A few seconds pass as I struggle to regain my breath. I've gotta get out of here. Gotta get out of here. I drop the tainted knife next to Steve's body, and it hits the wooden floor with a thud. I shoot one last glance at Ronald and Steve, and with a pang of guilt, I limp out of the dark room. I struggle to maneuver down a long hallway, my dim shadow on the wall following my lead. I reach a flight of stairs.

“Oh man.” I mutter as I survey the steep, concrete steps.

I slowly ascend, crawling and limping pathetically until I reach a metal door. It's cold to the touch, and I hear a boom of thunder from the outside. I open the door to an empty parking lot, mostly enveloped by darkness. No moon is visible in the sky. A street lamp casts a yellow-orange glow above me.

The question hits me like a train. Where am I? Placing one hand on the stone wall for support, I gaze at the foreign parking lot, the apartment complexes across the street, and the dimly-lit phone booth. The phone booth. I'll make a call from there. But who will I call? I search my front pockets for change, only to find a broken cell phone and a strange piece of paper with a long code inscripted on it. 2056A179T0P4.

What could this mean? Why do I have this? I stuff it back in my pocket. I search my back pockets, and I find a brown leather wallet. I flip it open and find my driver's license. John Shephard. So I am John Shephard. This revelation is met with a boom of thunder. I catch a flash of lightning out of the corner of my eye. I extract 10 cents from my wallet and limp over to the pay phone. Who am I going to call? I step inside the booth, banging my leg in the doorway on my way in.

“Son of a-!” I wince, my injured thigh throbbing.

I have to square my shoulders as I enter the confined space. I spot a thick, yellow phonebook hanging below the black phone. I flip it open, and start turning pages mindlessly, my eyes glazing over the countless names and businesses. None of which will help me.

An idea suddenly dawns on me. I'll call a taxi. I pull out my leather wallet and glance inside. A couple hundred dollars. Okay, that should be enough. I flip through the phonebook and locate the taxi companies. I pick one at random and punch in the number. Ezekiel's Taxi Service. The phone rings for a few seconds.

“Hello?” a lazy, vaguely middle eastern-sounding voice answers.

“Uh, hi. I would like a ride please.” I respond.

“Where you at? Address?”

“Uhh....” I trail off, unsure of my location. I glance around the street, and notice a street sign. Riverside St.

“I'm on Riverside Street.” I answer finally.

“Okay man, a taxi will be on the way.”


After sitting on the curb for what felt like 10 minutes, a yellow vehicle pulls up.

“Hey, you called a cab?” the driver calls to me.

“Yeah, hold on.”

Oh man, here we go. I slowly and painfully rise, wincing as I struggle to gain balance with my right leg. I almost fall over.

“Hey man, you alright?” the taxi driver asks concernedly.

“Fine. I'm fine.” I answer.

“You sure? Looks like you're in some pain there.”

“Trust me, it's nothing.” I respond hurriedly as I enter the backseat.

The driver turns back towards me with an odd glance, then turns back around, shrugs, and starts the car.

“So where you headed man?”

“Where's the nearest motel?” I ask.

“That would be the Lamberton Inn, a couple miles from here.” he responds.

“Alright, take me there then.”

Long minutes of silence follow.

“So, uh, what you doing out here so late?” he breaks the silence.

There is a long pause as I search for an answer.

“Uh, just taking a walk, you know.”

This questionable alibi receives a suspicious glance from the driver.

“A walk? But your leg-”

“So, uh, what's your name?” I quickly cut in, desperate to change the subject.

“Elijah. Hey man, you alright?”

“I'm fine. It's just- yeah, I'm fine.”

The taxi driver shakes his head and shrugs, and the silence resumes. Thunder booms from overhead, and a bolt of lightning flashes in the distance. Drops of water start hitting the windows.The slow, steady series of patters quickly becomes a deluge.

What is going on? I suddenly ask myself. Who were those men? What did they want from me? What happened on that highway? Why can't I remember anything?

In my deep contemplation, I didn't notice the vehicle come to a stop.

“Alright, here we are.” Elijah announces.

I jump, suddenly brought back to reality.

“That'll be 20 bucks.”

“Alright, thank you.” I respond, handing him a twenty.

I step out of the warm, dry taxi into the freezing, soaking deluge.

“Have a good night!” he calls as he drives away.

I hobble across the dimly-lit parking lot towards the motel's office. A red neon sign above my head reads “Lamberton Inn”. It's slightly crooked, and some of the letters aren't lit. I am drenched and shivering by the time I reach the door. I pull it open and a chime rings. A fat, short man wearing a red plaid shirt and a white undershirt sits at the front desk, snoring.

I walk up and ring the service bell. No response. I ring it a few more times. He remains unmoved.

