The sound of the key in the lock was a gunshot in the silent, sterile apartment. My blood, which had been a river of triumphant adrenaline, instantly turned to ice. Harold Finch was home. He was early. Or perhaps, this was another trap. A deliberate, calculated move by a man who suspected his fortress was no longer secure.
My gaze snapped to Kevin. In the space of a heartbeat, his entire demeanor had shifted. The focused tactician was gone, replaced by a still, silent predator. He didn't look panicked. He looked lethal. He put one finger to his lips in a universal sign for silence, then pointed with his other hand, a sharp, commanding gesture towards the darkest corner of the office, behind a large, potted plant. It was our only conceivable hiding spot.
The timer in the corner of my vision pulsed relentlessly. 00:31:04. Thirty-one minutes of invisibility left. An eternity, and no time at all.
We moved without a sound, our feet gliding over the polished hardwood floor. The Talisman of Obfuscation was a perfect cloak, but it didn't make us incorporeal. A clumsy step, a bumped table, would be enough to give us away. We pressed ourselves into the corner, shielded by the broad leaves of the ficus tree, our backs flat against the cool wall.
From the living room, we heard the heavy front door open, then close with a solid, definitive thud. Footsteps echoed on the floor—heavy, expensive dress shoes. Finch's footsteps.
"Duke? I'm home early, boy," Finch's voice called out. It was the same arrogant, self-assured voice from his corporate videos, but here in his own home, it held a different quality. It was the relaxed, unguarded tone of a king in his castle. When there was no answering bark from his dog, he grunted in annoyance. "Right. The walker. Useless."
I could feel Jessica's presence inside me, a vibrating, high-frequency wire of pure hatred. She was this close to her murderer, the man who had stolen her life and thrown it away like trash. It took every ounce of my will, every bit of the mental shielding Kevin had taught me, to keep her rage from boiling over and betraying our position. I was a cage, and the ghost of vengeance was rattling the bars.
Finch's footsteps grew closer. He was coming towards the office. My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate, muffled drumbeat. Kevin remained perfectly still beside me, a statue carved from shadow.
Harold Finch appeared in the doorway of the office. He was exactly as I remembered him from my brief, terrifying glimpse at Innovate Solutions—impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his hair perfectly coiffed. He was holding a glass of what looked like whiskey, the ice cubes clinking softly. He surveyed his domain, his office, with a proprietary air. His eyes swept the room, and for a heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to pass directly over the spot where we were hiding. It was a test of faith in the talisman's power. His eyes saw nothing. We were a void, a blank spot in reality.
He grunted, seemingly satisfied, and walked over to his desk. He sat down in his large, leather throne of a chair, placing his drink down on a coaster. He didn't even glance at his computer screen, which was still displaying the desktop we had just unlocked. His attention was elsewhere. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb swiping across the screen.
He was making a call.
"It's me," he said into the phone, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. "Any news?"
He listened for a moment, his expression darkening. My earpiece was silent; Kevin and I didn't dare risk even a whisper. We were prisoners in our own stealth mission.
"Nothing?" Finch growled. "What do you mean, you lost the signal? I'm paying you a small fortune for your… unique talents. Not for excuses. I gave you the target's name. Alex Carter. Some low-level data drone. He has to be the source of the leak."
My name. Hearing him say it, so casually, so dismissively, sent a fresh wave of terror through me. He knew. It wasn't a guess; he knew it was me.
"I don't care what it takes," Finch continued, his voice dripping with venom. "Find him. The sigil is on him, isn't it? Then reactivate it. Pinpoint his location. I want him found. I want him dealt with before this goes any further. I have a board meeting tomorrow, and I can't have any more of these… whispers."
He listened again, then sighed in frustration. "Fine. An hour. You have one more hour to reacquire the target. Then I want a result. Understood?"
He hung up, slamming the phone down on the desk. He took a long swallow of his whiskey, his knuckles white as he gripped the glass. He was on edge, the picture of a paranoid man feeling the walls close in. The whispers were working better than I could have ever imagined.
But his words confirmed our worst fears. The sorcerer was actively trying to find me, right now. Our hour of invisibility was a race against his own magical manhunt.
Finch swiveled in his chair, his back now to us, and finally looked at his computer screen. He frowned, noticing that it was on and logged in. A flicker of confusion crossed his features, but he seemed to dismiss it as his own carelessness, assuming he'd forgotten to lock it before he left that morning. He grabbed his mouse, his hand hovering over the screen.
This was it. Our window of opportunity was closing. Kevin gave me a subtle nudge. It was now or never.
I focused my will. Kevin's plan had been to plant the files from the USB drive. But that felt too slow, too complicated now. We needed something faster, something that couldn't be undone. We needed to use Finch's own machine to detonate the bomb.
I pulled out my own phone—the black, Eternity, Inc. device. I had one last, desperate idea. I opened my anonymous email account, the one I had used to send the initial warnings. I began to compose a new email.
To: sarah.jenkins@thescorpionsting.com Subject: The Nightingale's Song - The Proof is in the Cage
My fingers flew across the tiny keyboard. I attached the screenshots and the search history logs I had downloaded from Finch's Google Drive.
Sarah, You were right. He's dirty. Here is the undeniable proof. It comes directly from Harold Finch's own personal cloud storage. He tried to hide it under the codename 'Project Nightingale'. The evidence of the murder of Jessica Miller, in his own words and searches. The files are now also located on the desktop of his work computer at Innovate Solutions, in a folder named "JUSTICE." He can't run from it anymore. The time to strike is now. Before he silences anyone else. — A Friend.
I held my breath. I had one more step. I needed to send this email. But I also needed to plant the folder on his work machine, to create a second, inescapable location for the evidence. I looked at Kevin. I tapped my chest, then pointed at the computer. I needed his help. I needed a distraction.
Kevin understood instantly. He reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled out something that looked like a simple, smooth river stone. He gave me a nod.
As I took a deep breath and prepared to hit "send" on my phone, Kevin, with a flick of his wrist, tossed the river stone towards the far corner of the living room, out of Finch's line of sight.
The stone hit the wall with a soft, but distinct, thud.
Finch spun around in his chair, his eyes wide with alarm. "Who's there?" he barked, jumping to his feet.
That was our chance. While his attention was diverted, I hit "send". The email was away. At the same time, Kevin, moving with impossible speed, darted from our hiding spot to the desk. He plugged the USB drive into the computer, dragged the folder of evidence onto the desktop, and renamed it in bold, capital letters: JUSTICE. He yanked the drive out and was back in our hiding spot in less than three seconds.
Finch, hearing nothing more, slowly sat back down, chalking the noise up to the old building settling. But he was spooked. His arrogance was gone, replaced by the twitchy paranoia of a cornered animal. He stared at his computer screen. And then he saw it.
The new folder. The one that hadn't been there a second ago. The one titled JUSTICE.
His face went pale. He stared at the folder as if it were a venomous snake that had just materialized on his desk. His hand trembled as he reached for the mouse. He clicked. The folder opened, revealing the damning screenshots of his own crimes.
A choked, strangled gasp escaped his lips. He knew. He knew he was caught.
It was in that precise moment that the timer in my vision flashed a brilliant, terrifying red.
00:00:01
00:00:00
The feeling of being disconnected from the world snapped back with the force of a physical blow. The air rushed back into my lungs. I could feel the texture of my clothes, the cool wall at my back.
Our hour was up.
And we were standing in the darkest corner of the room, ten feet away from a murderer who had just realized his ghosts had come home to roost. And as his head slowly turned, his eyes wide with terror and rage, he saw us for the very first time.