Chapter 30: The Pact

The buzzing of the dying wasp was the vibration of the phone, the warning that came just before the swarm descended. The fragile peace beneath the bridge was shattered, invaded by the familiar, comforting adrenaline. But it was not the same this time. The fear was still there, cold and sharp, but it no longer tasted so bitter, so lonely.

Anton's eyes met Sabe's in the shadows. There were no words of warning, no hopeless questions. The understanding was swift, cellular. Sabe jerked his head toward the south bank, toward a maze of narrow, dim service tunnels that opened into Southwark streets. Anton nodded.

They went.

Sabe led, a specter gliding through the shadows, his former rigidity counterbalanced by the silky motion of a predator. Anton followed, his own city-boy shoes slithering on the wet stones, his breathing in jerky gasps. He was not a runaway, a tactician and a financier. Yet he kept pace, driven by a now communal fear that was odd.

They didn't utter a sound until they were three blocks away, huddled in the doorway of a vacant butcher shop, the air thick with the presence of old blood and sawdust. The only sounds were their gasping breaths and the receding, distant howl of a police car that had rushed across the bridge.

Anton stood on the cold of the brick, the flash drive burning coal in the tight closure of his fist. He observed Sabe, already scanning the street with his eyes, his form a tightly coiled spring. The seriousness of their situation was a crushing burden.

“They’ve frozen my assets. My name is synonymous with fraud and mental collapse. You’re the most wanted man in Europe.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Our alliance is a list of liabilities.”

Sabe turned his head, his profile sharp in the ambient light. “We have one asset they don’t.”

“And what’s that?”

“The truth.” Sabe’s gaze was unwavering. “And each other.”

The naivety of it was ridiculous. And yet, in the grimy doorway, it appeared to be the sole firm foundation in an ocean of quicksand. Anton pushed back from the wall, his mind, previously muddled by deception and fear, beginning to fall into its natural pattern: analysis, planning, action.

"Alright," he said, his tone regaining a shred of its former command. "So we have an agreement. Not a handshake. A mission parameters package. We settle on the mission, or we get out of here now and go it alone." It was how he knew to work. To impose order on the chaos. 

Sabe did not argue. He nodded once, brutally. "Tell me your terms."

Anton held up a finger. "One. We clear my name. In public. Irrevocably. That video," he waved the flash drive, "is the start. But we have to go further. We have to expose the entire 'Aegis Zero' operation, the psychiatric frame, the board's rebellion. I want my company back."

"Understood," Sabe said, his voice flat. "Two. We expose the actual perpetrators. All of them. Not just Evelyn and Marcus. The 'Rogers' cabal on the board. Janus Holdings. And the architects." He glared into Anton's eyes. "Section Seven."

The name hung between them, a specter of sheer strength. Anton shivered with a cold that had nothing to do with the shadows. He saw now what they were truly fighting. Nodding slowly, he acquiesced, "All of them."

He raised the third finger. "Three. We steal the prototype. The core code. It's not property; it's a weapon that they're going to unleash on the world. We can't let that happen. We take it back, or we destroy it."

Sabe's jaw was clenched. He knew what that objective would cost. It was the most dangerous of the three. "Agreed."

There was a feeling of finality in the air. Their last resort war's three pillars. Clear Anton. Expose the Conspiracy. Return the Prototype.

"The priority of objectives is not negotiable," Anton asserted, the CEO acting decisively. "Your life, or clearing my reputation, is secondary to preventing a worldwide security breach. Clear?

A flash of something—relief?—crossed Sabe's face. He was being treated as an equal in a command hierarchy, not as a bodyguard. "Understood."

"Now," Anton said, looking ahead. "Resources. I have one untraceable jet at Luxwing. I have this," he gestured to the flash drive. "And I have a few of my security team who might still be loyal, but to call them is a risk."

"I have seven bullets remaining in my pistol," Sabe said without feeling. "The shirt on my back. And a working knowledge of how to stay hidden." He ceased speaking. "And I have Rico. He's a wild card, but he's among their ranks. He's our sole thread to Section Seven."

It was a sorry arsenal against the forces bearing down upon them. A billionaire with no money, and a spy with no country.

"Then we do what we have," Anton growled, his voice assuming steel. "The video is our teaser shot. But we can't just leak it. It will be written off as a deepfake, one of my delusional episodes. We need to deliver it with complete context. We need a catalyst."

"The board," Sabe said, resuming his train of thought. "The stewardship vote is our deadline. We have to move before it's made official."

"Right. We have to convert one of them. One of the ones inside who can be bought, or bullied." Anton's eyes tightened. "Eleanor Shaw."

Sabe recalled the name from the dossiers. "The independent chair. Reputation is everything with her. By-the-book.".

"She voted against my father on three significant measures because she believed they were 'ethically nebulous'," explained Anton. "She despises Evelyn's ruthlessness. If we can provide evidence for her, if we can convince her that the stewardship vote is based on a criminal conspiracy that she unwittingly is advocating. She could flip."

"It's a gamble," cautioned Sabe.

"It's the best chance we've got that doesn't involve gunfights," Anton answered. "But getting to her… she'll be shielded. Guarded."

"That's my department," Sabe said. The statement wasn't arrogant, merely fact. "You set it up, the entry points, the psychological briefing. I'll handle the delivery."

The work of division was clear, natural. Anton's domain was the world of influence and awareness; Sabe's was the world of action and blindness. They were the two faces of a coin, at last meshing together.

"There's something else," Anton said, his tone dropping low. The professional mask slid off, revealing the naked man beneath. "This. partnership. It can't be a business arrangement. I can't pay you. I can't protect you. I can't even promise you'll survive the week."

Sabe looked at him, and Anton caught in the darkness the ghost of the kiss that never happened, the impression of fingers on his shoulder in a hiding spot, the feel of being pulled from a fire.

"I warned you," Sabe said, his tone gentle but insistent. "You became no longer a client the moment you chose to trust me."

He took another step forward, his eyes blazing. "This is not a job for me, Anton. Not for some time. This is a choice."

The last of Anton's obstinacy crumbled. He reached out, his hand closing around Sabe's arm, tracing the hard muscle and the dense bone beneath the worn cloth. It was an anchor.

"Then we ride it out," Anton breathed. "Together.".

It was the pact, not sealed with a handshake, but with a touch.

A harsh bright light sliced the alleyway opening. They both recoiled back into the recesses of the doorway. A police patrol car, moving slowly, its spotlight prodding the shadows like a bad eye.

Sabe's body adjusted itself, his hand going instinctively to the heat in his waistband. Anton took a breath, his thoughts flying over the implications of capture. It would be all over. The truth would die with them in individual cells.

The light lingered for a jaw-dropping second on the wet cobbles a few feet away, then continued on its way, the engine of the car fading into darkness.

The threat was past, for the moment, but the relief was a macabre reminder of their universe. They were prey.

Sabe regarded him, all business once more. "We can't stay here. We need to find a new hideout. Someplace they'd never think to look for Anton Rogers."

Anton dithered, then a harsh, cynical smile creased his lips. "I know of a place."

The partnership was forged. The objectives were set. The war council, which was held in the doorway of a butcher's shop, was adjourned. Two men, bound by trust forged in fire and betrayal, stepped out of the shadows and into the extended night ahead. They had a reputation to restore, a plot to expose, and a gun to regain. The odds were against them. The enemy was ubiquitous.

But for the first time, they fought no longer by themselves.

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