhaps just understanding—flickering in her eyes. Without another word, she slid a keycard across the desk. “Room 5… it’s locked,” she murmured, almost as if testing him. Her eyes held a trace of challenge as she added, “But I bet you already knew that…”
Reed offered her a slight smile, pocketing the keycard and nodding. She didn’t seem surprised, but there was an edge to her composure now, as though the mention of Man Ray and the hidden room in the back had flipped a switch. He took his cue and moved toward the back, sensing her eyes follow him.
As Reed made his way down the narrow, dimly lit corridor leading to the hidden Room 5, the air was thick with the scent of aged wood and faint hints of something metallic.
The subdued lighting casts a warm glow over polished wood floors and meticulously placed artwork. He knew from experience that every detail was calculated—right down to the dim, art-gallery lighting, which helped keep faces in soft shadow and identities ambiguous.
Standard PPI protocol dictated that Room 5 would hold various camera gear tailored to his current assignment. Lenses, stabilizers, lighting setups—everything he’d need, or so it would seem. But Reed also knew this setup came with strings attached. Any equipment in Room 5 would be riddled with tracking devices meant to monitor his every move under the guise of support. At this stage, these were tools Reed couldn’t afford to use. He would have to find a work around plan.
The gallery’s backroom layout intrigued him. He’d only ever had clearance to access Rooms 4, 5, and 6, each purposefully arranged. Room 4 was the storage and prep area—always stocked with basic gear and expendable items he could use and leave behind. Room 5 held mission-specific equipment. Room 6 served as the strategy hub, where agents would gather for briefings and review intel.
But Rooms 1 through 3—those had always been off-limits. Reserved for higher-ranking operatives or special assignments, their contents were a mystery. Reed had never questioned them before, but now, with the full weight of the setup against him, he found himself drawn to the secrets they might hold.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
As Reed approached Room 3, his mind churned. The message from the plane had arrived through an unusual, out-of-channel method: Reed, we need to talk. Now. This wasn’t PPI’s style, nor was it Barry’s. PPI communicated exclusively through Pro4uM’s coded channels. A deviation like this couldn’t be ignored. Then there was the message that had saved him before: Section 3, Page 16, Code 105-B.
Could it be that simple?
He felt a surge of adrenaline as he keyed in the numbers 1-6-1-0-5. The hallway's silence broke with a soft, satisfying click as Room 3's door eased open—a testament to the unknown ally who had risked everything to provide that code. As the door slowly swung open, Reed’s pulse quickened. He hadn’t known what to expect behind this door, but he was certain it wouldn’t be standard protocol.
Inside, the room looked different from the other back rooms he’d seen on previous assignments. Unlike Rooms 4 through 6, which had the utilitarian setup of equipment storage and briefing spaces, Room 3 held a more private, meticulous design. The walls were lined with file cabinets, sleek and built directly into the room’s structure, each drawer labeled only by numbers and dates. A large central table stood empty, except for a dim reading lamp and a stack of old-fashioned notepads. Reed noted how it contrasted with the high-tech tools he’d seen in other safehouses, as if Room 3 served a unique and more confidential purpose.
He took a cautious step inside, his gaze sweeping across the space. A framed photograph hung on the wall, the kind of scenic shot that would belong in a legitimate gallery. But to Reed, the scene seemed all too familiar. It was a landmark in Vienna, one he’d been briefed on during another mission—an indication that this room had been designed for those with insider knowledge. Was this a strategy room for high-level operatives? Or perhaps a private vault of some kind?
The realization dawned that whatever secrets PPI hid in Rooms 1 through 3, they were intended for upper-echelon agents, like Barry Cox. Reed’s presence here was anything but authorized.
Steeling himself, he approached the file cabinets. Opening one carefully, he found neatly organized files marked with dates and mission codenames—information that, if uncovered by anyone outside PPI, would unravel years of covert operations. He realized that this room held far more than intelligence. It held leverage, information that could expose PPI’s inner workings.
He reached for a folder bearing an all-too-familiar codename—one tied directly to his current mission. As he flipped through its contents, a cold dread seeped into his chest. This wasn’t just a dossier on Secretary Kessler; it was a meticulously crafted blueprint to discredit the operative. Strategically timed leaks, fabricated cover stories, carefully chosen scapegoats—it was all there, laid out with chilling precision.
