Perseus Jackson was halfway through The Count of Monte Cristo when the knock he'd been expecting finally arrived.
Well—"knock" was generous. It was more of a coordinated stomp from a tactical team that had clearly practiced this entry on a cardboard mock-up of his apartment. He'd noticed the surveillance van two days earlier, the one with the "plumbing company" logo printed so crookedly it offended him on a personal level. The directional microphone sticking out the back window hadn't helped their disguise.
Probably the FBI. They were the only agency that still believed in vans.
He slipped a bookmark between the pages—he'd once known a man who'd started a duel over a dog‑eared novel, but that was 1812 and people were dramatic back then—and set the book aside.
Six sets of boots.
Standard breach formation.
Someone was about to ruin his door.
The door exploded inward.
"FBI! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"
Four agents in tactical gear poured into his Manhattan apartment, weapons raised, faces tight with the kind of tension that came from being told, "This guy is dangerous; don't screw up," without any explanation of why.
Perseus lifted his hands slowly, more annoyed about the splintered doorframe than the rifles pointed at him.
"Morning," he said. "Coffee's fresh. Help yourselves."
The lead agent—a young guy with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and the posture of someone who still ironed his socks—kept his weapon trained on Perseus.
"Perseus Jackson, you're under arrest. Keep your hands visible."
"Of course." Perseus rose, unhurried. He'd done this dance more times than he cared to count. "May I ask the charge, or is this one of those 'find out later' situations?"
"You'll be informed at headquarters. Hands behind your back."
Zip-tie cuffs.
Not metal.
Someone had briefed them that he was "a problem," but not what kind of problem.
He let them tighten the restraints. "You're making a mistake," he said, conversational, like commenting on the weather.
"That's what they all say," the agent muttered.
"True. But in this case, I mean it literally. You have…" Perseus glanced at the wall clock. "…sixteen, maybe seventeen minutes before your chain of command realizes what you've done. After that, your career becomes a cautionary tale."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the agent's face. Perseus didn't gloat; he'd seen that look too many times.
"I'm entitled to a phone call, yes?" Perseus asked.
"You'll get one at headquarters."
"I'd prefer to make it now. Trust me, it'll save everyone a headache."
The agent hesitated. The room was secure, Perseus was cuffed, and nothing about him suggested imminent violence. Just irritation.
"Fine. One call. Thirty seconds." He unlocked the phone and handed it over.
Perseus didn't need the screen. He'd memorized the number in 1947, back when it had been a telegraph code. It had changed formats over the decades, but the routing never changed.
He dialed.
Two rings.
"Echelon Emergency Response, authentication required."
Perseus spoke as if ordering lunch. "Authorization code November‑Hotel‑Seven‑Seven‑Three‑Nine. Perseus Jackson. Echelon is go."
"Authentication confirmed. Response teams activated. Emergency liaison en route. Sir, are you safe?"
"Currently in FBI custody, will be brought in their Manhattan field office. No injuries."
"Understood. Ghost Protocol teams deploying. ETA: eighteen minutes."
"Thank you, Jessica. How's your daughter's soccer season?"
A pause—surprise, then warmth. "She made varsity, sir."
"Good. Tell her I said congratulations."
"I will. Help is on the way."
Perseus handed the phone back.
The lead agent stared at him like he'd just watched someone casually order an airstrike.
"What was that?"
"That," Perseus said gently, "was me activating the Echelon Protocol. It's above your clearance level, so don't feel bad. Your director knows. And right about now…" He checked the clock again. "…every intelligence agency with a functioning server is panicking."
"That's not—"
"At NSA headquarters," Perseus continued, "every screen just turned red. Director Torres is sprinting to his phone. The Secretary of Defense is being briefed. And in eighteen minutes, special operations personnel will arrive to extract me. They won't knock."
The agent's face drained of color.
"And here's the part I genuinely feel bad about," Perseus added. "You weren't told. You were following orders. But your superiors? They're about to throw you under the bus so hard you'll leave a crater."
"You're bluffing."
"I wish I were. What's your name?"
"…Afferty. Special Agent Thomas Afferty."
"Afferty, when this is over, get a lawyer. Don't sign anything. You acted on incomplete intelligence. That's on them, not you."
"Shut up," Afferty said, but the conviction was gone.
Perseus sighed. "Take me in. Do it by the book. In about fifteen minutes, your director will burst into the interrogation room screaming. Three minutes after that, heavily armed men will walk into your building and remove me."
"This is insane."
"This has happened," Perseus said, "far too many times."
---
NSA Headquarters—Fort Meade, Maryland
Senior Analyst Jennifer Kim was sipping cold coffee when her console turned red.
Then every console turned red.
Then the alarms started.
Director Michael Torres stormed in. "What the hell is happening?"
Jennifer swallowed. "Sir… we intercepted a call. Authorization code confirmed. It's him."
"Him who?"
"Perseus Jackson, sir. Someone arrested Perseus Jackson."
Torres went pale.
"Oh God." He grabbed his secure phone. "Get me FBI Director Chen. Now."
---
FBI Headquarters—Washington, D.C.
Director Raymond Chen was in a budget meeting when his emergency phone rang.
"Chen."
"Ray, it's Torres. We have a massive problem."
Torres never sounded rattled. Chen's stomach dropped.
"What happened?"
"Your people arrested Perseus Jackson."
Chen forgot how to breathe.
"When?"
"Eight minutes ago. He activated Echelon seven minutes ago."
Chen stood so fast his chair toppled. "I have to go."
"Ray—this is bad."
"I know."
He ran.
---
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
SEAL Team 6 was mid‑exercise when Commander Jake Morrison's radio crackled.
"All personnel, abort. Echelon Protocol is active. Ghost Teams to rally point Alpha. Wheels up in five."
Morrison didn't hesitate. "Again?" one operator asked.
"Some idiot arrested Perseus Jackson," Morrison said, already moving. "We're extracting him from FBI headquarters."
"We're raiding our own people?"
"Not raiding. Extracting. Big difference."
---
Back in Manhattan
Afferty's radio crackled.
"Afferty, this is Director Chen. Status?"
Afferty straightened. "Sir, we have the suspect in custody, preparing for transport—"
"DO NOT TRANSPORT. Keep him exactly where he is. Treat him with extreme courtesy. I'm en route."
"Sir, we have a warrant—"
"AFFERTY. Do not move him. Do not touch him. Do not breathe near him. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
The radio went silent.
Afferty stared at Perseus.
Perseus offered a sympathetic smile. "Told you. Eighteen minutes. He's probably sprinting through the building right now. Directors hate sprinting."
Afferty swallowed. "How… how did you know?"
"Experience," Perseus said. "The French were dramatic about it in 2018. The Russians swore a lot in 2015. The Germans almost avoided it in 2019 by actually reading their database flags."
"This is insane."
"Welcome to my life," Perseus said. "Coffee's still warm, by the way. Might as well enjoy something before your career implodes."
---
Author's Note
Welcome to The Immortal Consultant—a story about a two‑thousand‑year‑old immortal who wants peace and the bureaucracies that absolutely refuse to give it to him.
If you enjoy dry humor, government chaos, and a protagonist who's tired of everyone else's nonsense, you're in the right place.