Reed stepped out of the rideshare van and took in his surroundings. Lenscape Photography Rentals was tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, far from the busy, tourist-laden heart of Vienna. The shop’s modest exterior blended seamlessly with the row of unassuming businesses lining the narrow street—a small bakery, a shoe repair shop, and a bookstore with dusty window displays.
The neighborhood felt lived-in, its cobblestone streets dappled with afternoon sunlight filtering through the branches of tightly packed trees. It was the kind of place locals frequented, where conversations lingered longer, and the occasional cyclist zipped by. A sense of calm hung in the air, a stark contrast to the storm of uncertainty brewing inside Reed’s mind.
Lenscape itself occupied a single-story building, its front modest but well-kept. A large display window showcased a curated selection of cameras and lenses, their gleaming surfaces positioned to catch the light. The shop’s name was painted in clean, sans-serif letters across the glass door, accompanied by the slogan: Focus Where It Counts.
Reed scanned the street again, his instincts on high alert. Nothing seemed out of place—no idling cars, no lingering figures in trench coats, no glint of surveillance lenses. Yet, experience had taught him that danger often hid in the mundane.
Reed pulled open the door to Lenscape Photography Rentals, the soft chime overhead announcing his presence. His eyes immediately observed the logo etched into the glass panel beside the entrance. A clean, circular design—the PPI insignia with its distinct seven-bladed aperture. Seven blades. The mark of legitimacy, the symbol used for PPI’s surface-level operations that dealt exclusively with photographers and their craft.
This was different from the version displayed at Box Galleries. But the faint difference between their logos as stark as night and day for those who knew. Six blades marked covert operations, the underbelly of PPI’s world where intelligence, espionage, and danger lived. The subtlety of the distinction was genius, invisible to outsiders but glaringly obvious to insiders trained to see it. Reed admired it for what it was—a clever signal meant to separate the hunters from the prey.
Still, the seven blades on the door didn’t mean Lenscape was completely safe. He’d learned long ago not to take anything at face value. He stepped inside, his movements careful and deliberate, every nerve taut as the door swung shut behind him.
The interior was bright and functional, the type of place designed to put photographers at ease. Rows of shelves lined the walls, neatly stocked with lenses, tripods, and lighting kits. A faint smell of plastic and metal hung in the air, mixing with the slight hum of a nearby printer. Behind the counter, a young man glanced up briefly before returning to his computer. The setting was ordinary, even boring, but that didn’t stop Reed’s instincts from ticking.
He scanned the space, making mental notes of the exits, the security cameras, and the arrangement of the rental equipment. On the far wall, a sleek sign hung with the company’s name and slogan: Lenscape Photography Rentals—Focus Where It Counts. The tagline felt oddly appropriate. Reed hoped the shop was exactly what it appeared to be—a legitimate photography rental store and nothing more.
He needed to get his hands on clean equipment—gear without bugs, tracking devices, or hidden microphones. The equipment from Box Galleries sat like dead weight in their cases, every piece an instrument of surveillance. He had to ditch them before his next move.
Reed approached the counter, his camera bag casually resting on his shoulder. The young man glanced up again, his polite but distracted smile giving nothing away. “Need help finding something?”
“Yeah,” Reed replied smoothly. “I need a full lighting setup for a high-profile shoot. Reflectors, softboxes, stands—the works, stills, video, & audio. And a couple of lenses for wide-angle and close-up shots. Something reliable.”
The young man nodded, his fingers already typing into the computer. “We’ve got you covered. Any specific brands or models in mind?”
“Not picky,” Reed said, feigning indifference. “Just need it to handle a fast-paced shoot.”
The man tapped a few keys on the keyboard, his gaze flickering between the screen and Reed. After a moment, the sound of a small printer broke the silence, spitting out a neatly formatted list of equipment. Grabbing the paper, scanning it briefly before handing it over to Reed. “Here’s what we’ve got available. If anything catches your eye, let me know, and I’ll pull it from the back.”
Reed glanced at the list, nodding thoughtfully as he scanned the options. He met the man’s gaze with a polite smile. “Fantastic. I’d prefer to take a look at the equipment first, if that’s alright—save you the trouble of pulling it out and having to put it back if it’s not what I’m looking for. Can we head back and take a look?”
The man nodded, folding the printout and setting it aside. “Sure, this way,” he said, gesturing for Reed to follow him.
As Reed trailed behind, weaving through the modest aisles of neatly arranged gear, his thoughts churned. Was this place really as innocuous as it seemed? The 7-blade logo suggested legitimacy, but PPI’s reach had taught him that appearances were often carefully constructed lies.
