The lights buzzed low overhead. One flickered like a dying heartbeat.
John Lockley sat chained to a steel table in a gray, windowless room. Blood trailed from his temple, dried stiff along the curve of his jaw. In front of him, his cracked FBI badge lay like a discarded identity, next to a folder marked CLASSIFIED—thick with secrets no one was supposed to know.
Across the table stood Assistant Director Howard Crane—shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled high, the veins in his temple pulsing with restrained fury.
"So," Crane growled, voice low but shaking with rage, "you wanna start talking about what the hell you messed up back there? Or should I just skip the pleasantries and tell you exactly what the f*** you did?"
He slammed both palms on the table. The echo slammed back twice as loud.
Lockley didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stared. Silent. His eyes—sharp, cold—cut through Crane like glass.
Crane leaned in. "Still playing the mute soldier, huh?"
A beat passed. Then another. Still nothing.
"You want me to talk? Fine," Crane spat. "Five top agents dead. One high-value asset missing. And you—you—pulled the trigger on the son of a Canadian politician at point blank range."
No reaction.
Crane's voice cracked as he stepped back. "You just tanked a multi-million-dollar operation that took us years to build. You compromised surveillance, blew our window wide open, and you sit there—calm as a corpse?"
He tore off his glasses, tossed them onto the table with a clatter, and dragged a hand across his face.
"I've known you for years, Lockley," he said, softer now. "You were the best of the best. The guy we called when everything went to hell. And now... this?"
John finally spoke—voice rough, steady.
"It was a cleanup job."
Crane froze. "What did you just say?"
Lockley looked up.
"The politician's son," he said. "Wasn't just some VIP brat caught in the crossfire. He was the courier. The head of the distribution ring. He had the drive."
"What drive?" Crane snapped.
"The one with names. Routes. Bank accounts. The whole damn supply chain. Everything we needed to bring that cartel to its knees."
Crane stepped forward. "Where is it?"
"Mailed it."
"To who?"
"A source I trust."
Crane's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me the Bureau's not trustable?"
"Not all of it," Lockley said flatly. "Just enough to burn it down from the inside. If that drive ends up in the wrong hands, Crane... there won't be a Bureau left."
The silence now was heavier than any words.
Crane exhaled slowly, pushing his chair back. He stood tall, voice returning to its cold edge. "You're done, Lockley. Effective immediately. You'll be lucky if you're not tried for treason."
Lockley leaned forward, eyes sharp as ever. "Try to keep me alive, Howard. Because if I go down, I take all of them with me. You think this op was deep? You haven't seen the bottom yet."
Crane stared at him for a long second. Then turned.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Lockley sat alone, blood drying, breath steady.
This wasn't the end.
It was just the beginning.