Jack's heart pounded as he stared at the AirPods in his hand, Taylor's voice still echoing in his mind, her "fun" claim a bitter taunt. The TV droned on, replaying footage of the FDCEA's Grills N' Grill bust, yellow tape and armored vans filling the screen. His thoughts were a tangled mess—HERGA's gala, the Play Me DVD, the Gucci duffle bag stuffed with gadgets, and the weight of the envelope in his pocket. He was about to slip the second AirPod in when a sharp, insistent knock rattled his door, cutting through the apartment's stale air.
"Who's it now?" Jack muttered, exhaustion thick in his voice. He shuffled to the door, peering through the peephole. A man in a dark jacket stood there, his face shadowed by a cap pulled low. Jack's gut twisted—something felt wrong, like a trap snapping shut. "Open the door, Mr. Carlow. It's urgent," the man said, his voice low, clipped, as if avoiding eavesdroppers.
Jack's hand hovered over the lock, his pulse quickening. "Who are you?"
"Blue Steel Hotel. We spoke earlier. It's about the car."
Jack's stomach dropped. The red Jaguar F-Type convertible he'd frantically arranged to deliver to 103 Barabel Avenue. He yanked the door open, and the man stepped inside without invitation, his boots scuffing the worn floor. Up close, Jack saw sweat beading on his forehead, a nervous twitch in his jaw, his eyes darting like he expected trouble. "What happened?" Jack asked, his voice barely above a whisper, dread pooling in his chest.
The man avoided his gaze. "There was an explosion. Your car—it's gone. Blew up right after the valet dropped it off at the address. The driver… didn't make it."
Jack's knees buckled, and he gripped the couch's frayed edge to steady himself. "What… an explosion? How?" His mind raced—the car, Taylor's precise instructions, the ticking deadline. Had H.U.N planned this? Was it a setup?
The man shook his head, his voice tense. "Happened fast. Valet pulls up, parks, and boom. Cops are swarming the scene now, asking questions. A lot of questions. And they're looking for you, Carlow."
Jack's mouth went dry, his thoughts spiraling. "Me? Why me?" The FDCEA raid, the 16,000 kilos of synthetic opioids—now this? He was a nobody, not a player in this kind of game.
"You were the last one with the car," the man said, his eyes narrowing. "You called, all panicked, demanding it be delivered exactly at 8 a.m. to that address. Cops think it's suspicious. Like you knew something was coming."
"I didn't know!" Jack snapped, his voice cracking, his hands trembling. "I was just following—" He stopped, biting his tongue. He couldn't mention Taylor or H.U.N, not to this stranger, not to anyone. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in.
The man raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Following what? I'm just the messenger, but the cops are on their way. You've got ten minutes, maybe less, before they're here. They'll want answers—about the car, the address, and who might want you dead."
"Dead?" Jack's voice was a hoarse whisper, his heart hammering. "You think someone's trying to kill me?"
The man shrugged, already backing toward the door. "Cops found traces of military-grade explosives in the wreckage. Not some prank—professional stuff. Someone meant business. Got enemies, Carlow?"
Jack's mind flashed to Abdel Saheed, his old schoolmate turned tormentor, the smug bastard who'd dumped sugar on him, laughing with his crew. Could Abdel have access to military explosives? Unlikely. Then who? H.U.N, testing his loyalty? Or HERGA, already onto him before the gala? "I… don't know," he stammered, his thoughts a chaotic blur.
"Figure it out fast," the man said, slipping out. "Good luck." The door clicked shut, leaving Jack alone with the weight of his words.
Jack sank onto the couch, hands shaking, the TV now showing a smoldering crater where the Jaguar had been, police tape cordoning off Barabel Avenue. The reporter's voice cut through: "Authorities suspect a targeted attack. The vehicle was linked to a local resident, but no official statement has been released." Jack's phone buzzed, nearly slipping from his grip. A text from an unknown number: Stay calm. Don't tell them anything. Watch the DVD. – T.
