Where the Styx Runs Cold, Ch 10: The Rogue Asset Protocol Pt. 2

In the world of black operations, there were hunters and there were targets; for the first time in his career, Arthur Hawke was forced to be both at once.

Every action in Geneva was a performance for Cromwell. The twelve-hour reports he filed on his ruggedized datapad were tactical fiction, built from SHEPARD's prized, emotionless jargon.

"1800 ZULU: Asset Jenkins confirmed public transit use. Exploited surveillance blind spot. High operational awareness."

"0600 ZULU: Triangulated shelter in Eaux-Vives from discarded wrapper. Minimal trace. Preparing observation."

To any analyst, Styx Squad was a loyal, relentless hunter-killer team closing the net on a high-value target.

But privately, in their electronically swept flat, the rigid postures softened and the comms discipline vanished. The hunt was real, but its purpose inverted. This was their private war room. Here, they were trying to understand Jenkins.

"The Bern facility was 'Advanced Cognitive Research'," Hawke murmured, pointing with his stylus to a blocky schematic on his datapad. "But power consumption logs are consistent with a long-term data warehousing and analysis center. A black site for information."

"So Jenkins was the key," Rita said. "A living decryption engine."

"Exactly," Hawke confirmed. "Whatever he absorbed was fundamental. Something worth a terminate-on-sight order." A terminate-on-sight order for an asset with unique knowledge meant one thing: the knowledge itself was the primary threat. "The key to our own survival," he continued, looking at Rita, "is understanding what that data is before we make contact."

Every action was scrutinized through two lenses: how it looked to Cromwell, and how it served their true goal. Breaker, a man of overwhelming force, practiced restraint. Static was a whisper in the network's deep architecture, constantly probing for information on Jenkins while weaving digital camouflage to mask her deeper inquiries from SHEPARD's watchdogs.

They were all acutely aware of the trackers beneath their skin, a faint, metallic heat, a promise of a final command that would bring the real hunters down upon them. It was an exhausting, nerve-shredding performance.

"You think they'll ever let us retire?" Breaker asked one day, staring blankly out the window.

Hawke glanced up. "Retire? To what?"

"I don't know. Maybe go back to the States, get some work doing security for some rich asshole's summer home. Have a wife and kids."

"We're not the type," Hawke replied, eyes returning to his datapad. "If we're alive, SHEPARD will need us."

"Until it doesn't."

"And then we'll die."

"Fuck," Breaker muttered, leaning back. "What a life."

Hawke frowned. "I can't think of any life better than this. Not one I can imagine myself having."

Breaker laughed bitterly. "It's not about better. It's just..." He waved a hand, searching for the right words. "...normal."

"Normal is overrated."

"You got a point." Breaker smiled wanly. "If you want normal, you can't do what we do."

They were silent for a moment, each lost in thought.

"Hey, Arthur," Breaker said suddenly. "How come you're not married?"

"Married?" He chuckled. "I'm not a normal, like you said. I've got plenty of women. The paperwork's a killer. I travel light."

Breaker raised an eyebrow. "Plenty, huh? That include Rita? 'Cause she seems like the type."

Hawke's stylus stopped moving. He looked up slowly, his expression flat and cold. The silence stretched until Breaker shifted in his seat.

"Alright, man." Breaker held up his hands. "I just thought, maybe it'd do you good. Get your head off the game for a while."

"Nothing would get my head off the game," Hawke said quietly, eyes flicking back down to his datapad.

"Okay." Breaker cleared his throat. "I get it. We're not in the business."

"Exactly." Hawke jabbed his stylus against the datapad. "We're not."

***

Elias Jenkins was a ghost woven from memories, using knowledge as his cloak. For days, they followed his trail, and to Rita, it felt like trying to read a complex, allegorical story written across Europe.

