Chapter 6 - The Visitor at the Glass
The silhouette outside the large glass windows stood motionless in the unnatural fog, leaning heavily on a wooden cane that looked an awful lot like Clara’s. The afternoon sun struggled to pierce the thick haze, casting long, distorted shadows across the hardwood floor of the living room.
Elena pressed her back against the cool surface of the bookshelf, her breath hitching in her throat. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the hazy figure standing just feet away from the fragile glass.
"Who is that?" Elena whispered, terrified to raise her voice above a breath. "Is it the authorities? Is it the military?"
"The military doesn't use fog machines, Elena," David muttered, keeping his pistol lowered but ready, his stance balanced and defensive. He cast a sideways glance at Clara, who hadn't lowered her own cane an inch.
Clara stepped forward, placing herself between Elena and the window. Despite her age, there was an unmistakable predator’s grace in how she moved.
"It’s not the military," Clara said, her voice hard as iron. "That’s Sector Six. The cleanup crew that was supposed to have been decommissioned after the Geneva accords."
Elena’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. "Sector Six? There were only five sectors! My father told me—"
"Your father lied to protect his pension, Elena!" Clara snapped, cutting her off with a sharp slap of her cane against the floor. "There were six sectors. And Sector Six didn't answer to the government. They answered to the highest bidder."
Outside, the silhouette raised its own wooden cane and tapped it once against the glass. A dull, heavy thud vibrated through the room, shaking the window frames. Yet, the glass did not shatter. It was reinforced security glass, built to withstand an impact, but the rhythmic tapping continued—slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm.
David took two silent steps toward the window, his finger resting just outside the trigger guard of his pistol.
"They want the ledger, Clara," David said quietly. "They don't want us alive. The 5,000 transfer was just a tracer."
"I know what they want," Clara replied, her eyes narrowing as she watched the fog swirl around the mysterious figure outside. "They want the names of every operative who survived the fire. And they think we have them memorized."
"Do we?" Elena choked out, the horror of the realization dawning on her.
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Clara didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her military uniform pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted microchip, holding it up between her thumb and forefinger.
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