Location: FSB HQ, Lubyanka Building, Moscow, Russia
The cold corridors of the Lubyanka echoed with Agent Natasha's hurried footsteps. Her pulse raced as she neared the imposing wooden door, tension rippling across her face. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then knocked sharply before entering.
Colonel Viktor Petrov sat behind his desk, bathed in the dim glow of his desk lamp, his expression as cold as the Siberian winters.
"Sir, Jack Mayors has resurfaced," Natasha reported, her voice tight. "Our contacts have confirmed—he's in Hong Kong."
Petrov's eyes gleamed with a predatory glint. "Hong Kong…" he muttered, the word hanging in the air like a death sentence. "Send everyone. I want every available operative on this. Get Dimitri to lead. I need Mayors alive."
Natasha nodded, her heart pounding as she turned to carry out the order. She could feel the weight of the mission—this wasn't just about apprehending a fugitive. It was about hunting a legend. A ghost.
Location: MI6 HQ, Vauxhall Cross, London
Analyst Emily could barely contain her excitement as she stormed into J's office, clutching a fresh report. "We've just received a tip-off from Melvis. Jack's in Hong Kong."
J looked up, his expression unreadable. "Hong Kong, of all places," he mused, tapping his desk lightly. "Find Charles. Pull in our top field agents—anyone who can handle Mayors. We don't wait for an opportunity… we create one. When the time comes, engage without hesitation."
Emily nodded, her fingers already dialing. She knew what this meant—there would be no room for error. The hunt had begun.
Location: Interpol HQ, Lyon, France
The sterile walls of Interpol's command center buzzed with sudden activity as the call came in. The director, usually unflappable, felt a shiver of unease crawl down his spine.
"We've received confirmation from an anonymous source," he said slowly, eyes scanning the gathered elite. "Jack Mayors is alive. He's in Hong Kong."
The room tensed. The most dangerous man in the world was back on the grid.
"Alert every nearby jurisdiction. I want eyes on him from every corner of that city. Assemble our best—we cannot afford any mistakes. I want Mayors alive."
A grim silence followed as his top agents exchanged wary glances. They were hunting a man who had evaded capture for years, a man whose legend grew darker with each mission. This wouldn't be a simple capture. No, this was going to be war.
Location: CIA HQ, Langley, Virginia
The tension in the briefing room was palpable as Jane spoke, her voice steady but urgent. "Sir, our assets are deployed throughout Hong Kong. They're combing through every street, but Mayors is a ghost—no concrete leads yet."
The head of the CIA's covert operations division, a grizzled veteran with a sharp gaze, clenched his jaw. "No more excuses. I don't care what it takes—find him, and when you do…" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "...eliminate him."
Jane nodded, turning on her heel. She knew the directive was final. There were no second chances with Jack Mayors. He had slipped through their fingers once, and now, blood was the only currency that could settle the score.
Location: Mong Kok District, Kowloon, Hong Kong
The streets pulsed with life—laughter, neon lights, the chatter of a thousand voices. But beneath the noise and color, a storm was coming. No one saw it. Not the crowds. Not even Jack and Tyler.
According to Suzanne's intel, this was the last confirmed location of Bradley—three days ago. His signal had pinged once, tied to a cryptic communication routed through Guantanamo Bay. Since then… nothing.
After walking nearly two miles through the labyrinthine alleys of Mong Kok, Jack stopped. His eyes locked onto a building nestled between two shuttered storefronts. Old. Forgotten. Its walls stained by years of rain and neglect, the street outside reeked of sewage and spilled beer. Something felt off. He could smell it—like the calm before a war.
They climbed the narrow staircase, each step creaking under their weight. At the top, Jack knocked. Once. Twice.
The door creaked open.
A man stood there—solid build, sharp eyes. A pistol hung low in his right hand, relaxed but ready. His face was tired… but not afraid. The room was dirty with laptops and computers…notes about Mayors and Tyler and bottle of whiskey sat on the table.
"Mr. Mayors," he exhaled, as if letting go of years he never wanted to carry. "I knew it would be you. Always knew someone would dig deep enough to uncover what we buried… in the gray." He paused, almost smiling. "Bravo, Jack Mayors. Bravo."
Jack didn't flinch. "Talk. From the beginning."
The man laughed—a bitter sound. "The beginning?" His gaze darkened. "There is no beginning. Only the end. An end written by him. I see it now—I was never a player. Just a piece."
He raised his eyes, haunted.
"He began his war long ago. A man without remorse. And when the world turned its back on him… he waited. Waited for his moment to punish it back."
