Find out what comes next as the story continues in the following chapter.

I didn't head for the airport. I headed for the industrial shipyard on the outskirts of Seattle—a place where the smell of oil and brine was a familiar, comforting scent. I had a week of planning, a week of learning how the Syndicate operated, and a week of understanding the weaknesses in their logistical chains.

I knew they were following me. I could see the reflection of the black sedan in every window, every polished chrome surface. I played the part, looking over my shoulder, ducking into alleyways, and acting the role of the terrified, fleeing victim.

But I was leading them to the “ASSET ALLOCATION” storage facility—a place I’d found in the thumb drive files, a site that was supposed to be empty but was actually their most critical operational node in the Pacific Northwest.

If I could disable that node, if I could destroy their ability to move assets, they would be blind.

The facility was a massive, windowless concrete building surrounded by high-voltage fences and armed guards. I waited until dusk, watching the shift change, noting the timing of the patrols. They were arrogant. They thought I was alone, panicked, and desperate. They didn't realize I was the one holding the map.

I approached the facility from the roof of an adjacent warehouse, using a heavy-duty climbing harness I’d bought with the cash I’d stolen from Alex’s private "petty cash" drawer. I descended onto the roof, the sound of my landing masked by the roar of the harbor wind.

I found the HVAC intake—the building's lungs. I had a canister of concentrated acid I’d synthesized using the chemicals from the shipyard’s cleaning supplies. If I poured it into the intake, it would corrode the entire climate control system, triggering an automatic shutdown of the servers in the central archive.

It was a primitive solution, but it was effective.

As I started to pour, a spotlight hit the roof.

"Stop!" a guard shouted.

I didn't stop. I dumped the rest of the canister into the intake, watched the chemical begin to eat through the metal vents, and dived off the roof, landing on the fire escape of the neighboring building.

Bullets hit the metal railings, sparking and whining, but I was already gone, sliding down the rungs and vanishing into the shadows of the alleyway below.

The building began to groan. Smoke started pouring from the vents. The alarms didn't go off immediately—the Syndicate kept things quiet—but the internal systems were failing.

I sat in the dark alley, listening.

Minutes later, the lights in the facility went black. Then, one by one, the auxiliary generators kicked in, but they were stuttering, failing. The facility was shutting down.

I checked my phone. The signal from the Syndicate’s central node in Zurich was flicking, struggling to maintain a connection.

I had crippled their Northwest hub.

But I wasn't done.

I looked at the locket again—the picture of the first Maya. I realized I didn't just want revenge. I wanted a legacy. I wanted to ensure that no other "replacements" would ever be activated.

I started typing on my phone, sending the last of the thumb drive contents to every secure channel I’d established in the last week.

As I finished, a voice spoke from the shadows.

"You've been busy, haven't you?"

It was Rachel.

She stood at the mouth of the alley, wearing a sleek trench coat, her hair perfectly styled despite the chaos she’d just left behind. She didn't have a gun. She just had that cold, empty smile.

"I thought I'd find you here," she said. "You’re so predictable, Maya. You’re always trying to save someone."

"You killed her," I said, my voice steady as stone. "You killed the first Maya."

Rachel shrugged. "She was weak. She couldn't handle the pressure of the role. You, on the other hand... you were an experiment. And I must say, I’m impressed by the results."

"The experiment is over," I said, holding up the flare gun again.

Rachel laughed. "Do you really think you can win this?"

"I don't need to win," I said, firing the flare into the air, the signal for the police who I’d tipped off to the warehouse coordinates three hours ago. "I just need to stop the clock."