Chapter 8 - The Proposition in the Alley
I glanced over my shoulder. Leo was still engrossed in chasing pigeons around the fountain, safely fifty feet away.
“I don’t do propositions,” I told the man, keeping my tone ice-cold. “I left the chessboard behind.”
The elderly man smiled faintly, unfazed by my hostility. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a plain, unsealed manila envelope, resting it gently on the wooden slats of the bench between us.
“They call it leaving the chessboard, Major, but the pieces keep moving whether you play or not,” he said quietly. “Have you ever wondered why your avionics bay cooked itself mid-flight over a secure oceanic corridor?”
My eyes narrowed. The question hit me like a physical blow.
During the frantic minutes in the cockpit, I had been too focused on survival to dissect the root cause of the electrical cascade. I had assumed it was a freak lightning strike or a random electrostatic surge.
“What are you implying?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
“I’m implying that modern commercial avionics don’t simply experience catastrophic dual-bus failures due to bad weather,” the man said, leaning forward slightly. “Someone wanted to blind that aircraft. Or rather, someone wanted to test who was capable of stepping into the dark and turning the lights back on.”
He stood up, using his cane for support, and began walking slowly toward the narrow side street leading away from the plaza.
“Read what’s in the envelope, Dr. Lin,” he tossed back over his shoulder without looking back. “You’ll find that the storm you flew through wasn’t the only thing waiting for you in the clouds.”
I stood frozen for a second, my pulse hammering against my ribs. Then, ignoring every instinct telling me to walk away, I snatched the manila envelope from the bench, tucked it into my bag, and called out to Leo.
May you like
“Come on, buddy! We’re heading back to the hotel.”
---