“Excuse me. Sir!” I nudge him on the shoulder.

“Hmm, huh? What?” the man raises his head groggily and acknowledges my presence finally.
“Eh? What do you want? Do you have any idea what time it is?” he responds grumpily, turning around and glancing at the clock on the wall above his head, which reads 1:23.

“I want to rent a room. How much?”

“How long you plan on staying?”

“I don't know.” I respond.

“Well, for one night it'll be 70 bucks.”

“70 bucks?! Just for one night?” I say incredulously.

“Take it or leave it pal.”

Seeing as I really don't have much of a choice, I take the offer.

“Fine. I'll take it.” I slide out my wallet and slap a fifty and a twenty on the desk.

“Alright. You can take room 11. Go out the door there and take a left. Keep going until you reach the stairs across the parking lot there, and it's on the second floor.” he instructs me as he hands me a key.

“Thanks.” I reply bitterly.

I head back out into the rain and make my way across the parking lot. A loud clap of thunder from above reflects my mood. He would give me one of the rooms farthest away wouldn't he? Jackass. Now used to the constant throbbing in my leg, I slowly ascend the stairs and reach door #11. The second “1” on the door had come partially unscrewed and hung loosely. I pull out the key, insert it into the keyhole and twist. The lock is rusted a bit, and the key gets momentarily stuck. After some jerking, the key turns roughly and the lock releases.

The door opens with a creak, and I step inside, dripping with freezing rainwater. A smell of mothballs and rotten fruit of some sort immediately hits my nose. I flip a light switch on the wall to my left. A ceiling light flickers on, and I observe my room. A single bed with a brown blanket lies against the wall in the far corner, next to a small night stand. The flower-patterned wallpaper is peeling in places. In the corner nearest me is a peeling burgundy leather chair. A small television with tin foil on its antennas sits on a wooden bureau against the wall to my right. Water drips from the ceiling in the center of the room. A stained carpet covers the floor.

“Fantastic.” I mutter in disgust.

I remove my soaked hoodie and toss it onto the back of the chair. Well, guess I'd better take a shower.

I grab a towel from a closet next to the bureau and head into the bathroom. I survey the shower, covered in soap scum and filth. I take off my soiled white shirt.

That's when I see it. The tattoo. On my right upper arm. It's of a skull with two daggers coming out of its mouth. One dagger has the word “loyalty” on it. The other says “power”. Surrounding the skull is a cog-like wheel. I know I've seen this tattoo before. I have definitely seen this somewhere.

As I shower, I am bombarded with questions. So many questions buzzing around in my head. Who were those people that captured me on the highway? What do they want with me? I suddenly remember Steve and Ronald questioning me about last Wednesday. What did I do last Wednesday that has them so interested? What happened on the highway? What is my involvement with all of this? So many questions and no answers.

I finish and step out of the shower. I grab the towel and dry off, suddenly realizing how exhausted I am. This has all been too much for one day. I throw on my old underwear, step out of the bathroom and fall into a musky, foreign bed. Sleep takes hold almost immediately.


I wake up in a flustered panic, drenched in sweat.

Hunted. I dreamt of being hunted. Those men were pursuing me, following me everywhere. I couldn't get away. I strain to remember the details of the nightmare. I glance over at the digital alarm clock to my right. 4:26. Ah, forget it. It's just a dream. I drift back to sleep.


Light filters through the bent, lopsided blinds. The sound of birds chirping emanates from outside the window. I throw the covers off and sit upright on the side of the bed. The pain in my right leg is intense and renewed. I am sore and stiff all over. I stretch and stand up slowly. Careful not to put too much weight on my leg, I head to the kitchen and get a glass of water. Completely dehydrated, I gulp it down despite the strange taste of the tap water. I flip on the TV and sit in the peeling burgundy chair. The pain in my leg has somewhat receded.
My ears perk up and I immediately focus on a news broadcast.

“There was a horrific incident on the highway yesterday, as a horrific explosion left many injured and dead. The affair was allegedly caused by a remote explosive, as detectives have discovered traces of explosive residue and a remote detonator. We mourn the loss of many from this mysterious incident. Among those killed are Robert Jones, George Wyman, Larissa Montpellier, Cindy Cantelli,” a news lady with big blonde hair wearing a red jacket goes down a list of names.

“And Sonny Valdez” she finishes.

Sonny Valdez. I remember that name. A memory flashes through my mind.



I am on my cell phone, driving down an empty road in the dead of night.

“Sonny. This Monday, it kicks into action.”

“Alright. I have the package, when do you-”

“Shh, not here. Drop it off tomorrow, in the usual place.

“Alright. Will do, John.”


“If you have any information regarding who could be behind this terrible tragedy, alert the authorities immediately. The police force is working around the clock to uncover the person or persons responsible. This is Rhonda Byrnes, CBS news.” she finishes.

