Victor stepped out of his hotel room. The sound of the ice cream truck grew louder and louder as it approached, to the point where Victor began to wonder.

"Why is no one reacting?!" he asked himself while descending the hotel stairs.

Victor had no doubt that the people around him could see the truck, as many turned their heads curiously to watch it pass by. What he questioned, however, was their hearing.

The moment the truck entered the street, Victor could hear it even while sitting in his well-insulated hotel room. If he could hear it so clearly from hundreds of meters away, surely the whole neighborhood could hear its sweet music. Yet, he seemed to be the only one hearing it at such an intense volume. At least, that's what Victor told himself to ease his mind, not wanting to be responsible for a sudden spike in hearing loss cases in the neighborhood.

'Why did you make it so loud?' Victor asked the system.

The truck’s music was so loud in his ears that he was starting to get a headache.

I programmed it so the host could locate it and head toward it before it left.

'So I also have a limited amount of time to retrieve the delivery?' Victor thought, bewildered.

Exactly host! You have exactly one hour to collect your package before the delivery driver leaves with it.

'Can’t he just leave it on the ground instead of taking it back?' he asked, feeling dejected.

No, host, the delivery must be made in person to prevent someone from stealing your items.

'I have a few questions, my dear system, and I hope you’ll shed some light on this for me. Does the driver come back later with my items if I miss them the first time?

No, dear host.

'Am I entitled to a refund?'

No, host.

'Can I file a complaint?'

No.

"So am I supposed to understand that to protect me from theft, you’re the one stealing from me without giving me any chance?"

Don’t waste too much time host, or the truck might leave with your walkie-talkies!

'Don’t change the subject, little system. You said I had an hour to pick up my items, so we do have plenty of time to talk!'

Victor had a wide grin on his face, though it didn’t look very friendly.

Meanwhile, in a police station just a few steps away, Commander Anderson was lost in his thoughts. It wasn't until several minutes later that he finally made a decision. He got up, put on his coat that he still hadn't had time to change and went out into the street. He hadn’t driven to work that morning, so he called for a taxi. Five short minutes later, he was already seated in the back seat, on his way to his destination.

He had already gone to see his friend in person for more information about the Johnsons, but he had still refused to talk. He must have received pressure from one of his superiors as well, so Thomas didn't hold it against him.

Still, he wanted answers. Why were they so powerful? Where did their wealth come from? Why did they have connections with such high-ranking officials in the police?

And all of these questions were surely just the tip of the iceberg.

Thomas glanced outside. They had already left the city, the vast housing developments of suburban homes having already turned into fields stretching as far as the eye could see.

'The bill is going to hurt...' he grimaced while looking at the total cost of his trip.

But on the flip side, Thomas wouldn't have escaped the lunchtime traffic if he had gone back home to get his car.

'I guess it's a necessary evil,' he thought as he got out of the taxi after over an hour of travel.

"Are you sure this is the right place, sir?" asked the driver through the rolled down window.

Thomas could understand why he would ask. They were on a dirt road, near a forest and finally in the middle of nowhere.

"Yes, this is perfect. Thank you for your time and have a good day!"

The taxi driver shook his head behind the wheel.

"These white-collar guys really have some weird destinations in mind..."

He turned around before speeding away. Even after the taxi was out of sight, Thomas remained motionless.

He glanced at his watch.

11:35

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"The old man should be passing by here soon," Thomas thought as he kept wainting. He might be a few minutes late due to his age, but Thomas had the entire morning.

Spring had already been in full bloom for several months. The sides of the path were scattered with dandelions and pink flowers with a pleasant fragrance. Thomas had no idea what species they were, as he spent most of his time working. Having lived his whole life in New York, he knew all too well that it was easier to come across a criminal on the street than to see a flower.

'Not that I'm complaining, at least it gives me work,' he thought as he continued to wait.

After observing the local flora and fauna for about 5 minutes, Thomas saw an old man approaching on foot.

The man looked to be over 80 years old. He was wearing a white checkered shirt and a brown beret to protect himself from the sun. His white hair cascaded down his shoulders. While his right hand gripped a wooden cane that he used to walk, his left hand held a wooden fishing pole and a box of fishing hooks.

"Hello, Grandpa Joe."

Thomas stepped forward to give his grandfather a long hug.

The old man seemed surprised but happy to see him.

"You should have told me you were coming, Thomas. I would have brought your fishing rod so we could fish together."

"Don’t worry about it, Grandpa. I just wanted to spend some time with you and talk a little."

The old man laughed at his response.

"You must have encountered quite a problem in your love life to come all the way here and ask for my advice."

Without giving his grandson a chance to explain, he handed him his fishing rod and hooks before continuing on his way.

They would have plenty of time to talk once they were waiting for their first catch anyway. They walked for several minutes in silence, each enjoying the peace and quietness of the forest in their own way.

When they finally arrived at a lake in the middle of nowhere, the two men sat on the ground, and Joe began to prepare his fishing rod. He attached a bobber to his line before casting it into the water.

