Page 59 of Cipher: Lethal Algorithm

He steps onto the pier, moving toward the shack. Thin, salt-stained jacket, fraying at the cuffs. The ragged exhaustion of a fisherman surviving on the margins of the delta. A man like that isn’t going to turn down an aggressive amount of cash.

I step out into the moonlight.

He stops. He tracks the weapon in my hand, his expression going flat.

I reach into the go-bag. I pull out two banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills and toss them onto the wet wood.

No words. He pockets the cash, kicks the mooring line free, and gestures to the bow.

I climb aboard. The engine screams. The boat surges forward, the fiberglass hull slamming hard against the chop of the Pearl River Delta. The impact travels up my spine. Freezing sea spray whips across my face, blinding me, soaking my clothes as we cut an aggressive, untraceable vector straight toward Hong Kong.

My pulse hammers against my throat. Julian fights an eight-to-two crossfire in the dark, expecting me to deliver the drive. He protected me. Offered me a future. And the only way I can protect him from the Architect’s trap is to shatter his trust.

We hit the Aberdeen harbor docks forty-five minutes later. The sky bleeds silver across the horizon, signaling dawn.

I steal a rusted delivery scooter from an open bay near the shipping containers. The ignition cylinder is cheap plastic. Pulling the housing and crossing the wires takes less than forty seconds.

Kicking the engine over, I merge into the chaotic slipstream of morning traffic. The wind rips through my seawater-soaked jacket. The air here holds weight—a heavy, humid collision of diesel exhaust, damp street-market concrete, and the sharp heat of the alleyway food stalls gearing up for the dawn rush.

I weave the rusted scooter between idling double-decker buses and cargo trucks on Connaught Road, keeping the throttle pinned. Hong Kong’s vertical density presses in from all sides. Skeletons of bamboo scaffolding cage the high-rises, and the aggressive red and gold neon of the street signs bleeds into the pale, smog-choked daylight.

The US Consulate General compound rises like a fortress on Garden Road. High walls. Aggressive security posture. And neutral. It belongs to the State Department, disconnected from Hutch’s clandestine channels.

I park the scooter two blocks away in a narrow alley. I walk the rest of the distance to the pedestrian security gate, keeping my face angled away from the street cameras.

A Marine guard stands behind the reinforced glass.

“Page Linus Shaw. Cybersecurity division.” I keep my voice flat over the intercom. “Tell him the Tbilisi server admin is at the front gate.”

The Marine scans my seawater-soaked jacket. He picks up the internal phone without breaking eye contact.

Three agonizing minutes pass. The heavy steel security door unseals.

Linus steps out onto the pavement. Early thirties, permanent dark circles, wearing a tailored suit overdue for dry cleaning.

A former gray hat, he’s brilliant and paranoid. I bailed him out of a catastrophic federal indictment four years ago. Since then, whenever the consulate needs a digital back door opened off the books, he calls me to crack it. Our relationship is transactional and proven, making it the only currency I trust right now.

His gaze drops to my clothes, locking on the rigid posture of my right hand near my pocket.

“You look like hell.”

“I need federal diplomatic immunity. Straight to the Ambassador’s secure office. No secondary routing.” I pull the thick manila envelope from my jacket. “And I need it logged right now.”

Linus looks at the envelope. He doesn’t ask what sits inside. We have the kind of history that prevents stupid questions.

“You’re burning something massive.”

“I’m keeping someone alive.” I place the heavy package into his palm. “Deliver it, Linus.”

“Consider it a ghost.”

He pockets the drive and taps the consulate access keypad without looking back. The heavy door seals shut behind him.

The drive is gone. The Consortium can’t touch it. The Architect can’t use it against the team. The data is secure.

Silence settles over the morning. The relief should overwhelm me. Instead, a hollow, suffocating vacuum opens beneath my ribs. I stand on the corner of Garden Road as the city wakes up around me. The mission is achieved. I’m alive.

I’m also very much alone.