As the clerk retrieved items from the shelves, each item felt like a step further from the reach of PPI’s surveillance—a step toward regaining some semblance of control. Just as Reed began inspecting a lens, the soft chime of the front door cut through the quiet hum of the shop.
The clerk glanced toward the entrance and set down a lens cap he’d been holding. “This will only take a minute,” he said with a polite smile, brushing his hands on his apron. “I’ll let them know I’ll be with them shortly.”
Reed nodded, forcing his face to stay neutral even as a ripple of unease swept through him. He kept his hands steady, staying focused on a lens in his grip as the clerk walked toward the front.
“Can you give me just five minutes?” the clerk asked. “I’m helping another customer.”
“No problem,” a man’s voice replied. “We’re not in a hurry.”
Reed froze. His breath hitched, and the lens slipped slightly in his hand. That voice. He hadn’t seen the speaker, but he knew the cadence, the clipped precision of it. His heart began to pound in his chest as he tensed, peering cautiously from behind the row of shelves.
Through the gap between two cases, he spotted them. 16B, leaning casually against the counter, and beside him, the flight attendant. Both were dressed in unassuming civilian attire—jeans, neutral jackets—but their presence in the shop sent alarm bells ringing in Reed’s mind.
What were they doing here? Coincidence was a concept he no longer believed in, not after everything that had happened. If they had followed him to this quiet shop, then his carefully laid plans were unraveling faster than he’d anticipated.
Reed crouched slightly behind the shelf, muscles coiled like a spring, his mind racing to calculate the odds. Could PPI have orchestrated this meeting? His logical side balked at the thought. He’d had at least an hour’s lead, even factoring in the sluggish ride-share and traffic snarl. And Lenscape wasn’t exactly a place you’d stumble upon without purpose.
Reed forced himself to focus, to clear his mind of paranoia. If this meeting had been intentional, there would have been breadcrumbs leading here, and Reed would have noticed them.
But there had been none. No whispers on Pro4uM, no coded messages. That left only one conclusion: coincidence. A genuine, unscripted event.
Reed exhaled slowly, his tension easing just enough for clarity to settle in. An encounter PPI hadn’t planned for. If it wasn’t part of their design, that meant it could be used. Advantage Reed.
He edged closer to the front counter, positioning himself behind a stack of equipment cases. From this angle, he could see clearly 16B leaning casually against the counter while the flight attendant examined a display case filled with filters and adapters. Their body language betrayed nothing—but their conversation was another story.
“...just doesn’t add up,” 16B said, his voice low but agitated. “We’re given one set of orders, then halfway through, it’s like the whole mission flips. And now we’re here, with nothing but a vague directive and no real target?”
The flight attendant shook his head, his hands resting on his hips. “I know. They’ve always been tight-lipped, but this feels different. Like we’re not supposed to understand what’s happening. Almost like we’re being tested.”
Reed’s pulse quickened. A test? Their confusion mirrored his own, confirming what he’d suspected since Bratislava: even operatives like them weren’t in the loop.
“Do you think it’s Sawyer?” the flight attendant asked. His tone was cautious, as though speaking the name itself carried risk.
16B’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening. “If it is, they’re playing us. Either he’s rogue, or they’re setting him up as one. Either way, it feels like we’re the ones on the chopping block, not him.”
The frustration in their voices, the subtle edge of mistrust, spoke volumes. They were just as lost as he was. PPI’s labyrinthine game wasn’t targeting just him—it was enveloping them, too.
He could almost feel the gears turning in his head, recalibrating. If they were disoriented, doubting their orders, then they weren’t the threat he’d assumed. They might even be potential allies, caught in the same web of deception.
Reed’s heart beat heavy in his chest as he strained to hear more. The words between 16B and the flight attendant had already shifted the narrative in his mind, but he needed more. A single phrase, a slip of truth, to confirm that they weren’t part of the setup to frame him.
The flight attendant let out a frustrated sigh, crossing his arms. “I’m telling you, something’s not right at the top. I’ve seen how PPI handles rogue agents, and this isn’t it. They’re manipulating us. Using us to clean up a mess they don’t want traced back to them.”
16B frowned, his voice a low growl. “And what if Sawyer isn’t rogue? What if they’ve set him up because he knows too much? You’ve seen Barry’s playbook. He always works an angle, always finds someone to pin things on when the heat comes down.”