Once that was done, all that was left was to wait.

Thomas started speaking as he sat cross-legged on the grass.

"So, how are you and Grandma doing?"

The old man looked away from his bobber with a wide grin on his face.

"Very well, very well. But you know, you can go ahead and ask me your real questions. I doubt they’ve planted microphones around this lake or have men nearby."

Thomas turned his head to scan the surroundings.

"Are you sure, Grandpa?"

Joe shrugged while keeping an eye on his line.

"If they don’t want me to talk, all they have to do is silence me. I walk alone in the middle of the forest every day. They know my route down to the minute and wouldn’t have any trouble overpowering an old man."

Thomas wasn’t very comfortable with the idea, and Joe noticed it right away.

“Don’t worry, little Toto. It’s much harder to get rid of a young commander from the center of New York than a retired spy. If you ask me sensitive questions, they might come after me and give me a slap on the wrist, but I think that’s about it.”

Thomas watched his grandfather for several long seconds before diving in.

“Do you know about the Johnson family?”

The old man looked at him for a few seconds before raising an eyebrow.

“No, why? You know I don’t know everyone on Earth. What have these Johnsons done?”

“I don’t know, but even the head of the police department wanted to cover their tracks. Even my friend at the classified information center refused to help me.”

“And that’s why you came to see me in the middle of the forest?”

Thomas nodded.

The old man let out a sigh of resignation before asking,

“What other information do you have?”

In response, Thomas pulled a stack of crumpled papers from the inside of his coat.

He had written down all the names of people who seemed connected to the Johnsons, a summary of the airplane heist and the recovery of the stolen items, and finally, an overview of dead-end leads and his own hypotheses.

Joe flipped through them in silence, leaving his grandson to hold the fishing rod.

“De la Fayette… De la Fayette… why does that name sound familiar?” the old man murmured as he absentmindedly scanned the papers.

This time, Thomas asked the question.

“Who is this De la Fayette?”

“Someone who was on the plane during the heist. I can't say why, but I feel like I’ve seen that name somewhere before. Let me just call an old colleague to be sure.”

With that, he pulled an old Nokia phone from one of his pockets. The call lasted only a few minutes but felt agonizingly long to the young commander. His grandfather’s face had darkened as the conversation went on, until he hung up with a frown.

It took him several seconds to gather his thoughts before turning to Thomas.

“Are you sure you want to investigate this?”

His voice had turned serious, and his face was no longer playful but had a hint of fear. Thomas had never seen his grandfather afraid in his life.

“Is it really that serious?” he finally asked, glancing around nervously.

The old man nodded gravely.

“This is the kind of information that could lead to the disappearance of a young commander from the center of New York… and a retired spy. Do you even know how many people disappear in the United States every year without being found?”

Thomas was so shocked of the randomness of the question that it took him several seconds to respond.

“Around 36,000, right? I think my data is a few years old, but it should still be a good estimate.”

Joe nodded again.

“Those are the official numbers. But did you know the real figure is closer to 50,000?”

“Maybe they don’t count unreported disappearances,” Thomas said, thinking aloud.

This time, his grandfather shook his head.

“I’m talking about recorded disappearances. Nearly 30% were left out of the official numbers, but do you know why?”

“To avoid panicking the public?”

“No, my grandson. To keep a very well-hidden secret.”

Joe took the fishing rod back from Thomas before continuing.

“About 20 years ago, my superiors assigned me and my team to a strange case. It involved tens of millions of dollars’ worth of military equipment being shipped to a remote part of Africa. Our mission was to find out who the supplier was, and more importantly, who were the buyers. The goal was to prevent the weapons from fueling civil wars accross the Atlantic ”

He paused briefly, as if searching through distant memories.

“While we were on the ground gathering intel, I received a call from my direct superior. He ordered me to pull my men back and return to the U.S., saying the mission had been reassigned to another branch of the intelligence services. I didn’t believe him at the time. We already had the buyers’ names, and we were only a few days away from identifying the seller.”

The bobber trembled on the surface of the water, but the old man didn’t seem to notice.

“I realized something was wrong when my superior forbade me from filing a written report and then assigned me and my men to near-suicidal missions in the months that followed. Many died during those missions, and only a few survived. But we understood back then that we had stumbled onto something important.”

He turned to look his grandson in the eye.

“There were four buyers. Three of them were American citizens, and the last one was French. They all had two things in common: none of them were remotely connected to the military, and all of them had been reported missing in their respective countries for months.

We never found out what they intended to do with all those weapons, but we combed through the missing persons’ registries to try to find any clue, and we discovered that they weren’t part of the official numbers. We also found that several thousand people were in the same situation as them, though we never figured out why.

However, out of those four buyers lost in the depths of Africa, one name should ring a bell for you. He was a young Frenchman at the time, who spoke very poor English. His name was Jean-Marc. Jean-Marc De la Fayette.”