75. Ronan
Ronan
Location: Red Two Transit Corridor — Eastern Europe
Red Two is uglier.
Less people—but tighter spaces. Narrow streets boxed in by concrete and glass, old tram lines cutting through intersections where sightlines disappear fast. This isn’t about spectacle.
It’s about efficiency.
“Red Two’s moving faster,” Lena says in my ear. “Different structure. Less centralized.”
“Decentralized cells,” I reply. “He learned.”
“Some,” she answers. “Not enough.”
Jase and I break into a jog, keeping pace with foot traffic until the street bends and the crowd thins. My HUD flickers—movement spikes ahead, then vanishes.
“They’re using reflections,” Jase murmurs. “Mirrors. Windows.”
“I know.”
I slow deliberately.
Because rushing is what they expect.
A tram screeches past, metal on metal, drowning out sound. As it clears, a man steps from a recessed doorway ahead—too calm, too still, jacket zipped despite the heat.
He’s not the trigger.
He’s the shepherd.
I veer left without signaling. Jase goes right. The man’s eyes flick between us—just once too many.
He bolts.
“Contact,” I say.
The street erupts into motion—civilians shouting, scattering. The man cuts hard across the tracks, shoving past an elderly couple, sprinting for a stairwell that drops underground.
“Lena,” I say, already moving. “Subsurface?”
“Yes,” she answers. “Transit tunnels. Red Two’s heart is below street level.”
Of course it is.
I chase without hesitation.
The stairwell smells like oil and damp concrete. The runner stumbles halfway down—panic now, discipline gone. He reaches for something under his jacket.
I fire.
The round punches through his shoulder and spins him into the wall. He collapses, screaming, device skittering across the steps.
Jase kicks it clear and pins the man with a knee.
“Talk,” Jase growls.
The man laughs—high, broken. “You’re late.”
I crouch, eyes level. “You’re early.”
Lena cuts in fast. “He’s not lying. Red Two has a timed fallback. Thirty seconds.”
I snatch the device—older, dirtier than Red One’s. Analog components. No wireless interface.
“He planned for you,” I mutter.
“Yes,” Lena says. “But not for this.”
I tear the casing open, fingers moving on instinct. Cut one wire—wrong choice and the corridor becomes a grave.
I don’t hesitate.
I cut two.
The device goes dead in my hands.
Silence floods the tunnel.
The runner’s laughter stops.
“Red Two neutralized,” Lena confirms. “Fallback aborted.”
I rise, pulse steady, ears straining for the next shoe to drop.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, my HUD flashes again—Red Three—farther out, faster moving, already adapting.
“Malenkov’s done waiting,” Lena says quietly. “Red Three’s mobile. Armed convoy.”
I straighten.
Good.
Finally, something honest.
“Route it,” I say. “We end this now.”
Jase stands, flexing his hand once. “You good?”
I glance at the street above—sunlight spilling down like nothing is wrong with the world.
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” I answer.
Because Malenkov’s contingencies are built on fear and reaction.
Mine are built on resolve.
And Red Three?
That’s where he learns the difference.