The flight attendant shook his head. “Then we’re all expendable, aren’t we? If this goes south, we’ll be tied to it, just like Sawyer. They’re burning bridges, and we’re standing on one.”
16B glanced around, lowering his voice further, but Reed caught the words: “If I thought for one second that Sawyer wasn’t what they’re painting him to be, I’d back him. Heck, he’s one of the best operatives they’ve got. But we don’t even know where he is or if we can reach him before it’s too late.”
That was it. They were questioning everything, doubting the very orders they’d been given. They weren’t on Barry’s payroll; they were as much in the dark as he was. In their uncertainty, Reed saw opportunity.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Reed pressed his back against the shelf, his mind racing. Should he approach them now? If they could be swayed—if they could trust him—then for the first time since this nightmare began, he wouldn’t be fighting alone.
Reed steadied his breath and stepped out from behind the shelves, his movements deliberate and controlled. His voice, low but firm, broke the charged silence as he addressed the clerk. “Start pulling that equipment. I’ll take it all.”
His sharp gaze flicked to the two men standing tensely nearby. “Seems like PPI’s got us all working different angles. Or maybe… just one.”
Both men turned sharply, their eyes widening in surprise. As Carter, the flight attendant, instinctively reached for his jacket—a reflex born from training, Reed raised his hands slightly, palms out. “Easy. If I wanted a fight, you wouldn’t have seen me coming.”
16B narrowed his eyes, his body taut with tension. “Sawyer,” he muttered, his voice low, the edge of suspicion still sharp. But something in Reed’s calm demeanor, made him hesitate. “How in the world—”
“Does it matter?” Reed cut in, keeping his tone steady. “We’re here now. And by the look on your faces, you’ve got as many questions as I do.”
Carter exchanged a wary glance with 16B, then stepped back slightly. “You’re not… running?” he asked cautiously, his tone carrying a mix of confusion and grudging admiration. “After that move at the airport, I would’ve bet money you were bolting. That was genius.”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Reed said. He gestured subtly toward the front of the shop. “But we’re burning daylight standing here. Either we figure this out together, or we keep walking blind into Barry’s trap.”
The mention of Barry’s name made both men flinch. That was the crack Reed needed. He stepped closer, his gaze steady. “I know enough to know we’re all being played. And I think you do too.”
For a long, tense moment, no one spoke. Then 16B gave a reluctant nod, a subtle yet telling gesture. “Let’s talk,” he said, his voice losing some of its earlier sharpness.
Carter glanced uneasily toward the front of the store. “Five minutes tops. That clerk’s going to come looking.”
Turning back to Carter and 16B, his voice steady, Reed said, “More than enough time. Start talking. What’s your role in this?”
16B’s jaw tightened, his words sharp and deliberate. “Protection detail. My assignment was to shadow you—no contact, no interference. Orders were to step in only if your safety was at risk. Beyond that, I was left in the dark.” He paused, his gaze steady. “I broke protocol when I gave you that safe house card. I was hoping you’d realize we’re on the same side.”
Reed frowned. “Protection from what?”
16B gave a short, humorless laugh. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? PPI doesn’t hand out details. Just marching orders.”
Carter crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “My orders were different. They told me to monitor you for… suspicious behavior.” He glanced at Reed, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “I thought you’d gone rogue.”
Reed’s stomach churned, but he kept his face neutral. “And now?”
“Now?” Carter’s voice laced with frustration. “Now none of it makes sense.”
Reed let their words hang in the air, each piece slotting into place like shards of a fractured mirror. PPI wasn’t a network of support—it was a machine of manipulation, one that thrived on turning its operatives into pawns, keeping them isolated, uncertain, and expendable.
“Barry’s not just pulling strings,” Reed said finally, his tone deliberate, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. “He’s orchestrating something bigger, something designed to keep us in the dark while he tightens the noose. This isn’t about Kessler or the assignments they’ve handed us. It’s about power—control. And if we don’t figure out how to break that hold, we’re not walking away from this in one piece.”
16B’s jaw tightened once again, a flicker of understanding passing through his expression. He didn’t speak, but the subtle shift in his stance said enough. Carter exhaled sharply, shaking his head before giving a reluctant nod. “Alright,” he muttered, the frustration evident in his voice. “But what’s your play, Sawyer? Because right now, it feels like we’re still chasing shadows.”
Reed turned, his eyes scanning the shelves as if the answer might be hidden among the rows of gear. “We move like nothing’s wrong,” he said, “I finish the gear run, and you two keep watching me. PPI, Barry, whoever—they only see us sticking to protocol, doing our jobs. Whatever Barry’s building, it’s got cracks in the foundation. We find them, and we bring the whole thing down.”