And Reed was the centerpiece.
The documents painted a vivid picture: Barry Cox’s fingerprints were smeared across every decision, every thread of the operation. His control over each angle rivaled that of a photographer fine-tuning a shot—every detail framed to tell one undeniable story. The bitter irony wasn’t lost on Reed. Barry’s “composition” was far more calculated than he could have ever imagined.
But one detail cut deeper than the rest. In the margin of a page, hastily scribbled in ink, were the words: “Remove Kessler. Frame Sawyer. Ensure no loose ends.” Below it, a signature—sharp, deliberate, and impossible to misinterpret: Barry Cox, Director PPI.
Reed froze, he wasn’t an agent on assignment—he was bait. A carefully positioned pawn meant to take the fall if things went sideways.
His pulse roared in his ears as his eyes scanned the note again. Each word burned itself into his mind. Every mission Barry had assigned him over the years, every piece of guidance and mentorship—in retrospect, it all twisted into something sinister. Had every assignment been a stepping stone to this moment? Was every nod of approval, every piece of advice, just another thread in the noose Barry was tightening around his neck?
Reed’s jaw clenched as the weight of the betrayal settled into his bones. This wasn’t just a professional setup—it was personal. The cold precision of Barry’s plan, paired with the intimacy of years spent grooming Reed for this role, stung deeper than any operational betrayal ever could. And now, the truth sat in his hands, inked in Barry’s own unmistakable handwriting.
It took all of Reed’s strength to suppress the anger welling up inside him. Barry might have framed the shot, but Reed wasn’t about to let him finish the story. Whatever advantage PPI thought they had; Reed now held a key piece of leverage. Whoever had helped him had known more than they let on, guiding him here with the knowledge that this file would change everything.
He activated the reading light, angling it to capture the pages in sharp detail. With practiced efficiency, he lifted his camera and snapped photos of each page, ensuring every word, name, and code was captured. Shadows danced as he moved the light, revealing more of the room.
Reed swiftly set up his camera’s WiFi connection, transmitting each photographed file to his computer. While the files transferred, he glanced around the room, his eye caught an inscription on a drawer at the bottom of the filing cabinet. It read, “Lyt Meeter.” Reed knew the misspelling wasn’t by accident. It was some kind of signal or misdirection; a cue meant only for those who’d know what it meant.
Curiosity piqued, Reed knelt down and pulled open the drawer. Inside, a neatly organized storage area held ten perfectly spaced slots, each sized to fit a light meter. Nine of them were empty. The tenth held a single device, its sleek casing marked with faint scuffs as if it had been discreetly handled many times. Reed picked it up, turning it over in his hand. This wasn’t a typical light meter; it had an embedded code generator with a secure cellular link, likely hardwired to Pro4uM’s private channels. The realization struck him—this was a direct line to the organization, disguised as photography equipment.
But he couldn’t risk taking it, not without raising alarms. A new plan formed in his mind: the equipment in Room 5. Standard PPI protocol meant his next instructions would be there, along with a set of supplies for his mission. He could swap this unique device with the standard light meter kept in that room, ensuring the switch would go unnoticed. Satisfied, Reed took a steadying breath, slipping the folder back into place where he had found it.
Exiting Room 3, Reed felt a renewed sense of purpose. He wasn’t just on the run anymore; he was armed with a truth that could expose PPI's corruption from the inside out. And as he made his way to Room 5, he knew exactly where he was heading next.
Inside Room 5, Reed took in the sight of a fully loaded dolly stacked with camera gear—right on protocol, meticulously arranged as if to give him everything he’d need for the assignment. If he left the equipment behind, someone would notice, raising the very suspicions he needed to avoid. He had to take it with him, no matter the added risk.
He moved through the equipment with deliberate precision, his hands casually inspect each item. Among the neatly stacked gear, he found his Pro4uM code for retrieving his PPI mission files. Beneath a stack of lenses, his fingers brushed against something familiar—the standard light meter. The ordinary tool everyone expected, perfect for the swap.
