Reed leaned against the marble counter of the hotel lobby, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm as he waited for the concierge’s attention. His mind raced, cataloging the team’s fragmented assignments. PPI was watching their every move, ready to pounce on any deviation from protocol.
The clerk approached with a polite but perfunctory smile. “Can I help you?”
Reed nodded, keeping his voice calm and professional. “Just checking on one of my team members. Has a Marty Grimes checked in yet?”
The clerk typed briskly on the keyboard, eyes flickering over the screen. “Yes, sir. Mr. Grimes checked in earlier this morning. Room 912.”
Reed’s muscles tightened, though his expression betrayed nothing. Grimes was already here. Either Barry’s moves were accelerating, or his team was running behind. “Thanks,” Reed replied with a practiced smile, stepping away from the counter. He adjusted his camera bag, the weight grounding him as he headed toward the hotel’s revolving doors.
Outside, the humid air of Vienna hit him like a wall. The faint chatter of tourists mingled with the clinking of glasses from the noisy bar next door. Reed couldn’t place who “Mike” was, but it was clear everyone inside the bar loved him. He caught fragments of conversation—“…another round for all my friends!”—followed by a raucous cheer of “Miiiiiike!” The bar’s energy was infectious, providing the perfect cover: a semi-quiet patio where the blend of chaos and normalcy could mask a clandestine meeting. With PPI operatives shadowing their every move, appearances had to stay airtight. To onlookers, Kranch was trailing Reed, while Carter casually tailed Grimes. A public meetup like this could pass as incidental—so long as they played by PPI’s rules.
Reed quickly slipped into the shadows of the side street and pulled out his phone. A quick message went out to Kranch and Carter:
“Meet: next door. Outdoor seating. Cafe Merlot. Follow PPI protocol.”
Reed knew the drill. He’d sit first, appearing casual, maybe order a drink. Kranch would arrive a few minutes later, positioning himself within earshot but not at the same table. Carter would come last, blending in as an oblivious tourist or businessman grabbing a bite between errands. The goal was clear: coordination without exposure.
The outdoor patio of Cafe Merlot buzzed with energy—clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, and waitstaff darting between tables. Reed took a seat in the corner, choosing a spot with a clear view of both the entrance and the street. The noise around him provided the perfect cover for whispered conversations.
A waiter approached, and Reed ordered a coffee, and said, “My associate will be joining me, Mr. Grimes. Can you send him to my table when he arrives?” Playing his role to perfection: just another photographer stealing a moment to relax before a busy day. He pretended to scroll through his phone, though his attention was laser-focused on the movements around him.
Reed decided to take a chance and send a Private Message on Pro4uM to Marty Grimes. “Mission critical, meet me at Café Merlot immediately. Mention my name and the waiter will direct you.” Reed's thumb hovered over the send button for a split second before he tapped it. The risk was high—Pro4uM was PPI’s domain, and every message was likely logged and analyzed. But without Grimes, the puzzle would remain incomplete.
A few minutes later, right on protocol, Kranch arrived. True to form, he didn’t acknowledge Reed, instead choosing a table a few seats away. His posture was casual, but Reed caught the flick of his eyes scanning the patio for threats. Kranch ordered a soda, leaning back in his chair as if he were on a break from trailing his "target."
Carter was next, slipping into a seat near the far end of the patio, closer to the street. Dressed in a blazer and holding a tablet, he blended in seamlessly with the lunchtime crowd. His eyes briefly met Reed’s, and a subtle nod passed between them.
Reed waited until the waiter walked away before speaking in a low voice, just loud enough for Kranch to hear. “Grimes is here. Checked in this morning.”
Kranch didn’t look up from his drink, his lips barely moving. “Room?”
“Nine twelve,” Reed replied, pretending to sip his coffee.
Grimes’s arrival was anything but subtle. Reed observed him closely, noting the casual conversation with the waiter. Heads nodded, a few uneasy laughs were exchanged, and then a subtle gesture in Reed’s direction. Together, they began walking toward him. Marty Grimes trailed slightly behind the waiter, his movements hesitant, shifting his weight as if unsure of every step.
He was a wiry man in his late forties, with the kind of face that seemed designed to fade into a crowd. His thinning hair was neatly combed, but his glasses sat slightly askew on his nose, giving him a frazzled, out-of-place air. Grimes was dressed for the part of an itinerant photographer: a slightly wrinkled blazer over a button-up shirt and jeans, the kind of outfit that could pass as either casual professionalism or someone struggling to keep it together.
