Page 45 of Cold Ignition

Floor-to-ceiling glass stretched along one wall, overlooking the black sweep of ocean far below. The waves moved in slow, deliberate patterns, silvered by moonlight, endless and indifferent. It should have been calming.

It wasn’t.

Not here.

Not with them.

Three men sat around the table. No names were spoken. They didn’t need them. Power didn’t announce itself. It simply existed.

“They survived,” the first man said.

His voice was smooth, measured, carrying no hint of surprise—only mild irritation, like a variable that had refused to behave as expected.

The second man leaned back slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Not all of them,” he corrected. “But enough to be inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient,” the third repeated, softer. Thoughtful.

His gaze rested on the tablet in front of him, where grainy surveillance stills flickered across the screen.

Drivers.

Cars.

Moments captured just before disappearance. And now—something new. He tapped the screen once.

The image froze.

A car bursting through a structure. Black. Low. Flames along the base.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

The first man’s attention sharpened. “You know him?”

“No,” the third replied calmly. “But I know what he represents.”

“Which is?”

The third man smiled faintly. “A disruption.”

The word settled into the room like something dangerous.

The second man exhaled slowly. “We accounted for interference.”

“Not like this,” the third said.

He swiped the screen. New images appeared. Data overlays. Movement patterns. Timing.

Efficiency.

“He didn’t just extract them,” the third continued. “He dismantled the site. Precision strikes. Controlled destruction. Minimal exposure.”

A beat.

Then—“Military.” The first man’s expression hardened slightly. “Or trained by someone who is.”

“Either way,” the second added, “he’s a problem.”

The third man tilted his head, considering. “Not yet.”