And like the others, the people who saw did not snitch.
Not one word.
Target by target, one by one… they all escaped.
The guards who had proudly surrounded the area minutes ago now stood awkwardly in the fading evening light, eyes down, uniforms dusty, hearts pounding, not from the chase, but from what they had to do next.
Report.
One of them reluctantly pressed the comm button. "Sir… please skip to—uh—I mean, the target escaped."
There was silence. Then another voice chimed in.
"Sir… he escaped too."
"Sir, she escaped—"
"Sir, the Baron also escaped—"
Each voice came with more dread, more guilt, more unwillingness, like messengers delivering doom scrolls to a very angry god.
Inside the sleek black car parked by the roadside, Assistant Michael sat completely still, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dashboard like it had personally offended him. He felt like Job in the Bible, bad news crashing in one after the other, no time to breathe.
Another buzz. "Sir… she escaped."