But it wasn’t his attire that caught Reed’s attention—it was his eyes. Wide and darting like a cornered animal, they scanned the restaurant with nervous precision, pausing briefly on each patron before landing on Reed. A flicker of recognition passed over his face, followed by a brief, telling hesitation. He looked like a man who knew he was walking into a trap but had no choice but to see it through.
“Mr. Grimes?” the waiter asked with a polite gesture toward Reed’s table, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of conversations around them. A few heads turned, sensing a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere.
Grimes nodded quickly—almost too quickly—his hand fidgeting with his glasses in a futile attempt at composure. “That’s me,” he replied, his voice thin and slightly strained. He followed the waiter’s gestures toward Reed’s table, his movements revealing a mix of reluctance and determination.
Reed stood, his expression calm and professional, though a firestorm of calculations raced through his mind. “Mr. Grimes,” he said warmly, extending a hand as if this were just another routine meeting. “Glad you could join me.”
Grimes shook his hand, his grip damp and shaky. “Mr. Sawyer,” he replied, his voice faltering as he glanced over his shoulder, clearly uneasy. “I got your message. I’m here. Now what?”
Reed gestured for him to sit, his smile unwavering. “Let’s talk,” he said, his tone measured and deliberate. “You’ve got a lot more eyes on you than you think—and if we don’t act fast, you’re about to take the fall for something you didn’t start.”
Reed leaned in, keeping his tone sharp but low. "We don't have much time, so I’m going to skip the pleasantries. What’s your role with PPI?"
Grimes flinched, his eyes narrowing. "You know I can’t answer that. Protocol—"
Reed waved a hand dismissively, cutting him off. "I know the protocol, Grimes. No talking, no questions, no breaking the chain. But if you want to make it through this in one piece, you’re going to break it right now. Things aren’t always what they seem, Marty. Sometimes, the picture isn’t as clear as you think."
Grimes blinked, his mouth opening as if to protest, but Reed didn’t give him the chance. He pulled out his phone and placed it on the table between them, tapping the screen to bring up the digitized message he’d found. The file labeled “Directive: Grimes Liability.” glowed starkly in the dim light: He opened it, "If operation fails, assign full liability to M. Grimes. Sawyer classified expendable. Kessler marked as acceptable collateral. Authorized: B. Cox."
Grimes froze, his breath catching audibly. He stared at the screen, his face draining of color as the reality of the message sank in. “What… what is this?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s your future,” Reed said bluntly. “That’s what Barry Cox has lined up for you. When everything goes sideways—and it will—you’re the one they’re going to hang out to dry.”
Grimes’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for the phone, his fingers hovering over the screen like he needed to feel the message was real. “This can’t be right,” he muttered. “I’ve followed every order, done everything by the book…”
“That’s exactly why you’re the perfect scapegoat,” Reed said, leaning back slightly. “Barry’s counting on you to follow orders blindly. And when the dust settles, he’ll have the perfect fall guy to keep his hands clean.”
Grimes’s gaze snapped up to meet Reed’s, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. “Why are you showing me this? What do you want from me?”
“Trust,” Reed said simply, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “I don’t need you to explain yourself, and I don’t have time to spell this out. You’re in grave danger, Grimes. Your only way out is to trust me—and to help me take Barry down.”
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Grimes hesitated, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what he’d just seen. His voice was shaky but tinged with a sliver of hope. “What do I need to do?”
Reed leaned in again, his voice steady and urgent. “First, you listen. Then, you follow my lead. If we’re going to survive this, we need to work together—and we need to move fast.”
Reed’s tone softening just enough to seem less combative. “So, can we at least start with why you’re here? Just the highlights.”
Marty hesitated, his gaze darting briefly around the noisy restaurant before settling back on Reed. He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “It’s nothing big. Routine stuff. I’m supposed to shadow Secretary Kessler’s team during the shoot—make sure all the optics are in line. Barry said the press would be watching, and it’s critical we get everything looking polished.”
Reed raised an eyebrow, letting Marty continue.
“I mean, it’s babysitting work,” Marty added quickly. “Smile adjustments, positioning the Secretary just right—you know, the little things that make the big picture work. They’ve got me double-checking the media angles and making sure no one says anything they shouldn’t. It’s nothing glamorous, and definitely nothing worth raising eyebrows over.”
Reed nodded slowly, his face neutral. “Nothing glamorous. Right.”
