The message bled into the tarmac, rain diluting the red but not the meaning.
Zurich is a lie.
Reykjavik is the truth.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Then I turned to Rhea.
“Back to the jet,” I said.
She didn’t argue.
She just followed.
The cockpit was cold.
I started the engine.
The jet roared to life.
Rhea slid into the co-pilot seat.
“Where are we going?”
“Reykjavik,” I said.
“That’s where they want us to think Lin is.
And that’s where the real master key is.”
She didn’t argue.
She just nodded.
I taxied to the runway.
Took off.
Into the storm.
Into the dark.
Into the unknown.
Mid-flight, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Mercer,” a voice said.
Smooth.
Familiar.
Ferryman.
“You’re alive,” I said.
“Barely,” he said.
“AVG just put a price on my head.”
“Why call?”
“Because I have something you want,” he said.
“The real kill-switch.”
I froze.
“What?”
“A code,” he said.
“To lock the network.
But it requires a carrier.”
I looked at Rhea.
She was asleep.
Head against the window.
Eyes closed.
“What code?” I asked.
“Seven digits,” he said.
“Entered into the master terminal.
In Seattle.”
“Where?”
“Elliott Bay,” he said.
“Alpha.”
I didn’t speak for a long time.
Then: “Why help us?”
“Because I’m not overhead,” he said.
“And because I want to live.”
I cut the call.
Silence.
I looked at Rhea.
Still asleep.
I opened the Ledger.
Fresh page.
Wrote: “Kill-switch code = 7 digits.
Terminal = Alpha.
Carrier = required.”
Capped the pen.
Then I turned back to the controls.
And flew.
Into the storm.
Into the dark.
Into the end.
Reykjavik appeared through the clouds.
Lights.
Buildings.
A harbor.
I descended.
Two blips.
Closing fast.
“Fighters,” I said.
“Flank speed.”
I banked left.
The jet groaned.
The blips followed.
“Kael,” Rhea said.
“They’re locking on.”
I checked the instruments.
Missile lock.
Two.
“Flares,” I said.
“Now.”
I hit the switch.
Flares erupted from the wings.
Heat.
Light.
The missiles veered.
Exploded harmlessly in the distance.
“Again,” Rhea said.
I nodded.
The radar pinged.
Four blips this time.
“They’re serious,” she whispered.
I didn’t answer.
I just flew.
Lower.
Faster.
Into the clouds.
The blips followed.
Then the voice returned.
“Asset Mercer.
You have ten seconds to comply.”
I didn’t speak.
I just flew.
Into the storm.
Into the dark.
Into the unknown.
I touched down.
Smooth.
Quiet.
The jet rolled to a stop.
I killed the engine.
Silence.
Then the door opened.
Cold air rushed in
Rain.
Snow.
Blood.
We stepped out.
The harbor was dead.
Ships burned.
Bodies littered the docks.
The infected wandered, aimless, hungry.
Rhea gripped my arm.
“This is where it started.”
I nodded.
“And where it ends.”
We moved.
Fast.
Low.
Using the rain as cover.
Toward the hub.
Toward the truth
Toward the end.
The hub was a fortress.
Concrete.
Steel.
Cameras.
Gate 7 was hidden behind a warehouse.
I placed my palm on the scanner.
It didn’t recognize me.
Rhea stepped forward.
Placed her hand.
Green light.
We walked in.
Inside: cold air.
White walls.
A single corridor leading to a lab.
We moved fast.
Lab was empty.
Equipment hummed.
Freezers lined the walls.
I opened one.
Vials.
Hundreds.
Labeled: VECTOR-51 through VECTOR-100.
I opened another.
Carrier samples.
One label made me pause
CARRIER-002: LIN, MEI.
I snapped a photo.
Rhea was at a terminal.
Downloading files.
“Harlan’s backups,” she said.
“Phase Two isn’t just drones.
It’s water supply.
Air filtration.
Public transit.”
“Timer?”
“Sixty-eight hours,” she said.
“Same as the kill-switch.”
I closed the freezer.
“Where’s the master key?”
She hesitated.
“Not here.”
“Where?”
“Zurich,” she said.
“But there’s a problem.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The key isn’t a drive,” she said.
“It’s a person.”
I froze.
“Who?”
She met my eyes.
“Me.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Wet.
I didn’t speak.
I just stared.
At her.
At the terminal.
At the timer.
Sixty-eight hours.
Fifty-nine minutes.
Twelve seconds.
Until cascade.
I closed the Ledger.
“Then we go to Zurich,” I said.
She didn’t argue.
She just nodded.
And we ran.
Out the door.
Into the rain.
Into the dark.
Into the next chapter.
Cliffhanger: As we reached the van, headlights swept the lot.
Three SUVs.
Tacticals.
Rifles raised.
A voice boomed: “Asset Mercer.
Surrender the carrier.
Or we activate the kill-switch early.”
I looked at Rhea.
She looked at me.
And I made my choice.
I raised the pistol.
And fired.