The next morning, the Missouri fog clung to the ground like a shroud as the trio moved with clinical efficiency. They had spent the night stripping their gear, using Vance's specialized scanner to dig out every microscopic sub-dermal tracker and signal-emitter hidden in their armor. By dawn, they were "ghosts"—invisible to Tom, the Agency, and the Hollow.
They pulled up to a secluded private airstrip in a non-descript Black Jeep Compass. The sunrise hit the sleek wings of a white private jet idling at the end of the runway.
Standing by the boarding stairs was Henry. Despite being 60, he carried himself with the rigid posture of a man who had spent decades pulling high-G maneuvers. His long white hair was tied back, and his thick beard didn't hide the sharp, piercing blue eyes that had spotted targets from miles up. As he leaned against the fuselage, the faded Navy tattoos on his muscular, tanned arms told stories of wars the public never knew about.
Vance dropped his gear and sprinted toward him, pulling the older man into a fierce hug.
"Glad to see you, brother," Henry rumbled, his voice like gravel in a blender. He hugged Vance back tightly, clapping him on the shoulder before nodding respectfully toward Vlad and Beatrice. He didn't ask questions; men like Henry knew that when Vance called, the world was usually on fire.
"The flight plan is filed as a private charter for a golf trip," Henry said, gesturing toward the cabin. "But we're going low and fast to stay under the civilian radar. Everyone inside. Now."
They hauled their bags onto the jet. The interior was a contrast to the high-tech Agency craft—it smelled of old leather and strong coffee. As soon as the door sealed, Henry was in the cockpit. The engines screamed to life, and the white jet tore down the runway, banking hard toward the Southeast.
En Route: Atlanta
As the jet leveled out at 30,000 feet, the cabin became a mobile war room.
* Beatrice sat near the window, her dark hair pulled back, studying the blueprints of the Chase Bank branch on Vance's laptop.
* Vlad was methodically checking the charge on his vibro-blade and the seals on his kinetic-strike suit.
* Vance was syncing his drones to the jet's satellite uplink to get a live feed of Peachtree Street.
"We have roughly ninety minutes until we're over Georgia," Vlad stated, looking at his partners. "The bank vault is reinforced steel and concrete, but the lab underneath is the real problem. It'll have its own security detail—and possibly the finished Alpha-1."
Beatrice looked up from the screen, her expression grim. "It's not just security. If the Hollow realizes we're there to destroy the Alpha-1, they might trigger the 'Forced Upload' early. We have to be fast, and we have to be lethal."
The reality of their situation hit Vlad with the force of a physical blow as they settled into the Hyatt Regency Atlanta Perimeter. The sleek, modern walls of the suite felt like a cage, but the air inside was thick with a truth the Agency had tried to erase.
When Beatrice asked for help with her bra, Vlad stepped behind her. His fingers, usually steady enough to defuse a bomb or take a three-hundred-yard shot, hesitated for a fraction of a second. As he lifted the garment and asked her to raise her arms, his eyes traced the jagged, silver-white line on her back—the souvenir of a betrayal in Marseille. Then, as he snapped the buttons on the third row, he saw the faint, puckered skin on her side where he had once applied pressure to a sucking chest wound while they waited for a medevac that never seemed to come.
He realized then with a chilling clarity: the woman in Nashville, the one he had shared a bed with just nights ago, had skin like flawless porcelain. No scars. No history. She was a "perfect" version of Beatrice—and therefore, she wasn't Beatrice at all. The woman standing before him now, marked by their shared trauma and the brutality of their profession, was the only one who mattered.
"You're back," Vlad whispered, his voice uncharacteristically thick. He let his hand linger on her shoulder for a moment, the warmth of her skin grounding him.
"I never left, Vlad," she replied softly, turning to look at him. "They just put me in a box and tried to make you love the lid."
The War Room: Final Preparations
An hour later, they gathered in the center of the suite. Vance had transformed the hotel's vanity desk into a high-tech command center. Holographic maps of the Chase Bank branch in downtown Atlanta hovered in the dim light.
* The Target: 4 levels beneath the Peachtree Street branch.
* The Security: A mix of standard bank guards (who have no idea what's beneath them) and "The Hollow" obsidian-class sentries protecting the lab.
* The Objective: Destroy the Alpha-1 (Vlad's clone) and purge the server before the 75% completion mark hits 100%.
"Henry is on standby with the jet at DeKalb-Peachtree Airport," Vance said, checking his wrist-comm. "But we've got a problem. My drones picked up an Agency signature in the lobby. Tom isn't just looking for us—he's already here. He must have tracked the 'Alpha-0' awakening signal even if he didn't have our GPS."
Vlad checked the slide on his energy pistol. "Then we don't have time for a stealthy approach. If Tom is here, he's coming to reclaim his 'property.'"