16B crossed his arms, his brow furrowed in thought. “You’re talking about taking on PPI’s golden boy. You know how that ends, don’t you?”
With a sharp edge of defiance in his voice, Reed replies. “This only ends one way—together. Barry’s long game isn’t perfect. He’s meticulous, sure, but he’s not untouchable. He’s counting on us to follow orders, to play by his rules. But if we pool what we know, we’ll find the thread that unravels everything. And when we do, we expose him for what he really is.”
For a moment, the weight of Reed’s words hung in the air, unspoken questions passing between them. Then 16B nodded, his reluctance replaced with a grim determination. Carter hesitated a second longer before adding his own quiet agreement.
“Alright,” Carter said, his voice steadying. “We follow the thread. But we’d better move fast—because if Barry finds out we’re working together, he’ll cut us loose before we have the chance.”
Reed held his gaze, his expression resolute. “Which is why we don’t rush. Two objectives: first, gather irrefutable evidence—something that ties Barry Cox directly to this setup. Second, ensure Secretary Kessler’s safety. Whatever Cox is planning, we can’t let it play out. If Kessler’s the pawn, then he’s also the key.”
“Alright,” 16B said, his tone clipped. “But how? What’s the play?”
Reed’s eyes shifted toward the back of the shop, scanning the neat rows of shelves and cases filled with gear. “We use what’s here,” he said, his voice measured but confident. “Cameras, lighting rigs, audio setups—they’re more than tools for a shoot. We turn them into instruments of evidence. Every shot, every mic, every setup—they’ll all work for us. And for Kessler.”
Carter cast another uneasy glance toward the door, his wariness distinct. “And the shoot itself?” he asked. “You’re suggesting we use it as a staging ground?”
“Exactly,” Reed replied. “It’s our best shot. If we set this up right, we can expose the Architect’s hand before he realizes we’ve flipped the script.”
Before Carter could respond, the soft rumble of wheels on tile announced the store clerk’s return. A dolly stacked with carefully arranged gear rolled into view, the clerk’s gaze flickering between the three men with mild curiosity. “Everything you asked for,” he said, his voice polite but tinged with a hint of skepticism.
Reed stepped forward, his expression impassive. “Perfect. Let’s get started.”
As the clerk began checking the inventory, Reed adopted a casual air. “Quick question,” he said smoothly. “Who handles buying equipment around here? I’ve got a few items I’m looking to move.”
The clerk paused, tapping the counter thoughtfully with his pen. “That’d be my boss. He’s not in, though—won’t be back until next week.”
Reed smiled politely, his mind already moving two steps ahead. “No problem. Can I leave the gear here with you? Once he’s back, you could text me an estimate.”
The clerk hesitated, his brows furrowing as he considered the request. Finally, he shrugged. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Great,” Reed replied, motioning toward the gear. “Let’s grab another dolly.”
The clerk nodded and disappeared into the back. Moments later, he returned, pushing a second dolly. Together, Reed and the clerk began transferring the equipment Reed had brought from Box Galleries. Cameras, cases, everything—all carefully stacked onto the dolly with an air of normalcy that belied their true purpose.
Each item added to the pile felt like shedding a layer of surveillance, a silent dismantling of PPI’s grip. Finally, the clerk wheeled the loaded dolly toward the storage area, oblivious to the significance of what he was taking away.
Reed turned to 16B and Carter, allowing himself a faint smile. “If they’re trying to track me or listen in, all they’ll get is silence now.”
Carter let out a low chuckle, the edges of his unease softening. “Smart move.”
“Necessary,” Reed countered, his voice cutting through the moment with precision. “This has to be flawless. No cracks, no oversights. The Architect’s meticulous, but we’re going to have to be better.”
The three exchanged glances, a shared understanding forming in the silence. Trust wasn’t fully there, but necessity had forged something stronger—an unspoken pact.
Manipulated as they had been, their combined skills and fragmented knowledge now stood as tools to dismantle the network of deception spun by PPI.
Reed stepped forward, his presence commanding but calm. “Here’s how this works,” he said, gesturing toward the neatly stacked gear. “Every single piece pulls double duty. Cameras, lighting rigs—they’re not just tools for the Secretary’s shoot. They’re our surveillance, our evidence. If Cox is involved, these will expose him.”
“Every lens, every angle—they’re witnesses. If there’s something they don’t want us to see, we’ll capture it.”