Taylor. Always watching, always one step ahead. But what the hell was she dragging him into? He scrambled to the duffle bag, pulling out the Play Me DVD, his hands fumbling as he shoved it into the laptop. The screen flickered, a grainy video loading—a man in a suit, face blurred, voice distorted but commanding. "Jack Carlow, if you're watching, you've passed the first test. The drug bust was your initiation. HERGA isn't just a company—it's a machine. OxHealth Labs, their crown jewel, cooks more than vaccines—synthetic opioids, fueling the epidemic you helped expose. You're going to help us dismantle it. The gala is your entry point. Study the materials. Trust Taylor. Don't trust anyone else."
The video cut to a montage—Dr. Perscal Churchill, silver-haired, shaking hands at a gala; his son, Arnest, with a predatory smirk; a woman with cold eyes and a scarred cheek—Lydia Voss, HERGA's security chief. Names and bios flashed, matching the magazine's marked pages. Jack's head spun. These were untouchable players, their empire woven into drugs, politics, power. The FDCEA's raid, with its DEA-style precision—wiretaps, informants, tactical sweeps—had hit their pipeline, thanks to his tip. But H.U.N knew too much, their surveillance rivaling the feds'. Was he their pawn or their weapon?
A loud knock jolted him. "Jack Carlow! Police! Open up!" The voice was sharp, authoritative, no room for negotiation.
Jack's heart leapt into his throat. He slammed the laptop shut, shoving it under the couch, the DVD ejecting with a whir. He stuffed it into his pocket, his hands shaking. Another knock, louder, rattling the door. "We know you're in there! Open it, or we're coming in!"
His eyes darted to the window, the fire escape just outside, its rusted ladder a tempting escape. But running would scream guilt, and staying might mean arrest—or worse. Taylor's text burned in his mind: Don't tell them anything. What could he say? He barely understood the game himself. Taking a shaky breath, he opened the door. Two officers stood there—one tall and wiry, clutching a notepad, the other broad-shouldered, glaring like Jack was already cuffed. Behind them, Mrs. Beller Ourha lurked, arms crossed, her smug grin a knife in his gut.
"Jack Carlow?" the wiry officer asked, his tone all business.
"Yeah," Jack said, his voice steadier than he felt, though his palms were slick with sweat.
"You're coming with us," the broad-shouldered one said, stepping forward. "Questions about an explosion on Barabel Avenue. Your car. Your call to the hotel. Start talking."
Jack's mind raced, Taylor's instructions clashing with the cops' accusations. "I don't know anything about an explosion. I asked the hotel to deliver the car. That's it."
The wiry officer scribbled, his eyes narrowing. "You sounded desperate on that call. Why the rush? Why that exact address at 8 a.m.?"
Jack's mouth went dry, his earlier panic at 7:15 a.m. flooding back. "I was in a hurry," he lied, his voice thin. "Needed it moved. That's all."
The broad-shouldered officer stepped closer, his glare piercing. "A hurry? Your car blows up the second it gets there. Military-grade explosives, Carlow. You got enemies? Someone sending you a message?"
Jack's thoughts flicked to Abdel—his sneers, his cruelty—but Abdel wasn't this big. HERGA, though? They could pull this off. Was this their warning before the gala? "I don't have enemies," he said, his voice barely holding. "I'm nobody."
Beller snorted from the hallway. "Nobody? That's the truth! Gumma Street's top loser!"
"Enough!" the wiry officer barked at her, his patience thin. He turned to Jack. "You're coming to the station. We've got a lot to discuss."
As they escorted him out, Jack's eyes caught the Gucci bag on the couch—magazine, AirPods, laptop, all tied to H.U.N. If the cops searched his place, they'd find it, and then what? He needed to get back, to figure out Taylor's next move, but he was trapped. At the station, they sat him in a sterile interrogation room, fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of insects. The wiry officer, Detective Kline, sat across from him, notepad open, while the broad-shouldered one, Officer Brant, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his presence looming.