Marty leaned back in his chair, suddenly defensive. “That’s all it is. I swear. If it were something more, I wouldn’t be the one doing it. Barry’s got people way higher up for that kind of thing.”
Reed smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed sharp. “Right, the little things. Funny how it’s always the little things that end up mattering most.”
Marty shifted uncomfortably, but Reed didn’t push further. The trap had already begun to close.
Reed motioned to the far side of the tables where Kranch and Carter sat silently, their eyes fixed on Marty with quiet intensity. “Marty,” Reed said calmly, “meet the team.” He gestured toward them. “This is Kranch and Carter. They’re already up to speed.”
Marty gave them a cautious nod, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his chair. Kranch gave a curt nod back, his jaw tight, while Carter leaned back in his chair, his posture casual but his eyes sharp.
“For now, Marty,” Reed continued, “you just need to do your job. Nothing more, nothing less. Carter here will be sticking close to you. So don’t get nervous when you see him around every corner.”
Marty looked at Carter, his eyebrows raising slightly. “I won’t worry when I see him at every corner. I’ll know it’s normal.”
“Carter is your contact to the team. If you have questions or notice anything off, you go to him. Not me, not Kranch. Him. Understood?”
Marty nodded slowly. “Understood.”
Reed leaned in, lowering his voice to ensure the conversation didn’t carry. “We have a plan in place, but it’s critical that PPI feels everything is tracking normally. No surprises, no slip-ups. You follow Carter’s lead, and we’ll get through this.”
Marty exhaled, looking slightly reassured, but the tension in his shoulders remained. “Alright. Got it.”
Reed straightened, changing gears. “Now, about your upcoming convention. SYNC, right?”
Marty’s expression shifted slightly, the tension replaced by mild confusion. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Will Barry be a speaker?” Reed asked pointedly.
Marty shook his head quickly. “No, he doesn’t usually show up to these things. Too high-profile, I guess. But I know he loves the photography world’s spotlight.”
Reed nodded thoughtfully, then leaned forward again, his tone decisive. “But if he needs to be, it can be arranged, right?”
Marty hesitated. “I mean… yeah, probably. If I pitch it right. Why?”
“Because we need him to be the keynote speaker,” Reed said firmly, holding Marty’s gaze. “And not just any speaker—we need him front and center, with the entire attendance watching.”
Marty blinked, his jaw slackening slightly. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” Reed said. “Call Barry, make it casual and tell him, like it’s something you forgot to mention until now. ‘Oh, by the way, Barry you will be the keynote speaker.’ That kind of casual. Can you make that happen?”
Marty ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “It won’t be easy, but yeah… I think I can make it happen. The current Keynote speaker will not be happy, but I think I can make him happy.”
“Good,” Reed said, leaning back with a faint smile. “Because that’s how we’ll set the stage. Literally.”
The meeting was short—deliberately so. As Reed stood to leave, he thought to himself, So many moving parts. I’ve got to get Kessler on our side, and then we can really begin.
Returning to the hotel, Reed’s mind was calm but alert. With Grimes now hopefully on board, the pieces were starting to align.
Reed checked his watch: six hours to showtime. The clock was ticking, and every second mattered. He slipped into the hotel’s business center, glancing over his shoulder to confirm what he already suspected—he was alone. Perfect. The sterile hum of the computer stations and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights gave the room a strange, almost calming sense of isolation. For now, it was his command post.
Settling into a corner workstation, Reed powered up the computer and logged into Pro4uM.com. With a few keystrokes, lines of cryptic messages and concealed memos scrolled across the screen, each one a piece of a sprawling puzzle. Reed’s focus sharpened as patterns began to emerge. Phrases like “Strategic alignment confirmed” and “Asset integration underway” pointed to a meticulous orchestration. And then there it was—Kessler’s name. Not just once, but again and again, his name tied to keywords: “Fulcrum,” “Keystone,” “Architect’s Directive.”
He leaned back, exhaling slowly. This wasn’t just speculation anymore. Kessler wasn’t a target of opportunity—he was the center of it all. PPI’s plans revolved around him, using his influence to legitimize a global agenda that Reed was only beginning to grasp. He pulled out the Lyt Meeter, running a cross-check against the data found on Pro4uM.com. The device hummed faintly, processing the input before confirming what Reed feared most. This was no coincidence. It was fact.
