Chapter 2 — When the Hunter Is Not the Prey
The hallway smelled like gunpowder and expensive cologne.
Alistair Vane walked through it as if neither existed.
Police lights painted the corridor in intermittent red and blue, washing over shattered doorframes, bullet scars, and the two motionless bodies being zip-tied to stretchers by paramedics who already knew it was unnecessary. The hotel guests had been evacuated. The fourth floor was sealed.
Too late.
Consequences never waited for permission.
Alistair adjusted his cufflinks as he stepped over a spent casing. His movements were precise, economical—every gesture measured, as if his body obeyed a separate discipline from the chaos surrounding it.
Inspector Laurent caught up to him near the stairwell.
"You're telling me," Laurent said tightly, "that an international hit team just walked into an active crime scene… to retrieve something that wasn't there."
"Yes."
"And you knew they were coming."
"Yes."
Laurent stopped walking.
Alistair stopped as well.
They faced each other under flickering emergency lights.
"Then why didn't you warn us?" Laurent demanded.
Alistair met his gaze without hostility. Without apology.
"Because they weren't here for you," he said. "They were testing response time, threat level, and whether I was alone."
Laurent's jaw tightened. "And?"
"And now they know I wasn't."
Alistair turned and continued down the stairs.
Laurent followed, slower this time.
The lobby was chaos restrained by protocol.
Uniformed officers, plainclothes agents, hotel staff wrapped in emergency blankets, tourists whispering into phones they weren't supposed to be using. Cameras flashed until someone shouted and they stopped.
Elena Roth stood near the concierge desk, tablet held against her chest, posture calm despite the tension surrounding her. She had repositioned herself instinctively—back to a marble column, sightlines clear, exits mapped.
Alistair noticed.
He always did.
Their eyes met briefly.
No words passed between them.
None were needed.
Alistair stepped outside.
Rain greeted him immediately.
Cold. Precise. Parisian.
It soaked into his coat within seconds, clung to his hair, blurred the city into streaks of light and shadow. Sirens echoed somewhere distant, layered over the steady rhythm of rainfall on pavement.
He inhaled deeply.
Rain was honest.
It erased traces.
It also revealed patterns.
"Mr. Vane."
The voice came from behind him.
Interpol.
Alistair turned.
A man in his early fifties approached, umbrella tilted slightly too far back, eyes sharp enough to notice everything and admit nothing. His suit was immaculate. His shoes untouched by puddles.
Director-level.
"Director Marius Leclerc," the man said, extending a hand. "Interpol Criminal Analysis Division."
Alistair accepted the handshake.
"Your timing is unfortunate," Leclerc said mildly.
"No," Alistair replied. "It's expected."
Leclerc smiled thinly. "Then you already know we're invoking international jurisdiction."
"Yes."
"You'll be escorted."
"No."
Leclerc's smile faded slightly. "This isn't a request."
Alistair leaned closer, voice low enough that only rain could overhear.
"Director," he said, "the people who just attacked that hotel were not amateurs. They weren't sent to kill. They were sent to observe. If you slow me down with procedure, they'll escalate."
Leclerc studied him for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"Your reputation," he said, "is inconvenient."
"Yes."
"Fine," Leclerc said. "Unofficial cooperation. No press. No statements. You disappear for forty-eight hours."
Alistair nodded.
Elena stepped outside then, rain barely touching her as she joined them.
"I have the victim's profile," she said quietly. "You were right."
Leclerc raised an eyebrow. "About?"
"The disappearance," Elena replied. "Shell companies. Multiple passports. Clean identity erasure in progress. Someone invested heavily in making him vanish."
Alistair glanced at her. "How many?"
"Three," she said. "One government-adjacent. One private intelligence firm. One unknown."
Leclerc stiffened. "Unknown?"
Elena nodded. "No paper trail. No digital footprint. Just outcomes."
Alistair felt something shift.
Outcomes-first logic.
A familiar philosophy.
"We're being watched," Leclerc said.
"Yes," Alistair replied. "And measured."
They moved.
Not in a convoy.
Not with sirens.
A single black sedan slipped into traffic, becoming indistinguishable from a thousand others within seconds. Elena sat in the passenger seat, tablet glowing faintly as data streamed across it. Alistair sat in the back, eyes closed, mind moving.
He was not resting.
He was reconstructing.
"They didn't retrieve the suitcase," Elena said. "Or the laptop."
"No," Alistair replied. "Because those weren't the target."
"What was?"
"Me."
She paused.
"Not to kill," she said.
"No."
"To see if you'd survive."
"Yes."
The car slowed.
Then stopped.
Alistair's eyes opened.
"We're compromised," he said.
Elena looked up. "How do you know?"
"The traffic pattern," Alistair replied. "The driver's breathing changed."
The driver turned.
Too fast.
Gun already raised.
Alistair moved.
The world compressed.
Time fractured.
His foot struck the back of the driver's seat as his hand snapped forward, wrenching the weapon sideways as the shot fired into the dashboard. Glass exploded. Elena was already moving—rolling out the open door as the car lurched.
Alistair followed.
The street became a battlefield.
Two more attackers emerged from a delivery van ahead, suppressed weapons raised.
Alistair hit the ground, rolled, came up firing.
Two shots.
One man fell.
The second ducked behind the van.
Alistair advanced.
Not recklessly.
Deliberately.
He closed distance with the confidence of someone who understood angles, recoil, and human hesitation better than fear itself.
The attacker lunged.
Hand-to-hand.
Alistair dropped the gun mid-motion, letting it fall as his elbow shattered the man's guard. A knee. A twist. The man collapsed unconscious before he hit the pavement.
Silence returned.
Rain resumed its dominance.
Elena stood nearby, breathing controlled, eyes scanning.
"You didn't hesitate," she said.
"No."
"You didn't look surprised."
"No."
She studied him.
"How long have they been watching you?"
Alistair retrieved his gun, checked the magazine, reholstered.
"Long enough to think I wouldn't notice," he said.
Sirens approached in the distance.
They were already gone.
They regrouped in a safehouse an hour later.
Unmarked. Unregistered.
Elena set her tablet down, exhaustion finally visible in the slight slump of her shoulders.
"This isn't just about the victim," she said.
"No."
"It's about your methods."
"Yes."
"They want to see how you think under pressure."
Alistair removed his coat, hung it carefully.
"They want to see where logic breaks," he said.
"And does it?" she asked.
He looked at her.
"For most people," he said, "logic breaks when emotion interferes."
She held his gaze.
"And for you?"
"When I choose not to act."
Silence filled the room.
Not uncomfortable.
Weighted.
Purposeful.
Outside, rain continued to fall.
Somewhere in the world, someone adjusted their plans.
The game had begun.