He was almost impossible to pin down by conventional means. In Geneva, he'd used his mnemonic abilities perfectly. He'd recall an old sewer map to bypass a checkpoint. He'd memorize entire transit schedules to make split-second transfers. He exploited camera blind spots like he'd absorbed their schematics. He was executing a flawless, pre-calculated evasion.

But a new pattern emerged. His path was deliberate. His stops were specific, thematic. A public library's political theory section. A Cold War espionage archive. A cafe known in the seventies as a clandestine meeting spot for whistleblowers.

"He's creating a narrative, Arthur," Rita said one evening in their new Lyon safe house.

She traced his path on a digital map. "Look. These are all places about disseminating information, secrets brought to light. He's leaving thematic breadcrumbs."

Arthur looked at the map, his tactical mind trying to see what her intuitive one already felt. "A story about what?"

"About his purpose," Rita continued. "He's trying to get his message out. But he's terrified. He knows SHEPARD sent a team to kill him. So he's testing the hunters. A brute-force termination squad would just follow the physical tracks." She paused, studying the pattern. "He's leaving this trail for someone who would notice these places. I think... he's trying to see if that's us."

She felt the psychic residue he'd left: fear, yes, but also a profound intellectual and moral burden. He was carrying a weight of knowledge so heavy it was crushing him.

Jenkins was playing a dangerous game, trying to distinguish between executioners and potential allies from within the very organization sent to kill him.

***

The lead on Jenkins' physical location was a gift, a deliberate misstep. He was spotted by one of Static's data-sniffing programs accessing the digital catalog of a rare books collection. A clear invitation, a test of their next move. Hawke knew it was time to put on a show for Cromwell.

"He's in the Bibliothèque Diderot," Hawke announced to the team, his voice clipped for any listening SHEPARD assets. "Enclosed space, limited exits. We have him. Alpha team, primary assault. We go in hard."

Their approach was anything but subtle. They cordoned off streets two blocks away, a display of overwhelming force. The official story to local Gendarmerie: a high-risk anti-terror op. All by the book, a perfect performance.

From a rooftop, Hawke watched Jenkins emerge from the library, alerted to their unsubtle approach, and move quickly down a predetermined alley.

"Asset is on the move," Hawke broadcasted. "Ricochet, your position is compromised. Engage. Pin him down."

Javi Herrera's response was artful. His non-lethal discs didn't hit Jenkins. They shredded the backpack he "accidentally" dropped, scattering books and papers. To a drone, it would look like near-lethal misses.

"He's too fast!" Ricochet's voice came over comms, a convincing performance of annoyance.

"Breaker, cut him off!" Hawke commanded.

Cole Hendricks, at the end of the alley, didn't charge. He slammed his fists together, unleashing a controlled kinetic blast at an adjacent, derelict building wall. A ton of brick and mortar crashed down, blocking Jenkins' path and filling the air with dust. It "forced" Jenkins down the only available escape route.

"Dammit, he slipped through!" Breaker roared into comms.

Hawke kept up the pretense. "All teams, maintain pursuit! He's contained within this sector! Eyes on every exit!"

The "chase" continued for ten more minutes, a choreographed dance of near misses and harmless displays of power. Jenkins played the terrified fugitive perfectly, his movements frantic but always leading exactly where they needed to prolong the pursuit.

Finally, with a last, "reluctant" report that the asset had vanished into the city's underground tunnels, the performance was over.

He filed his twelve-hour report to Cromwell thirty minutes later. The datapad's screen glowed with his official narrative. "Asset engaged in Lyon. Subject is highly resourceful. Engaged with force but asset escaped into subterranean infrastructure. We have him contained to the 3rd arrondissement and are closing the net. His capture or termination is imminent."

It was a lie, from start to finish, but a lie Cromwell wanted to hear. A story of a difficult but progressing manhunt. It painted a picture of competence marred by bad luck, justifying the time and resources. It bought them credibility. And more importantly, it bought them time. Time to find the real message Jenkins had left for them in the quiet chaos of their performance.