Rolling the dolly out of Room 5, he maneuvered past Room 3, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm he was alone. In one swift motion, he placed the real light meter into the drawer, replacing the covert "Lyt Meeter" now tucked into his camera bag. The weight of the device in his bag felt heavier than the former, a subtle reminder of the stakes.
Now equipped with the "Lyt Meeter," Reed felt the weight of its significance. This was no ordinary device; it was a tool that could expose everything if wielded carefully. But he knew that it was as dangerous as it was valuable. One misstep, one wrong message, and it would reveal his hand as clearly as if he’d set off an alarm. As he continued down the hallway, Reed’s mind spun with the possibilities—and the risks—of holding PPI’s secrets in the palm of his hand.
Reed took a steadying breath, quickly assessing his options. Standard protocol was to head out through the side exit where a car would be waiting to whisk him to a hotel—no doubt bugged and monitored. But because he was a full hour ahead thanks to the diversion to Bratislava, the car service wouldn’t be there yet. He had an unexpected opening.
As he rolled the dolly forward, Reed’s thoughts churned. The dolly creaked under the weight of the gear—cameras, lighting, and lenses, all PPI-issued and undoubtedly bugged. Every piece of equipment felt like a shackle, tying him tighter to the mission, to their control.
And then, like a flash of inspiration, it hit him. Photography rental shops. Neutral ground. A place where gear came and went, exchanged daily, no questions asked. Reed smirked at the simplicity of the idea: swap out his PPI equipment for clean, untraceable rentals. The move would sever the surveillance without raising alarms.
He pulled out his phone and searched for the nearest rental agency. The top result: Lenscape Photography Rentals.Reed tapped the address without hesitation, instinct telling him this was the right move. A quick rideshare later, he was en route.
As the rideshare van wove into the congestion of downtown Vienna, the city’s midday traffic moved at a crawl.
A bead of sweat traced down his neck as he remembered the code generator he’d tucked into his bag back at Box Galleries. The persistent code, Section: 3. Page: 16. Code: 105-B, had dogged him like a ghost, each time revealing more of PPI’s cruel design. Maybe now, the code was once again a key to flipping their strategy. He pulled out the generator and carefully typed the letters and numbers—S3P16C105B—watching as the screen flickered to life, its circuits spinning before a line of text appeared. “Barry Cox” appeared in bold, unmistakable font.
Then the words read like an execution order: "Sawyer must die. PPI will be clean. Operatives in place. Plans in motion. Kessler is the disguise. P4M code ‘Chubby Senior.’”
Reed’s hands trembled as he processed each line, his mind racing to catch up with the devastating clarity of the plan. This wasn’t just a setup; it was a calculated takedown. Kessler was merely a smokescreen, a “disguise” masking PPI’s real intent. They’d crafted a perfect cover to paint Reed as a turncoat, a threat to international security, a ticking time bomb in the public’s eyes. By discrediting him as a traitor, PPI could protect its own dark dealings, severing ties with Reed in a way that left no room for his survival or his reputation.
The van felt smaller, the air stifling. The walls closed in, the weight of betrayal pressing down as Reed’s breathing grew shallow. He’d known he was a pawn, but now he could see the full extent of the game—and the ruthlessness behind it. His fingers tightened on the code generator as his resolve hardened. If they thought he’d go down quietly, they were wrong.
He could disappear, slip off the grid, and let PPI claim their victory—live the rest of his days as a ghost, always on the run, forever looking over his shoulder.
But the idea turned his stomach. Running was surrender, an acceptance of the fate they had written for him. And Reed Sawyer had never been one to let others script his story. He felt a fierce resolve surge within him. PPI had trained him well, and now he would use every trick they’d ever taught him to unravel the very system that had crafted his downfall.
There was no question. He would take control of his story, weaponizing every bit of knowledge, every skill, every contact he’d acquired along the way.
As the van wound its way closer to Lenscape Photography Rentals, Reed felt his heart steady. He’d crossed a line in his mind, chosen his path. He would set the trap, draw them in, and expose the web they’d spun to ensnare him. He wasn’t just in this to survive anymore—he was in it to win.