"All the CIA agents… were just pawns in his game." The man—Marcus—took a long swig from a half-empty bottle, the weight of his past etched deep into his voice. "We had a secret syndicate. The Echelon. Not just trained killers—no. These people were sculpted to infiltrate governments, mimic agencies, become one with the very systems they were meant to collapse."
He leaned against the cracked wall, the bottle trembling slightly in his hand.
"I started noticing a gap—a large one. Funds traced from the U.S. Treasury flowing silently into Swiss accounts. The numbers didn't add up. The math was off... and that's when I made my mistake."
He pulled up his shirt slowly, revealing a brutal gash across his torso—deep, jagged, a scar that hadn't healed right.
"He did this. Cyrus. When I got too close, he made sure I'd remember who was in control. Every operation you've ever heard of—the Sierra Program, the Echo Initiative, even the Black Vault files—they were all orchestrated by him. Each one part of a blueprint. A design to shape the world in his image. From the ashes of Kazakhstan… to today… he's been writing our fate."
Jack clenched his jaw. "Then tell me how to stop him."
Marcus looked at him—quiet, defeated. "Stop him?" he scoffed. "There is no stopping him... There is no stopping it."
Tyler stepped forward. "What do you mean by it?"
Marcus's eyes widened slightly. His voice dropped. "The Strike. It was—"
A sharp crack shattered the silence.
Blood sprayed across the wall as Marcus's body jerked back, a clean sniper shot tearing through his neck. He dropped to the floor, the bottle rolling away, spinning in silence.
A voice crackled through a hidden comms line, cold and clinical:
"Bradley is down. Moving to Mayors."
Jack's eyes went wide. Only one man could've ordered that. Only one man who always stayed one step ahead.
"Cyrus found us," he whispered.
But there was something else—something worse.
He looked at Tyler. "There's only one way they could've tracked us here…"
Tyler nodded grimly. "We've been compromised."
Location: Mong Kok District, Kowloon, Hong Kong
Time: 11:30 AM HKT
The humidity pressed down like a second skin. Mong Kok was alive with chaos long before the first shot rang out—sizzling street food, clashing horns, and the constant shuffle of a million footsteps. Life moved fast here. But it was about to collide with something darker.
A black Dodge Charger idled beside a worn-down hardware store. Its body, cloaked in layers of grime and old rain, reflected the neon flicker from a betting shop nearby. No one paid attention—just another car in the city's bloodstream.
Inside: silence.
Jack Mayors leaned forward, arms on the steering wheel, every breath calm, every second measured. His eyes flicked between alleyways, rooftops, shadows.
Beside him, Tyler Reyes adjusted the drone-jammer frequency, fingers slick with sweat. The weapon panel between them glowed dull red.
"We don't make it out of this…" Tyler said, voice low. "I want a real funeral. Guns. Whiskey. Some poetry. And someone who gives a damn."
Jack didn't respond immediately. He was watching something—someone—in the reflection of the wing mirror.
"We're not dying today," he said. And then he shifted the gear.
11:31 AM
The sniper's shot came like thunder. A .50 cal slug sliced past the hood, shattering a glass sign across the street.
Chaos ignited.
The Charger roared forward, tires shrieking as the car vaulted into motion. Pedestrians screamed and scattered. Street vendors dove behind carts. A child cried.
Overhead, a CIA drone painted the vehicle in infrared.
A controller in Langley confirmed:
"Target acquired. All available assets—initiate Phase Two. Engage at will."
What followed was a symphony of destruction.
11:32 AM — The Response
FSB Operatives—black sedans, silent comms—moved in with surgical aggression. Dimitri Orlov, the lead, gave no verbal orders. He didn't need to. His team knew the drill.
In seconds, they were tailing Jack's Charger, rifles drawn from half-lowered windows, firing bursts meant to disable, not kill—Petrov wanted him alive.
Meanwhile, Interpol Tactical Command began locking down perimeter streets. Their goal: contain, not engage.
At the same time, MI6 launched a coordinated aerial sweep. Two Eurocopters buzzed low, nearly scraping antennas, loaded with infrared sensors and snipers with open ROE.
Hong Kong Police Force initiated full lockdown protocol. Barricades dropped. Traffic lights froze. SWAT units mobilized with riot shields and tear gas guns. Loudspeakers blared in Cantonese and English:
"Emergency alert. Evacuate the area. This is a security incident."
Civilians panicked. Screams. Crashes. A woman tripped, her grocery bag splitting—apples rolled across the sidewalk like dice from fate.
Then the true danger arrived.
Cyrus' elite executioners—on matte-black bikes, dressed in reinforced carbon-weave suits. No insignia. No mercy. They were trained for urban kill zones. Their presence wasn't protocol. It was war.
11:33 AM — The First Collision
A stall of oranges exploded as the Charger slammed through it. Tyler yelled—
"Left! Left!"
