“Ten Minutes Ago: Shock in Washington — The Man in the Red Tie”
The alert hit Washington like a thunderclap.
Phones vibrated, screens flashed, radios crackled alive. A single urgent line spread across the city in seconds:
“Security breach near Capitol Square. High-value target evacuated. Situation developing.”
No names. No confirmations. No context. Just enough to ignite panic in a city where rumor runs faster than truth.
Inside the White Sentinel Security Complex—a windowless building disguised as a transportation office—Agent Mara Collins was already sprinting down the steel corridor. Her earpiece buzzed with overlapping voices, none of them clear.
“Mara, report,” Director Hensley barked.
“I’m moving to Command now. What do we know?”
“Very little. Ten minutes ago an unidentified assailant breached Perimeter C during a public appearance. Shots were reported, but we don’t have eyes on who was targeted. The crowd scattered before cameras could confirm.”
Mara’s jaw tightened. “And the principal?”
“Evacuated—status unknown.”
That was bad. They never withheld the status unless the situation was critical—or political.
When she reached the Command Room, the giant screens were already alive with chaotic drone footage: crowds running in all directions, agents surrounding a motorcade, smoke drifting from the plaza. It looked like a storm had torn through the heart of the capital.
“Run back the audio from the plaza feed,” Mara said.
A technician rewound the clip. The speaker system crackled.
A voice yelled, “Down! Everyone down!”
Then a sharp pop. Not the deafening thunder of a rifle—something smaller, almost like a firecracker.
Yet the panic was unmistakable.
“Angle three,” Mara said, tapping the screen.
The third drone feed zoomed in on a figure in a red tie being rushed into an armored vehicle by three agents. His face was pale, his movements stiff.
“That’s the principal,” Hensley muttered. “But we still don’t know if he was hit.”
Mara noticed it immediately: one agent pressing a hand against the principal’s back, another shouting for a med pack. The vehicle sped off before the drone could zoom further.
“Where were the rooftop units?” she demanded.
“Rerouted,” a technician admitted. “Someone spoofed a threat signal on the north side. Our team responded to a nonexistent explosive device.”
A decoy.
A clever one.
“Someone created a gap on purpose,” Mara said.
“Or,” Hensley replied grimly, “someone inside helped create it.”
The room fell silent.
The Attacker
A grainy freeze-frame appeared on the largest screen. A human silhouette, partially masked, arm extended, fingers curled around a small device.
“That’s not a gun,” Mara said. “Zoom in.”
The technician enhanced the image.
A metallic tube. Compact. Sleek.
“A signal disruptor?” Hensley asked.
“No,” Mara whispered. “That’s a PSP—Pulse Shock Projector. Nonlethal but capable of stunning or incapacitating targets. Illegal outside black-market circles.”
“So this wasn’t an assassination attempt,” Hensley concluded.
“No. It was a message.”
A statement of power. Or a warning.
Before anyone could respond, the lights flickered. The screens flashed red.
INCOMING TRANSMISSION — LEVEL 1 OVERRIDE
A masked figure appeared on the central display. Voice scrambled. Face hidden except for pale eyes that seemed to pierce through the distortion.
“Washington,” the voice said calmly, “this is the first demonstration. Your leaders are not untouchable. Your systems are not infallible. Your security is not absolute.”
Mara stiffened.
“But do not fear,” the voice continued. “Tonight was not meant to kill. Tonight was meant to show you the truth: we can reach anyone, anywhere, any time. You will hear from us again—soon.”
The screen went black.
The room erupted.
“Trace that signal!”
“Scramble response teams!”
“Lock down the grid!”
But Mara wasn’t shouting. She was staring at the blank screen, heart racing, mind turning.
“This wasn’t terrorism,” she said softly.
Hensley turned toward her. “Explain.”
“That device—it’s rare, expensive, precise. Whoever used it had one objective: to show they could break through our defenses. Not to harm, but to humiliate.”
“Then what do they want?”
She paused. “Attention. Influence. Leverage.”
The Director exhaled, rubbing his temples. “God help us.”
Inside the Motorcade
Five miles away, the principal sat inside the armored transport, shaking slightly as a medic examined him.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, though his voice trembled. “Just a shock. A jolt.”
“It was a PSP pulse, sir,” the medic replied. “You’re lucky. A stronger setting could’ve stopped your heart.”
The principal swallowed hard.
“Who would send a message like this?” he whispered.
The agent beside him didn’t answer.
Mara’s Discovery
Back at Command, Mara studied the freeze-frame again. Something about the silhouette bothered her.
“Enhance the left sleeve,” she said.
The technician zoomed until the pixels sharpened into an emblem—barely visible but distinct.
A geometric symbol: three intersecting lines forming a broken triangle.
Mara’s eyes widened.
“I know that mark.”
Hensley looked at her sharply. “From where?”
“From a case that was sealed five years ago,” she said. “A black-ops intelligence group that went rogue. They believed world governments were corrupted beyond repair. They wanted to ‘reset the balance.’”
“You’re talking about Project ZeroVector,” Hensley whispered.
Mara nodded.
“But ZeroVector was dismantled,” he insisted.
“No,” she said quietly. “Officially it was dismantled. Off the record? Several members disappeared. We never found them.”
Hensley stared at the symbol, face draining of color.
“You think they’re back?”
“I think,” Mara replied, “they never left.”
A Message to the Nation
Within an hour, every media network on the continent was broadcasting emergency bulletins.
Government officials urged calm. Spokespeople assured citizens that the principal was safe. Analysts speculated endlessly about the mysterious attacker and the chilling broadcast.
But none of them knew the truth.
Only Mara and Hensley understood what the symbol meant.
This wasn’t the beginning of chaos.
It was the revival of something old. Something calculated. Something dangerous.
The Final Line
Later that night, as Mara walked through the dim command corridor, her phone buzzed.
A single message.
No number. No origin.
Just one sentence:
“If you want answers, meet us at the river tomorrow at dawn.”
Her heart pounded.
ZeroVector had reached her directly.
The game had begun.
And nothing in Washington would ever be the same again.