"Let's try again," Kline said, his voice calm but sharp. "Why that address? Why the rush? Your car blows up with military-grade explosives—not an accident. Who're you working with?"
Jack's palms sweated, his mind screaming. "I told you, I don't know. I needed the car moved. I didn't know it'd explode." His voice shook, the driver's death—a family, two kids—cutting deep. He hadn't meant for anyone to get hurt.
Brant scoffed, slamming a fist on the table. "You expect us to believe that? You're sweating like a guilty man. Give us a name, Carlow. Who set this up?"
Jack's mind screamed Abdel, then HERGA, but he clamped his mouth shut. Snitching without proof would dig him deeper, and if HERGA was involved, it could be a death sentence. "I don't have a name," he said, his voice barely audible. "I swear."
Kline leaned forward, his eyes boring into Jack's. "The driver had a family. Two kids. Your call, your car, your timing—it all points to you. You're in deep unless you talk."
Jack's stomach churned, guilt mixing with fear. Taylor's voice echoed: Be proud! Proud? This was a nightmare, not a game. "I didn't want anyone to die," he said, his voice breaking. "I didn't know."
Before Brant could press further, the door swung open. A woman in a sharp suit strode in, heels clicking on the linoleum, her dark hair pulled back tightly, her presence commanding. "That's enough," she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "I'm Mr. Carlow's attorney. You're done questioning him."
Jack blinked, stunned. Attorney? He had no attorney. But her eyes locked onto his, a silent command to play along. Kline frowned. "And you are?"
"Lydia Voss," she said smoothly, handing him a card. "I represent Mr. Carlow's interests. You have no evidence to hold him. The car was stolen, reported to the hotel. That's all you need to know."
Jack's blood ran cold. Lydia Voss—HERGA's security chief, the scarred woman from the DVD. What was she doing here? Saving him, or setting him up? Kline hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. Don't leave town, Carlow. We're not done."
Lydia led him out, her grip firm on his arm. "Why are you helping me?" Jack whispered, his voice trembling as they stepped into the night.
"Not here," she hissed, her eyes scanning the street. A black SUV waited, its tinted windows ominous. She gestured for him to get in, and against his better judgment, he did, the door slamming shut like a cage. The driver—a hulking man with a scar across his neck—pulled away, the engine's hum a low growl.
"Where are we going?" Jack asked, his voice shaky, the city's neon lights blurring past.
Lydia's eyes were cold as steel. "To the gala, Carlow. You're expected. But first, we talk about H.U.N." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "HERGA's a web—every deal, lab, politician in this region, we control. OxHealth isn't just vaccines; it's the opioid pipeline you helped the FDCEA hit. H.U.N thinks they can pull our strings, but they're playing with fire. You're their pawn, but you're on our board now. At the gala, you deliver that envelope to Perscal Churchill, mingle, and keep your mouth shut about H.U.N. One slip, and you're ash, like that car."
Jack's mind reeled—the explosion, the driver's death, HERGA's reach. "Why not kill me now?" he asked, voice raw.
"You're useful," Lydia said, her scar glinting. "H.U.N's poking into our operations, and you're their toy. We want to know why. You'll report to Taylor—and to me. Double agent, Carlow. Fail, and Abdel's taunts will be the least of your worries."
The SUV slowed, pulling into a private garage beneath a glass tower, HERGA's coiled serpent logo gleaming above. The driver opened the door, and Lydia tossed Jack the magazine. "Study it. Learn the faces, their secrets. You'll need them to survive tonight."
Jack's AirPod crackled. Taylor's voice whispered, "Don't trust her, Jack. Play along, stick to the plan." The elevator doors slid shut, trapping him in HERGA's world, a pawn between two predators—H.U.N and HERGA—with the FDCEA closing in. The gala loomed, not a party but a battlefield, and Jack was out of moves.