16B leaned against a nearby shelf. “And the Secretary? If this backfires, he’s the one in the crosshairs.”
Answering with unshakable resolve, Reed said, “Then we make sure it doesn’t backfire. The photo shoot isn’t just a setup—it’s our safeguard. Whatever Cox has planned, it stops with us. The Secretary stays alive. That’s non-negotiable.”
The room stilled as his words hung in the air, binding them with an unspoken pact. Their fractured alliance now had direction, a purpose stronger than the distrust lingering between them.
They turned their focus to the shelves, poring over the rental agency’s inventory with precision. Cameras, lenses, tripods—every piece of equipment was scrutinized for its covert potential. Reed’s expertise proved invaluable as he flagged tools that could be modified for surveillance or intelligence gathering. Each selection became a small victory, a tangible step toward unraveling Cox’s web of control.
The quiet work carried an unspoken understanding. Together, they were up against a force that had manipulated their every move, weaving lies and half-truths to keep them in the dark. But now, with each calculated choice, they began clawing back a measure of control.
Reed glanced up, a faint smirk across his face. “Well, I figure it’s about time we all got better acquainted. You know me, but who are you?”
16B straightened, his posture deliberate, and extended a firm hand. “Keith Kranch,” he said, a wry edge to his voice. “Freelance muscle, occasional babysitter for rogue photographers, and apparently, the guy who needs a crash course in spotting setups.”
Carter chuckled, the sound easing the taut air around them. “Craig Carter,” he said, dipping into a mock bow with exaggerated flair. “Photographer, jack of all trades, master of none—but I make it look good. Here to help, or so I tell myself.”
Reed nodded. “Nice to meet you both. Now, I’ve got to ask—what brought you here? A rental shop, of all places?”
Kranch shrugged, gesturing loosely toward the rows of equipment. “Blew out a softbox during my last job. Figured I could get a good deal on a used one here.”
Carter jumped in, a grin playing on his lips. “Needed a polarizer for this outdoor gig—some ‘artsy’ nonsense. Figured I might as well grab some decent glass while I’m at it. After that stunt you pulled at Bratislava airport, we knew we had to get to Vienna fast. So, we hopped on a train, thinking that’s what you’d do. Found this place after a quick Google search—first photography shop on the list. And, surprise, here you are.”
Reed arched a brow, his thoughts churning as he let their answers settle. Coincidence? Blind luck? Or the invisible pull of threads they couldn’t yet see? Whatever the reason, the three of them now stood together—in an unassuming rental shop, of all places—with just enough common ground to start fighting back.
Reed stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the assembled gear. “This is it. The tools we need to turn their own game against them.”
“Let’s just hope we’re better players.” Carter replied, with a faint smirk.
Kranch cracked his knuckles, his tone blunt. “We’d better be. There’s no second chance here.”
Reed leaned against the counter, his tone light but probing. “So, how’d you guys get into this line of work?”
Kranch smirked. “Logistics turned into something… bigger. Let’s just say PPI knows how to find people with ‘hidden potential.’”
Carter added with a shrug, “Same here. They start you off in photography, probably like you, then show you what’s underneath—the espionage, the surveillance. It’s all layers of secrets, wrapped up in a camera strap.”
Reed nodded, his smile fading. “Yeah, and Barry Cox sits at the center of it all, pulling every string.”
They finalized their plan quickly, calling a rideshare van to take them to the hotel where Secretary Kessler’s photo shoot was scheduled. The location would undoubtedly be crawling with surveillance—bugged rooms, hidden cameras, and layers of covert operatives. This wasn’t paranoia; it was protocol. To avoid suspicion, they would have to arrive separately, staggered in time, each staying in character. Reed knew the drill well—it was standard PPI tradecraft: blend into the environment, but keep all connections invisible.
As the van pulled away from Lenscape Photography Rentals, Reed glanced back at the modest storefront. The irony struck him: this unassuming place, stumbled upon by chance, had become the pivotal point of his mission. PPI’s meticulously planned system hadn’t accounted for this moment, this alliance.
They’d spent years manipulating every move, playing their operatives like chess pieces. But this unscripted turn—this sliver of unpredictability—was something PPI hadn’t seen coming. Reed intended to make it count.
As Vienna’s glowing cityscape rose ahead, Reed tightened his grip on the Lyt Meeter in his pocket. The road ahead would be treacherous, the fight brutal. But he wasn’t running anymore. He was positioning himself for the takedown of a lifetime.