Alaric opens his eyes. He looks at the rig. A faint spark of recognition—and relief—lights up his silver irises. "It’s not a haven," he rasps, his voice barely audible over the waves. "It’s a fortress. Kaiser... he likes his toys... isolated."
We approach the structure. The waves here are huge, churning around the massive pylons. Charon maneuvers the boat skillfully into the 'wet dock'—a cage-like elevator suspended forty feet above the water. He hooks us in. "Hold on!"
The cage jerks. We are hoisted up. The boat swings in the wind, the dark water receding below us. I grip Alaric’s waist, terrified he will slip, but he is leaning against the cage bars, staring up at the underbelly of the rig. "Show no fear," he whispers to me. "Kaiser... smells fear. Like a shark."
"I'm fresh out of fear," I say. "I only have rage left."
"Good. Rage he respects."
The cage locks into place on the lower deck. The grate opens. We are met by a welcoming committee. Four men. They are not wearing camo like the Syndicate. They are wearing sleek, grey urban tactical gear. Helmets with full-face visors. Submachine guns that look like they belong in a sci-fi movie. P90s. They don't aim at us. They just stand there. Blocking the path.
A man steps through them. He is tall. impossibly thin. He wears a white suit—pristine, sharply tailored, without a single wrinkle. He wears gloves. He wears sunglasses, even though it is night. His hair is bleached white, shaved close to the skull. He looks like a sterile instrument in a dirty world.
"Alaric Graves," the man says. His voice is smooth, synthesized? No, just precise. "You look terrible. Truly. A masterpiece of degradation."
"Kaiser," Alaric greets, stepping out of the cage. He stumbles, but I catch him. He straightens, putting his weight on his good leg, trying to project the Director's authority through the rags and the blood. "I see you haven't... changed your tailor."
"And you brought a stray," Kaiser says, turning his sunglasses toward me. "The Asset. Elodie Fray. The pianist who became a butcher."
I stiffen. "How do you know who I am?"
"I know everything, my dear. I am the Architect. Data flows through this rig like oil used to." He gestures with a gloved hand. "Welcome to the Leviathan. Please, don't touch anything. I hate germs."
We are escorted to the upper levels. The interior of the rig is a shock. The exterior is rust and salt. The interior is a spaceship. White corridors. Air filtration systems that hum softly. Glass walls revealing rooms filled with servers—tower upon tower of black boxes with blinking blue lights. The air is cold, dry, and smells of ozone.
"My servers," Kaiser explains, walking ahead of us. "The largest independent data haven in the world. No laws. No subpoenas. Just encrypted silence."
He leads us to a large central room. It looks like a throne room designed by Apple. A massive desk. Screens covering every wall. A panoramic view of the dark ocean. "Sit," Kaiser says, pointing to two uncomfortable-looking metal chairs.
I help Alaric sit. He is fading fast. The journey took the last of his reserves. He is sweating, his skin grey. "He needs a doctor," I say, turning to Kaiser. "He has sepsis. A gunshot wound. Nerve damage."
"I have a med-bay," Kaiser says, sitting behind his desk. He picks up a bottle of hand sanitizer and applies a dollop, rubbing his hands methodically. "Fully automated. Surgical robots. Very expensive."
"Then use them!"
"Services require payment, Miss Fray. Alaric knows the rules." Kaiser leans back. "You promised me two hundred million dollars. And the head of the Syndicate."
"The money is on this drive," I say, pulling the USB from my pocket. "Encrypted. Alaric has the biometrics."
"And the Syndicate?"
"Thorne is dead," Alaric rasps. "I killed him."
"Elodie killed him," Kaiser corrects, glancing at a screen on the wall. It shows a news feed.SENATOR ASSASSINATED AT GALA. SUSPECTS AT LARGE."Very dramatic. But Thorne was just a middleman. The Syndicate is a hydra. You know that."
"I know," Alaric says. "That’s why we are here. We want to cut off the heads. All of them."
"Ambitious." Kaiser removes his sunglasses. His eyes are pale blue, almost white. Albino. "But why should I help you? The Syndicate pays me a very handsome retainer to host their off-site backups."
The room goes silent. I look at the server racks visible through the glass floor. "Their backups are here?" I ask.
"Of course," Kaiser smiles. "Where else would they put the blackmail files on half the governments of the G20? The cloud? Please. The cloud is porous. The Leviathan is a vault."
My mind races. We didn't just come to a safe house. We walked into the enemy's brain.
"You're hosting them," Alaric says, a dark smile touching his lips. "Which means... you have access."
"Encrypted access," Kaiser corrects. "I am a neutral party, Alaric. Like Switzerland. If I breach client confidentiality, I lose business. And I get bombed."
