Hong Kong at night is alive in a way few cities can match. Neon bled across the skyline in impossible colors, kanji characters blinking down from high-rises while ferries carved silver paths across Victoria Harbour. The streets were a crush of people, food stalls, and motorbikes darting through traffic like dragonflies.
And somewhere in that chaos, a shipment of experimental weapons was about to disappear into North Korean hands.
The Intersect had tagged the shipment days ago: prototype pulse rifles, designed to disable electronic systems in seconds, capable of crippling jets, satellites, or entire power grids. My job was simple to write and impossible to execute — intercept the deal, secure the tech, and make sure the world didn't lose its lights.
Carmichael-style.
I arrived at the Harbourview Tech Expo dressed as the part — slim-cut navy suit, open collar, the look of a wealthy consultant more interested in deals than details. My cover was simple: Charles Carmichael, venture capitalist from California, sniffing around for next-gen tech investments.
Inside, the convention hall buzzed with drones whirring, robots pouring tea, and startups showing off gadgets that probably wouldn't last six months. But in the back, behind black curtains, was the real show: private demos for "select investors."
The Intersect fired — flash. A dossier on Liang Zhou, Triad fixer, conduit for weapons tech moving east. Mid-forties, precise, always flanked by two bodyguards with military backgrounds. Known for handling meetings on neutral ground, but always with exit strategies.
And tonight, he was here.
The private demo room smelled faintly of ozone and fresh wiring. A prototype pulse rifle rested on a sleek black stand, humming with dangerous potential.
Liang Zhou stood beside it, his gray suit immaculate, eyes sharp behind rimless glasses. "Gentlemen," he said to the gathered buyers, "you are looking at the future of electronic warfare. Portable. Efficient. Untraceable."
He gestured, and one of his men aimed the rifle at a bank of demonstration drones. A pulse of blue light rippled out, silent but final. Every drone dropped like a stone, sparks coughing from their husks. The crowd murmured, impressed.
"Starting bid," Zhou said smoothly, "fifty million U.S."
I raised a hand lazily. "Carmichael, Los Angeles. And I'll start at sixty."
Heads turned. Zhou's eyebrow lifted slightly. "You are confident."
"Confidence," I said, smiling faintly, "is cheaper than insurance."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps we will talk."
The meeting happened in the upper floors of the International Commerce Centre, one of the tallest towers in the city. The kind of place where the view sold the deal.
Zhou's men searched me at the entrance. They didn't find the micro-camera hidden in my cufflink or the comms wire stitched into my belt seam. Thank you, Q-branch—well, in my case, CIA issue with a side of MacGyver improvisation.
We sat across a glass table as the skyline glowed behind us. The pulse rifle rested in a sleek case at Zhou's side.
"You pay," Zhou said, "and this is yours."
I leaned back, cool as Carmichael demanded. "Or… we both know this isn't about money. You're testing your buyers. Seeing who flinches. Who shows too much interest. That's how you decide who's real and who's bait."
His smile was thin. "And which are you, Mr. Carmichael?"
Before I could answer, the Intersect flared. Flash. A file. One of Zhou's guards — ex–PLA special forces, martial arts champion, trained in eagle claw techniques. Weakness: over-commits on strikes, balance exposed mid-turn.
I blinked — just as the guard swung.
The table went flying. I ducked, rolled, and came up just in time to block a punch with my forearm. Pain lanced, but the Intersect guided my response — shift, twist, palm strike to the ribs. The guard staggered.
The second bodyguard lunged with a knife. I grabbed the case with the rifle, swung it like a bat, and cracked him across the jaw. He crashed into the window, spiderwebbing the glass.
Zhou shouted in Mandarin. Alarms blared. More men poured in from the side door.
Time to improvise.
I hit the case release, snatching the pulse rifle free. The Intersect fired again, flashing schematics across my vision. Safety switch here. Trigger delay there. Range, thirty meters.
I squeezed.
Blue energy rippled out, slamming into the men charging through the door. Their radios fried, their rifles locked, sparks bursting from their comms gear. They collapsed, stunned but alive.
Zhou bolted for the far exit, but I was faster. I tackled him, pinning him to the polished floor. "This deal," I hissed, "is over."
He glared up at me, furious. "You don't know what you've started."
"Story of my life," I muttered.
Minutes later, I was tearing through the neon-soaked streets of Kowloon on a stolen motorbike, the pulse rifle strapped across my back, Triad cars screeching behind me.
Traffic blurred — trucks, taxis, neon signs whipping past in electric streaks. Bullets cracked the night, sparks bursting from metal shutters as I swerved into a narrow market alley. Stalls toppled, fruit exploding, locals shouting as I raced through.
One car gained on me, bumper inches from my rear tire. Flash. Structural weakness: left headlight cluster, cheap aftermarket part. I ripped the pulse rifle forward one-handed, aimed, and squeezed.
Blue ripple. Headlights blew. Electronics died. The car skidded, slammed sideways, and plowed into a fish stall in a glorious spray of scales and water.
I burst free onto the open highway, the city sprawling behind me, the harbor ahead glittering like molten steel.
The rendezvous was on a CIA trawler waiting just past the shipping lanes. I gunned the bike, leapt a service ramp, and launched myself and the rifle clear into the night — landing hard on the trawler's deck as Agency hands pulled me in.
Hours later, safe in the cabin, I peeled off the suit jacket and set the rifle on the table.
"Silent Fang neutralized," I reported into the secure comms. "Weapon secured. Zhou's operation cut off."
Beckman's voice crackled through, sharp as ever. "Well done, Carmichael. Clean work."
I exhaled, staring at the rifle humming faintly on the table.
Clean was not the word I'd use.
But the city lights still glowed. The satellites still worked. And that was enough.