I stand up and turn off the TV. I walk back over to the window next to the chair, push aside the blinds, and gaze outside. Then I see them. Parked outside the office are two black vans. The manager is outside, talking with men in black suits. They hold up a picture. He nods and points towards my door. S***. It's them. They've found me. And that bastard's sold me out. One of the men point, and a bunch of armed men jump out from the back of one of the vans and start sprinting in my direction.

I jump back from the window.

“Damn, damn, damn!” I mutter, beginning to panic.

I survey the room. No back door. I run into the kitchen and throw the window open. I poke my head out and look down. I spot a dumpster directly below. I slide my legs out, and jump.

The trash bags cushion my fall. My decisive leap had come just in time, as I hear shouts from above.

“Where is he?”

“Not here.”

“Spread out and find him! We need him alive!”

My heart starts racing. I need to move. Need to get far away from here. I crawl out of the stinking, green dumpster and find myself in a tight alley.

“Hey, this window's open!”

Adrenaline powers my legs, and I run with speed I didn't know I had. My only thought is to put as much distance between me and them as possible. Any pain in my right leg is momentarily forgotten. Urgent voices echo behind me.

“He's getting away!”

“After him!”

My mind races. What do I do? Where do I go? I keep running.

“Go for a leg shot!”

“No! We can't risk it! We need him alive!”

I take a left through another alley. I hear them behind me, in hot pursuit. Can't stop now. Have to keep running. I take a right and reach a dead end.

“S***.” I mutter, out of breath.

Nothing but stone wall to my front. I hear rapid footsteps getting closer. I look up and discover my way out. A fire escape ladder, about three feet above my head. I jump and grasp the bottom rung. I pull myself up and grab the next rung.

“There he is! On the ladder!”

I hear hurried footsteps and shouts below as I ascend the ladder.

“Get up there! Move it, move it!”

I look down. Two of them are already on the ladder. A sensation of panic rises, but I keep climbing. I reach a rusted metal platform with metal steps at the far end. I rush up the stairs onto a rooftop. I sprint across the black, sun-bathed roof until I reach the edge. With my pursuers hot on my heels, I don't stop. I jump across a five-foot gap onto another rooftop.

I realize it's the end of the line when I reach the edge. Dead end. I glance down the side of the brick building. It's about a 3-story drop, and no dumpster to break my fall this time. I'm panting heavily. Sweat drips down my face and cools in the light breeze. The high sun beats upon my sweaty brow. I turn around to face my pursuers. The armed men surround me. About ten M16s are pointed at me. One of them, who looks to be the one in charge, steps forward.

“You've got nowhere to go buddy. You're surrounded.”

I back up against the edge of the rooftop. I take another glance downward. Jumping would be suicide.

“Easy now. Don't do anything drastic.” he says, eyes fixed on my feet.

He takes a few steps forward. I grab him by the sides of his bulletproof vest and leap over the edge. He lets out a surprised shout, his face reflecting shock and rage. His body positioned under mine, we smack into the ground. His body breaks my fall and absorbs the full impact. I observe his lifeless body, and slip his handgun out of its holster. Urgent, incoherent shouts sound from the rooftop. I dash for the other side of the street. Drivers squeal on their brakes and honk their horns angrily. People on the sidewalk scream and disperse as they see the gun. I stuff the handgun into my pants pocket and duck into a metro tunnel. Shouts echo behind me.

“I saw him go down here!”

“After him! We can't let him escape!”

I reach the subway car and lunge inside. The doors slide shut behind me. I ignore the bewildered stares and occupy an empty seat. A few minutes of silence pass as my heart rate settles down. My exhausted mind is overwhelmed, unanswered questions float around in my thoughts, and I soon drift to sleep. A sudden, vivid memory forces its way into my mind.


I'm skulking up to a tall, dark building. I check my cell phone. 10PM, Wednesday. I'm at a gate with the words “SIGMA” on the front.

“You ready?” a man, who I recognize as Sonny Valdez, turns to me.

“Do it.” I respond.

“He runs up to the gate and starts fiddling with the key pad.

The tall, metal gate creaks open and we head inside.

“You got those security cameras taken care of, right?” I ask.

“Taken care of.” Sonny responds.


I wake up as the intercom comes on.

“Now stopping at Mulvaney Park” announces an automated female voice.

The doors slide open. I stand up. A small metal canister lands at my feet. I suddenly hear a deafening bang, and all I see is a searing white flash of light.

Tears streaming from my stinging eyes, I collapse to the ground. I can't hear or see. I feel arms aggressively pulling me to my feet and forcing me out of the train. I start to hear muffled sounds. People are screaming around me. I hear a man above me talking.

