It started with footsteps. Not the obvious kind — the ghost steps that matched Hale's pace half a beat too late. The soft shuffle just beyond reach. Then came the shadows that didn't belong, the cars that appeared twice too often on opposite sides of town.
He was being followed.
And whoever they were, they were good.
Hale sat in Bryant Park, the cold metal bench biting through his coat. He wasn't there for the view. His eyes moved in lazy sweeps, scanning the crowd — joggers, commuters, tourists. Ordinary people with ordinary lives. Except for the tall man in a tan coat who hadn't turned a single page of the newspaper in twenty minutes. And the woman with mirrored sunglasses taking photos of everything except the actual park.
"Third tail today," Red muttered from behind the paper he actually was reading. "You've pissed them off."
Hale didn't respond. His hand stayed near the burner phone, thumb resting on the emergency contact: Red's encrypted signal.
"You sure they're Blackstar?" Hale asked.
"Positive," Red replied. "They're not local. Military bearing, zero street rhythm. Too clean. Too... fed."
He passed Hale a small object — a keychain.
"What's this?"
"RFID scrambler. Run it past your locks at night. If anyone touches your door, it'll jam their scanner and flag a signal."
Hale pocketed it. "Useful."
"Not as useful as this," Red added, pulling out a tiny silver earpiece. "Bone mic. Silent relay. Works line-of-sight up to a mile. Welcome to the spy game, detective."
The lesson began in the tunnels.
Red led him through subway corridors, switching trains mid-transfer, using mirrored panels and reflective tile to check their backs.
"Rule one," Red said, ducking into a side stairwell. "Never walk a straight line. You gotta zigzag your route. Pattern is death."
"Pattern is death," Hale repeated.
"Rule two — mirrors lie, shadows don't. Always watch the shadow play."
"Got it."
"Rule three — you're never as alone as you think. Assume you're seen. Make them second-guess if they've been made."
They surfaced in Chinatown. Hale spotted two familiar faces from Bryant Park, now watching from across the street, pretending to buy roasted peanuts.
"Still on us?"
Red grinned. "Good. Let them follow. We'll lead them where we want."
Back at Hale's apartment, things got worse.
A note under the door. No envelope. No name.
"You're running out of places to hide. Say yes. We'll stop watching."
Hale crumpled it. Tossed it in the sink and burned it.
That night, Red installed signal dampeners and thermal blockers. Pinhole cams in the hallway went dark. The taps stopped transmitting.
But Hale didn't feel safer. He felt exposed.
"They want you paranoid," Red said, tightening a screw under the desk. "Because paranoia isolates. You start cutting everyone out, and then the only voice left in your head is theirs."
"I'm already halfway there," Hale muttered.
Red didn't argue.
At 3:42 a.m., the phone buzzed.
A number. No ID. No voice. Just a single text.
"She's looking for you. Charlie's sister. She says she has answers."
Hale stared at it, jaw locked. Charlie had no sister. Not one he knew of.
But the message still chilled him. Because someone out there wanted him to believe it.
Or worse — wanted him to hope.