Jack turned sharply, rear fishtailing through steam rising from a noodle shop vent. A grenade bounced once on the street behind them. Russian-made. Pinless.
The explosion lifted the rear of the Charger momentarily—but Jack kept it straight.
A Ghost Blade biker accelerated, almost alongside. Tyler didn't hesitate—he leaned out the window and fired twice. The biker's helmet shattered like glass; the body cartwheeled into a food stall.
They didn't look back.
11:35 AM — Queen Elizabeth Hospital District
A CIA sniper on an apartment rooftop dialed in.
"Mayors. Window. Confirmed."
He fired.
The bullet never reached its mark. Jack instinctively jerked the wheel, the round burying itself in a passing sedan's hood. Civilians ducked. A mother shielded her son. Panic became primal.
And then—a mistake.
A Hong Kong police van, unaware of the CIA presence, slammed into an MI6 armored SUV. The collision triggered an explosion. The shockwave shattered windows three blocks wide. Fire engulfed the street.
Smoke rose like a black banner of war.
11:37 AM — Crossroad of Hell
Canton Road. The convergence point.
Jack skidded around the corner, smoke rising from the tires. He saw it immediately—a trap. Interpol vehicles blocked the north. FSB closed the south. MI6 held the flanks. And above, CIA drones buzzed like hornets.
There was no way out.
Cyrus's assassins formed a crescent—blades, firearms, explosives.
Dimitri Orlov radioed:
"Don't kill him. Corner. Pressure."
But the CIA had no patience.
"Target in range. Engage."
Suddenly—a biker leapt from his ride. Red visor. Blade drawn.
He landed directly on the Charger's hood and rammed the blade through the glass—aiming for Jack's throat.
Tyler pulled the trigger once.
The assassin's head snapped back. He slid off the hood and under a riot van. Red streaked the concrete.
11:39 AM — The Mall Gambit
Jack swerved hard—right into the Harbour City Mall.
The glass façade shattered as the Charger crashed through. Shoppers screamed. Bodies dove. Security scrambled, weapons drawn but unprepared for this.
Jack drove through perfume shelves, makeup counters. A chandelier shattered on the roof of the car.
"Hold tight," he muttered.
The Charger jumped off a fountain base and crashed through a second-story window—landing atop a delivery truck in the alley below.
Suspension snapped. The Charger dropped to the ground and kept moving—barely.
Behind them: chaos.
Interpol teams entered the mall.
MI6 choppers fired suppression rounds.
FSB operatives stormed through the main concourse.
CIA drones launched a surgical strike, blowing out the left wing.
One chopper clipped a comms antenna and crashed into a restaurant—dozens injured. Sirens wailed. And through it all—the Ghost Blades hunted, surgical and silent, but always one step behind.
11:41 AM — The Escape
The Charger, now battered and sparking, tore through the last barricade on the waterfront and dove into a maintenance tunnel beneath the old docks.
This wasn't on any GPS.
It was a World War II-era passage, dark and forgotten.
They emerged moments later in a dim service lane behind a cargo yard.
Smoke rose from the engine. Blood ran down Tyler's arm, soaking his sleeve.
"We made it," he said, breathless, half in disbelief.
Jack didn't speak. His hands were still locked on the wheel. His eyes—focused.
Meanwhile, in an undisclosed location.
Cyrus stood before a giant, multi-screen display. Dozens of feeds flickered—explosions, satellite views, panic in the streets.
Behind him: Advisors. Silent. Pale.
Cyrus didn't move.
The screen zoomed in on the Charger disappearing into the docks.
He whispered:
"And still… he runs."
His hand tightened into a fist.
And somewhere far away, a new target directive was already being written.
"How is it so damn hard to kill one man?!" he roared, his voice thunderous. In a fit of fury, he hurled the table across the room—monitors, hard drives, and shattered glass exploded against the floor in a crash of chaos.
The room fell into a thick, fearful silence. No one dared to move. No one dared to breathe.
His voice echoed through the steel walls, raw with rage.
"I want him found. I want him dead. Nothing—nothing—stands in my way!"
He stormed across the room like a predator, then seized an agent by the collar, yanking him close, nose to nose.
"Find Six within thirty-six hours… or I swear, you'll be the next body they drag from a ditch."
The agent barely managed a nod, trembling under the weight of the man's fury.
He turned away, eyes cold, calculating. "Before that," he muttered darkly, "I need to meet someone."
Without another word, he stormed out, barking a single command into his comm:
"Get the chopper ready."
Moments later, the helicopter's rotors sliced through the night sky, and he disappeared into the darkness—his mind burning with vengeance.
Somewhere out there, Jack Mayors was breathing.
But not for long.