Rain swept across Brussels in cold, slanted lines, the kind that didn't just fall, but cut through the air, blurring the sharp edges of the city's ornate architecture into muted, wet shadows. The café on Rue du Luxembourg was half-empty, a quiet haven filled only with the low hum of Eurocrats' conversations and the heavy, mixed smell of roasted coffee, damp wool, and old secrets.
At a corner table, well away from the window, Willis sat alone. He was a mountain of a man in a civilian trench coat, a heavy frame of muscle barely contained by the tailored fabric. His bald head gleamed faintly under the soft, sepia light of the fixture above. His features were not handsome, but carved with the kind of quiet, brutal confidence only earned through years of combat and spilled blood.
"Willis," people called him. The moniker, a teasing comparison to Bruce Willis from Die Hard, had stuck long before he ever established Aegis Security. Like everyone in Aegis, whenever he was out in the field, he operated under a single, deniable name. No IDs and no personal belongings that could connect him to the company or the organization. It kept things deniable. It kept them all alive.
He checked his watch, a heavy, black tactical model. The second hand swept past the minute mark just as the café door opened. A tall, older man stepped in, shaking the rain from a threadbare, older trench coat. This was Michael Grainger, a former CIA field officer forcibly retired after being abruptly cut loose from a fifteen year career spent specializing in covert logistics and gray market diplomacy.
Grainger spotted Willis immediately and gave a short, practiced nod before navigating the tables. His coat was frayed at the cuffs, betraying his current civilian status, but his eyes were sharp, the kind that still measured every exit, every angle, and every potential threat vector out of sheer reflex.
"You still look like a damn action figure," Grainger muttered, pulling out a chair and collapsing into it. He immediately signaled the waitress for a black coffee.
"And you," Willis replied evenly, "still smell like a retirement home after a bad night."
The older man smirked, folding his hands over his chest. "Guess neither of us changes much."
They waited until the waitress had delivered the coffee and retreated, the small, polite transaction acting as a necessary barrier against eavesdropping. Only when the café hum returned to normal did the conversation drop into the real subject.
"Appreciate you making the trip," Willis said, his tone all business now, the deep voice holding no inflection. "We've been seeing a systemic level of interference lately across multiple operational sectors: logistics, shipping, sensitive bidding, even comms relays. We need to know who's behind it. If it's one entity or several, and whether we're looking at state-level intelligence or some major private players."
Grainger leaned back, picking up his mug. "You guys must be in serious trouble if you're coming to me for help."
"It hasn't gone critical yet, but it's getting there. A hit was recently taken out against the CEO of TLG, one of our key clients." Willis let out a slow, controlled breath. "The would-be assassin is pig feed now, but what concerned us was the talent level. The killer was former Spetsnaz. We're not talking about your usual contract freelancer; we're talking about a trained, military operative. We're worried that state-level agencies are getting involved."
Grainger studied him, taking a long, deliberate sip of the bitter, burnt coffee. "You always did work for interesting people, Willis. The kind who cast long shadows."
"You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, Mike. Think this is something you can help with? My boss may cast long shadows, but he's the kind of man you want in your corner, especially in our line of work."
"Don't worry, I know his reputation. Archangel Michael to his friends, and the devil Lucifer himself to his enemies." Grainger's smirk faded completely. He set the mug down, his eyes turning cold and focused. "There's chatter along the old CIA pipelines, but it's thin. Word has it that the SVR is hellbent on finding out who's responsible for bypassing their blockade and maintaining the drone supply line to Kyiv these past months. They don't know who's responsible yet, but they suspect whoever is running it may be routing through Alaska somehow. Why or how they came up with such a ridiculous notion is beyond me, though."
"It's actually not that ridiculous," Willis said slowly, watching the effect of his words.
Grainger stared blankly for a second, then his sharp eyes widened in sudden, horrifying comprehension. He processed the impossible, shook his head violently, and pushed the information away. "How's that possible...? You know what, never mind. You're right—better not to know too much in this business."
Willis grinned faintly, a flash of white in the dim light. "And that's why you're still around playing cloak and daggers when people half your age are already buried ten feet under. Think you can help me run misdirection on that? That lead on Alaska must be some sort of vague rumor or desperate guess. If we spread some chatter that's a bit more concrete along the usual channels, I'm pretty sure we can send them running in a completely different direction."
Grainger nodded once. "So you want me to scatter a few breadcrumbs and lead them on a ghost chase? What did you have in mind?"
"I was thinking if rumors were to spread, high value, highly deniable rumors, that certain Pacific shipments were secretly crossing over to the Baltic through a backdoor route," Willis said, his voice dropping slightly. "A route that passes overland using the Baikal-Amur Mainline (BAM) railway deep inside Siberia, then transitions onto a series of undisclosed inland waterways and canals within Russia itself. That kind of specificity would instantly make certain agencies and individuals very, very interested."
Grainger didn't react, a veteran poker face fixed in place, but his silence was assent. "That actually sounds infinitely more plausible than some ice cap run through Alaska. And keeping quiet on the exact waterways and canals would force them to deploy massive manpower to try and cover all the choke points."
"Exactly," Willis murmured. "We'll exhaust their manpower reserves and force them to pull everyone they have in Alaska and anywhere else they're looking, to chase down the leads we've prepared."
"You do realize you're actually going to have to deploy a few ghosts to chase to make them commit their resources, right?"
Willis's jaw tightened. "That's where I'm hoping you'd come in. We can provide the resources and the decoys, but we need someone with your experience to run the actual op and hire the cut-outs on the ground."
Grainger raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Are you offering me a job, Willis?"
Willis leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Don't tell me you don't miss it, Mike. Being in command of a team again and having complete autonomy to run an operation as you see fit."
Grainger rubbed his chin, a genuine smile replacing the smirk as he considered the possibilities of the game. "Can't say I'm not tempted. And you say all I have to do is keep them distracted and occupied for as long as I can?"
"That's right. Keep them chasing ghosts until their budget bleeds out. That's all we ask."
The rain outside grew heavier, streaking down the glass in jagged lines.
Grainger finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Alright. I'll do it. It's not like I've got anything else going on these days besides drinking bad coffee."
"You made the right decision. You'll find out soon just how much easier it is to run an operation without having to worry about congressional oversight or restrictive rules of engagement." Willis's expression grew stern. "Just keep collateral damage to a minimum, and remember, we're trying to keep them distracted, not get a bullseye painted on our backs. Also, the boss is very particular about making sure all our guys get home after every mission. Use cut-outs if you think there's any chance of things going sideways. That goes for you too, Mike. I'm looking forward to bossing you around for the next couple of years, at least."
Grainger snorted at the lousy joke but appreciated the sentiment. For someone who had been burned and hung out to dry by his own agency because a risky op went sideways, being told that his new boss cared about his safe return meant more than any paycheck.
Finally, Willis pulled a thick, white plastic card from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. "This line's encrypted. If you need something concrete, reach out. I'll send a couple of reliable assets your way starting tomorrow."
Grainger pocketed the card without looking at it, his mind already sketching the first steps of the operation. "I'll get started on your breadcrumbs ASAP."
Willis stood, his massive frame momentarily casting a shadow over the table, then slid over a thick, unmarked envelope filled with crisp bills. "Oh, I almost forgot. Consider yourself on retainer now, Mike. Welcome to UMBRA."
Then, without another word, he was gone.
Grainger watched his broad silhouette disappear into the gray Brussels rain, securely pocketing the envelope, and muttered fondly under his breath, "Still a damn action figure."