“Comforting,” I mutter, not entirely convinced.
Alejandro pops a spring roll in his mouth, nodding at the screen. “Find anything that explains why the Guild swarmed in five minutes flat?”
I flick open another folder—bank statements, fake invoices, pages of numbers coded in a way only an accountant or a criminal could love. “Looks like he did the books for Vincenzi Consulting.”
Alejandro arches a brow. “That’s not consulting. That’s an Italian mob family. Well—makes sense why the place was crawling with the Guild so fast.”
“Everyone’s got their hands dirty,” I say, clicking deeper, scrolling past wire transfers that jump from New York to Tokyo to Switzerland and back. “Mob bosses, Guilds, state contracts. Gold bars disguised as fertilizer shipments. Enough to build a RICO case againsthalf the planet.”
Alejandro leans in, voice low. “The accountant—he was more than just a numbers guy.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He was collecting. Stockpiling evidence, blackmail, leverage—every dirty secret he could get his hands on. He covered his ass six ways from Sunday and he was a hell of a lot better with a computer than his job demanded.”
Grim whistles over the line. “I’m impressed. This is insurance of the nuclear variety.”
I click faster, nerves humming. “Anything in here could’ve been what got him killed. We need to find the thread he pulled—what made him panic, reach out to El Fantasma, and end up hot dog meat.”
Alejandro grabs another container, leaning in closer, his knee pressed to mine. “It’s got to be something? He was sitting on this for years—why the hell blow his cover now?”
“Grim, take over,” I say, pushing the laptop closer to the mic. “Pull up those articles—the ones set to drop in two days. The ones where I apparently murder a politician.”
He’s silent for a second. Then windows flicker across the screen, popping open and snapping shut so fast I can barely keep up. The mouse moves on its own—Grim’s in control now, hands flying somewhere in a windowless room full of cold monitors and empty coffee cups.
Code runs. Folders scroll. Lines of text blur by. Then—headlines, in rapid succession, stacking up like a bad hand of cards:
ASSASSIN SAINT JAMES STRIKES AGAIN—SENATOR CHARLES HARTLEY DEAD IN CHICAGO SHOOTING
NOTORIOUS KILLER SAINT JAMES BEHIND POLITICAL ASSASSINATION, SAYS FBI SOURCE
SHOCKING: FRONT-RUNNER HARTLEY MURDERED DAYS BEFORE ELECTION—IS ANYONE SAFE?
Every article has a different spin, but the narrative is locked. I’m the villain. The evidence is airtight, the details grotesquely specific—time, place, my face pulled from a thousand surveillance feeds, all of it orchestrated to make sure the world knows Saint James is public enemy number one.
Grim’s voice is flat in my ear. “They want you burned before you ever get close.”
He opens a new window. More headlines, this time focused on the target: Senator Charles Hartley. The perfect American politician—sharp suit, white smile, born for the debate stage. He’s the top candidate for president, projected to sweep the election. Voting starts in two months, and every news feed has him shaking hands, kissing babies, standing in front of flags.
Hartley’s campaign is all blue-sky, middle-America dreams: lower taxes for working families, real education reform, increased teacher pay, free community college. He’s promised affordable healthcare—no “Medicare for All” fairytale, just lower premiums, and drug costs. He talks about criminal justice reform, actually puts numbers behind it. No war drums, no talk of enemies—he’s selling peace for the first time in a generation, and the country’s eating it up.
Alejandro leans closer, reading over my shoulder. “They’re making you the next Lee Harvey Oswald.”
“Yeah,” I say, throat dry. “Except this time, the body’s still breathing.”
I stare at my own name, bolded inblack and red. The trap’s set. They’re not just coming for me—they’re coming for anyone who stands in the way.
Grim’s voice is cold now. “You’re not just getting framed, Saint. They want a public execution. By the time those stories go live, it won’t matter what you did or didn’t do.”
More articles flicker across the screen. Grim’s voice is steady, clinical, like he’s dissecting my obituary.
“Global manhunt,” he mutters. “Every outlet’s got a version. Saint James killed in a high-speed chase through the Loop. Saint James gunned down by police in a South Side shootout. Saint James found dead in a tunnel pile-up. Take your pick.”
I watch my own deaths play out in pixels, each one messier than the last. None of them real—yet. But all of them plausible enough to pass for truth with a body to pin them on.
Alejandro leans back, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Whoever staged this knows you won’t go down easy. That’s why they set you up. Make it look like you broke Guild law, paint you as a traitor—give themselves a reason to put every hitter on your trail, make you desperate, keep you moving.”
Make it look like you broke Guild law.
I don’t let anything show. There are rules and there are lines you don’t cross—lines that, once crossed, put you in the ground. I keep my expression carved from stone, eyes on the screen, mouth set. Let them think I’m unfazed.