“We have secured the target, sir. Yes, I- No.” he snickers. “No, he's not getting away this time.”

I start to regain my vision. They drag me out of the metro tunnel and out into the street. I am thrown into the back of a black van. The back doors slam shut and the man that was talking sits in the driver's seat.

“You're not getting away from us this time, you son of a b****.” he turns back to me and smirks.

I suddenly remember the handgun in my pocket. I place my hand there and, sure enough, it's still there. Not now, I think. Not now.

Two armed men occupy the back with me.

“Who are you people? What do you want with me?” I ask.

No response.

“Hey! I-”

“Listen, either you shut your mouth, or I will end you right here.” one of the goons threatens, pressing a handgun against my forehead. Silence takes hold for the duration of the ride.

The vehicle comes to a stop in front of a tall, windowless building. The back doors open and the men hoist me up and direct me to the front gate, which I immediately recognize. SIGMA is emblazoned on the front. I enter another flashback.


“How much do you think these file passcodes will sell for over at that other agency?” Sonny asks me.

“A good chunk of cash. Those people over at SilphCo said they'd pay generously.” I respond.

“Good, good. The C4 is in place, on the interstate?”

“Yes.”

“But all those people, John. What about the civilians? They'll be caught in the blast. Isn't there another way?”

“Don't let your conscience interfere with our plans. This is going to be done, and it's going to be done right. We're going to be rich men.”


Man, was that really me? Did I- did I really do that? A pang of guilt impacts me as I remember the list of casualties from that incident.

“Sir, we are passing through the front gate now, target is secured.” one of the men says into his earpiece.

It feels as if I'm in a dream. The gate creaks open and I am forced inside, where we go down a long, brightly lit hallway. We pass rooms full of people typing at computers. Our feet make contact with brown linoleum floor. On the wall at the far end of the hall are the words “SIGMA Pharmaceuticals”, boldly emblazoned in red.

I- I remember this. It all seems so familiar. I am shoved into an elevator, followed closely by the goons in black suits.

Another memory intrudes into my mind.



I'm in a car with Sonny, sitting in the driver's seat. We're driving down an interstate.

“We're almost clear, Sonny. These codes are going to make us rich men.”

“Yeah, yeah. Good.” Sonny replies nervously.

Three black sports cars speed up behind us.

“S***, they've already caught on.”

“Relax, Sonny.” I hold up a detonator. “They won't be a problem for long.”

“Wait, John! We're not far enough, you can't-”

I pull the trigger. A string of explosions go off behind us. Suddenly I hear a loud boom, the car is thrown upwards, and everything goes black.


The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. I am greeted by a tall, fat man wearing glasses, with a white comb-over.

“Ah, Mr. Shephard. Finally.” he says with a false tone of friendship. “I suppose you know exactly who I am, as you used to work for me. Chairman Albert Wilkes, founder of SIGMA Pharmaceuticals.

I worked here? These men are my former colleagues?

We walk into a well-lit room with a long table and many chairs in the center. Various portraits line the walls, not one of which he recognized.

He walks over to a coffee machine on a nearby table and fills his cup.

“Why don't you sit down.” the men direct me forcefully to a cushiony blue chair.

“What do you mean? I used to work here?” I ask confusedly.

“Oh, don't play dumb with me. Of course you did.” He lifts his sleeve to reveal a tattoo.

A skull with two daggers coming out of its mouth, surrounded by a cogwheel design. Identical to mine.

“Now you know what I want, don't you? I want those access codes.”

Then I realize.That piece of paper! I still have it! My hands go to my left front pocket.

“I know you have it, Mr. Shephard. And you are going to give it to me.”

The men sidle up next to Albert.

“Now you were planning on selling the codes to our rival, SilphCo, weren't you? You and your pal there, Sonny. You both used to work here, until you decided to double-cross us.” an angry tone enters Albert's voice.

“I know you have the codes. Search him.” he turns to one of the men.

He walks forward. I finger the handgun in my pocket. It's now or never. I stand up and quickly pull it out, fumbling at first.

I c*** the hammer, aim the gun at the advancing agent and fire, all in one movement. I quickly turn to the other man as he pulls out his gun. Before he can get a shot off, I put two rounds into him. I turn to Albert, who backs away slowly with his hands raised. My hand is shaking uncontrollably. Reality feels distorted, as if I'm in a dream. I press the gun to Albert's forehead.

“No! No, please. Please don't shoot.” he begs, beginning to whimper. “Please!”

I turn away and pull the trigger.

The elevator dings. About five men step out, assault rifles aimed directly at me. Before I can let off a shot, they open fire.


I wake up. My cell phone is ringing.

“Hello?” I answer, in a confused daze.

“It's Sonny. Today's the big day. We're going to be rich men, John."