Reed returned to the screen, digging deeper. Cross-referencing Pro4uM's encrypted chatter with the digitized files from the Box Gallery revealed even more, a staggering truth: PPI wasn't just manipulating Kessler—it was reshaping entire nations. Each discovery exposed another layer of Barry Cox's shadow empire: political coups disguised as democratic transitions, economic crashes masked as market corrections, and puppet leaders installed through seemingly legitimate elections. Behind every major global upheaval, Reed found PPI's fingerprints, meticulously hidden within innocent photography assignments and equipment purchases.
The pattern was both brilliant and terrifying. Every legitimate photography event doubled as cover for something darker, with Barry's influence deliberately absent from official records. Kessler wasn't just another target—he was the unwitting cornerstone of an operation that spanned continents. Reed's hand hovered over the keyboard, the weight of this revelation settling heavily on his shoulders. The truth was far worse than he'd imagined.
Time was running out. Reed closed the files and powered down the computer. Just as the computer screen dimmed, Reed hesitated. His finger hovered over the power button. Something gnawed at him—a sense that there was more he hadn’t yet uncovered. He leaned forward and tapped the keyboard, the screen flaring back to life.
Reed keyed in a new query, focusing on PPI’s operational framework in New York. His fingers moved with precision, skimming through encrypted communications and internal memos until a glaring vulnerability emerged. PPI’s servers, believed to be impenetrable, could be compromised by a physically implanted device—this information could be useful in the future, Reed thought. It was a crack in their armor, hidden in plain sight.
Reed’s lips curled into a grim smile. This blind spot could be their undoing.
With a few more keystrokes, he began formulating his future moves Reed returned to the screen, digging deeper. Cross-referencing Pro4uM's encrypted chatter with the digitized files from the Box Gallery revealed a staggering truth: PPI wasn't just manipulating Kessler—it was reshaping entire nations. Each discovery exposed another layer of Barry Cox's shadow empire: political coups disguised as democratic transitions, economic crashes masked as market corrections, and puppet leaders installed through seemingly legitimate elections. Behind every major global upheaval, Reed found PPI's fingerprints, meticulously hidden within innocent photography assignments and equipment purchases.
The pattern was both brilliant and terrifying. Every legitimate photography event doubled as cover for something darker, with Barry's influence deliberately absent from official records. Kessler wasn't just another target—he was the unwitting keystone of an operation that spanned continents. Reed's hand hovered over the keyboard, the weight of this revelation settling heavily on his shoulders. The truth was far worse than he'd imagined.
The upcoming photo shoot wasn’t just about protecting Kessler—it was a chance to trap Barry. Get him talking. The Secretary wasn’t merely a target; he was a critical ally in dismantling Barry Cox’s empire.
The covert recording devices Reed had planted earlier now carried even greater weight. They’d capture every word, every interaction—irrefutable proof that Reed and his team could use to take Barry Cox down. But one thing was clear: without Kessler’s trust, none of it would matter.
The computer finally powered down, its faint hum fading into silence. Reed sat back, running a hand through his hair. Reed knew that convincing Secretary Kessler wasn't just about presenting evidence like cryptic codes on a fake website and a silly-looking device—it was about dismantling his viewpoint of this situation. The Secretary needed to see how Barry had manipulated him, used his influence, and positioned him as the unwitting cornerstone of PPI's operations. Without Kessler's complete understanding and cooperation, the entire operation would collapse before it began. The recording devices weren't enough; Reed needed concrete proof that even a seasoned politician couldn't deny.
Reed sent a coded text to Carter and Kranch, laying out the grim reality of what he’d uncovered. He kept the message short, concise, and encrypted—every word carefully chosen to avoid detection. He considered bringing Grimes into the fold, but the risk was too great. For now, Grimes needed to keep doing exactly what he was doing. The less he knew, the safer he’d be.
Meanwhile, Reed returned to his room, leaned back on the bed, his thoughts racing. Anxious, but resolved. Dismantle Barry, and PPI collapses like a house of cards. The thought of killing him flickered briefly—a dark impulse born of desperation. He dismissed it immediately. This wasn’t a spy novel, and he was no James Bond. You only kill people in stories like those. In the real world, the truth was the weapon that brought men like Barry to their knees.
He glanced at his watch. Five hours to showtime. The shoot would be the tipping point—the moment where success or failure became irreversible. No second chances.
Reed’s mind drifted to the gravity of what he’d uncovered. The scale of Barry’s corruption and PPI’s manipulation was staggering, global in its reach. He couldn’t just expose a fragment; he needed the entire picture. It was the only way to ensure the lies weren’t just revealed, but destroyed.
Every piece was now in place, and the photo shoot loomed ahead like the final, decisive act.