Greg woke up to his phone ringing. The sound was not ordinary—it was the ringtone reserved for high-level calls, direct government contacts—a sound that always sent a chill down his spine. The device vibrated on the nightstand, insistently, while the blue glow of the screen blinked in the darkness of the room.
Greg rubbed his eyes and, upon seeing the name on the screen, felt his body stiffen.What the hell does he want with me? — he thought, already anticipating trouble.
— Sir... — he answered, his voice still hoarse.
"... I'm sorry if I'm interrupting you..."
— Go ahead, sir.
"... Thank you for being so cooperative and accepting the mission, even on such short notice..."
Greg took a deep breath, controlling his tone.
— At first glance, what you've requested is reasonably simple, Mr. Vice President.
"... Do the best you can. I know the security of our country is in your hands..."
— Is the case that serious, sir?
"... Unfortunately, I can't discuss it over the phone..."
— Of course... I understand.
Before he could say anything else, the room's doorbell rang. The sharp sound echoed through the silent hotel room.
Greg stood up, still holding the phone to his ear, and opened the door. It was Junnie Far, elegant, dressed in a navy-blue suit, holding a brown envelope.
— Everything you asked for, Greg... Sorry, I didn't know you were on the phone.
He made a quick gesture asking for silence, but when he looked back at the screen, the call had already ended. The Vice President had disappeared—as he always did.
This was not the first time American detective Gregory Evans had set foot on English soil, but this time, something was different. He had received a Level S mission—the highest classification—directly from the office of Vice President Adameck Faradday. Clear instructions: report only to him, under absolute secrecy. No records, no parallel communication. The kind of assignment that could guarantee a promotion—or his own funeral.
In London, he was to watch over Saul Nolland, an investigative journalist with an ambiguous reputation. His orders were to protect him at all costs, even if it meant putting his own body between him and a bullet. The Vice President had promised a multimillion-dollar compensation to his family should anything happen, but Greg had no intention of dying. In over forty years of service, he had never failed.
He missed home—the smell of coffee his wife brewed at dawn, the quiet conversations at sunset. They had recently celebrated their anniversary, and the distance now weighed heavily on him. To see her again, he could not fail.
An hour later, the phone rang again.
"... Have you read the new report?..."
— Yes, sir.
"... There is no one in the world more qualified than you at this moment, Greg..."
— I appreciate your trust, sir.
"... Saul's neck is worth a fortune..." — Faradday murmured, almost as a warning.
— I can imagine.
"... But what's at stake, Greg, is something unimaginable—even for someone of your competence..."
Greg noticed the provocative tone. For a moment, he thought the Vice President was testing him—perhaps even underestimating him. However, he knew the man he was dealing with: cold, calculating, and ruthless. Being underestimated by someone like that was, in fact, a way of being observed.
— I've already requested some measures from Scotland Yard, sir. As soon as there's something concrete, I'll inform you immediately.
"... Excellent. I trust your judgment..."
And, as usual, Faradday hung up without saying goodbye.
Gregory Evans intended to track every movement of the journalist, and he would do so with surgical precision. With Junnie Far's help, he installed a GPS tracker in Saul's Tesla and microphones at strategic points in the mansion. He would also intercept calls from both the landline and the cellphone. Everything within national security protocols—although Greg himself knew that, technically, he was crossing ethical lines.
To avoid suspicion, he rented a discreet house across the street. From the second-floor window, he could see the entrance to Saul's residence. Any attempt at intrusion, and he would be there in seconds.
— If you need anything else, just let me know — said Junnie, handing him the last device.
— For now, I believe that's everything.
— I'll be nearby.
— I'm counting on it.
But Greg was already nurturing an old suspicion. Faradday's report mentioned a solitary man, last seen at the restaurant, watching the priest and the journalist. A mysterious figure who had also been linked to a gruesome case at Scotland Yard—the killer who had torn out a woman's tongue.
Must be the same bastard... — Greg thought, his jaw clenched.
The next day, he would be at Temple Church, where Raphaniè had arranged to meet Saul. If the enigmatic observer appeared, Greg would be there to intercept him. That was his mission:
To always stay one step ahead of his enemies...
It was nearly noon when the phone vibrated again. The presidential office number flashed on the screen. Greg answered without hesitation.
— He's going to take communion at the end of the day — he reported.
"... The sanctuary is at risk. It may be desecrated..." — Faradday's voice sounded grave.
— Should I be concerned about that as well?
"... Yes. He must also be preserved..."
— So I should double the surveillance?
"... Understand it this way, Greg: the sanctuary and the journalist are two sides of the same coin. If one dies, the other becomes useless..."
— In other words, I must protect the sanctuary with the same level of commitment.
"... With your own life..."
Greg hesitated.
— Wouldn't it be better to send reinforcements, sir?
"... You are the reinforcement, Greg... I trust only you for this job." — Faradday replied slowly.
The tone carried a veiled threat—the kind that left no room for doubt.
— Don't worry, sir.
"... I know..."
Silence followed, then a dry click. The call ended.
— DOES HE THINK I can split myself in two? — Greg muttered, looking at the equipment spread across the table. Logistics had become a nightmare. He would need to duplicate the surveillance system, install additional cameras, and still ensure full mobility.
The solution would be to improvise: he would use a tablet synchronized with the transmitters to monitor both—the journalist and the priest. The most urgent information would flash in real time, allowing him to follow his instincts and prioritize the target in greatest danger.
With quick, disciplined movements, he separated each device, adjusted frequencies, tested microphones. He packed everything into a tactical backpack and, before leaving, looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection showed an aging man—but still relentless.
Four decades of work, and I'm still racing against the clock... — he murmured.
He headed toward Temple Church, his black coat billowing in the damp London wind. On the way, he hoped to find some fast food open—and that the priest, with his habit of praying for hours, would stay away from his quarters long enough for Greg to act without interference.