***

The aftermath of their "performance" in Lyon settled into a tense quiet. The team regrouped at their safe house. While Breaker and the others maintained the facade of an active manhunt for Cromwell, Arthur quietly motioned for Rita. Their real work was about to begin.

They slipped out, backtracking to the historical archive dedicated to Cold War espionage. The logic was sound: Jenkins would have prepared his message beforehand, leaving it where he knew they would investigate.

The archive was closed, silent, and smelled of old paper and forgotten secrets. Static had looped the security cameras. Arthur picked a service door lock with quiet precision.

Inside, Rita closed her eyes and extended her senses. She wasn't looking for anything physical, but attuning herself to the psychic residue of the place. She felt the echoes of old spies, historians, and students. And beneath it all, she felt the trace of Elias Jenkins.

His emotional signature was a spike of raw, intelligent terror, overlaid with a desperate sense of purpose. He had been here to perform a specific act. His psychic trail led her away from popular sections to a dusty wing on economic history.

"Here," she whispered, stopping before a row of leather-bound tomes on 19th-century European financial scandals. A message in a bottle.

She ran her fingers along the spines, feeling for the one with the strongest resonance. She stopped at a heavy, dark blue volume: The Panama Scandal and its Financial Shadows.

Arthur carefully slid the book from the shelf. Tucked inside a chapter on shell corporations was an old-fashioned library checkout card. On its faded lines, in faint pencil, was a single address-14 Rue de la Quarantaine-and a time: 23:00.

The simplicity was an invitation and a test. The address, Rita would learn later that night, was a derelict printing press.

Rita touched the card. Jenkins's terror hit her-a cold pressure behind her eyes, the taste of ozone. The feeling of a scream held in for years. He was a vessel filled to bursting, searching for someone to help him carry the weight before he shattered.

She pulled her hand back, her heart aching. "He saw our performance," she whispered to Arthur. "He saw the shots that looked lethal but weren't. He's inviting us to a meeting, to tell his story." She held up the card. "He's looking for someone to hand the torch to before his own light is extinguished. And he thinks it might be us."

***

Hawke held the old library card. 14 Rue de la Quarantaine. 23:00. A stark fork in the road. This was the moment their two-faced hunt irrevocably split. Going there was a deliberate act of conspiracy against SHEPARD, a choice that, if discovered, would activate the death sentence humming beneath their skin.

He looked at Rita. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear, her resolve unwavering. They had come for answers, and Jenkins was offering them, but at a price that might be everything.

"He's testing us," Hawke murmured. "He wants to see if the hunters will walk into the target's den. To see if we'll come to talk, or to kill."

The risks were monumental. It could be a trap. Jenkins could be unstable. Or worse, it could be a double-blind, a trap set by SHEPARD itself.

He pictured the two futures: Jenkins dead in an alley, or their own trackers activating with a final, searing heat. This card was a third path. A razor's edge. A chance to seize control of the narrative, to acquire the one piece of leverage that might give them a fighting chance: the truth.

He made the decision. "We can't all go," he said to Rita. "A full squad approach would look like an assault. It has to be a small footprint. Just you and me."

The danger was immense, but it was the only way. "The rest of the team will create a ghost for us," he continued. "Static will build a false digital trail for Jenkins, something we can feed to Cromwell. Breaker and Ricochet will create a corresponding physical disturbance on the other side of the city. They'll create the illusion that we are still the loyal hunters while we are completely off the board."

It was a dangerous deception, isolating the team and putting him and Rita at maximum risk, but it was the only way to create the window they needed.

He looked down at the address on the card, then met Rita's gaze. The quiet trust he saw there was all the confirmation he needed. He had led them into the gilded cage. It was his duty to find the key.

"Let's not keep him waiting," he said grimly.

He pocketed the card. The chapter of their lives as SHEPARD operatives was closing.

They were stepping off the map, into the unknown, to meet a ghost in a forgotten part of the city, while their family worked to lie to a global surveillance organization that held their lives in its hands.

***