JohnyInglish

Chapter 39: The Flight into Shadows

Chapter 39: The Flight into Shadows


The first light bled through the blinds when Frank opened his eyes. His body clock had always been merciless — up before dawn, sharp even on mornings after restless nights. The air smelled faintly of smoke and coffee from yesterday, mixed with something softer: Zoey’s perfume lingering on the sheets.


For a long moment, he just sat at the edge of the bed, cigarette between his fingers, staring at nothing. Then the soldier in him kicked back in. He lit up, inhaled deep, and got moving.


By the time Zoey stirred, Frank already had two mugs of coffee steaming on the table. She padded over, hair falling across her face, eyes still heavy but alert.


"Morning," she murmured, reaching for her cup.


Frank gave her a nod, exhaling a ribbon of smoke. "Morning. You packed?"


Zoey sipped, smirking over the rim of her mug. "Not yet. I was waiting to see what you’d forget, so I could rub it in later."


Frank’s lips twitched, almost a smile. "I don’t forget."


She leaned her elbows on the table. "But you worry. You’re already wound tight about Northvale."


His gaze turned to the window, city shadows still stretched long in the dawn. "Something about this mission isn’t sitting right. It’s too quiet. Too vague. My gut says we’re walking into something we don’t understand."


Zoey reached across the table, brushing her fingers against his hand. "Then we’ll understand it together. Whatever comes, Frank, we’ll face it. And we’ll win."


For once, Frank let the words sink in. Trust wasn’t easy for him, but Zoey had a way of making it feel less like a risk and more like a weapon.


By mid-morning, Frank dropped Zoey at her apartment. The car hummed low, some old blues riff spilling through the radio. Neither spoke much on the ride, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was heavy with anticipation.


As Zoey stepped out, Frank said quietly, "Call me when you pack. Cross-check every item."


Zoey gave him a mock salute. "Yes, sir. Don’t slack, Miller."


Packing was a ritual. Frank laid everything out with military precision: sidearm, spare magazines, lockpicks, burner phone, medkit, clearance papers. His mercenary past spoke in the order of his gear — every tool where it belonged, every piece accounted for.


The phone buzzed. Zoey.


"Flashlight?" she asked.


"Packed."


"Body armor?"


"Strapped. Comms?"


"Always."


They worked through the checklist like soldiers about to march into a storm. Then silence. Neither wanted to admit the truth: no amount of gear could prepare them for the unknown.


Zoey’s voice broke the quiet. "Feels like... we’re not coming back the same, doesn’t it?"


Frank stared at the pistol on his desk. We never do.


He didn’t say it out loud.


At 2 p.m., the call came through. Their ride was ready.


By 3, they stood at the base, bags packed, weapons sealed tight. The quartermaster eyed them like he’d seen a hundred before. He handed over two customized rifles, sleek sidearms, and a pair of compact drones barely the size of a fist.


"Experimental tech," the man said. "Don’t break it."


Zoey raised a brow. "What do they do?"


"Survive long enough," the quartermaster said, "and you’ll find out."


Frank tucked the gear into his bag, expression unreadable.


The helicopter roared to life, blades tearing through the air. Dust and grit stung their faces as they boarded, the cabin rattling under the power. Headsets muffled the thunder, cutting it down to a dull roar.


Zoey leaned toward Frank, her voice tinny through the comms. "So. Tell me what you really know about Northvale."


Frank stared out the open side, city shrinking below them. "Not much. And that’s already too much. It’s a city of masks. Bright lights, neon, inventions that change the world on the surface. But underneath — syndicates, data thieves, black markets where lives are bought and sold with a line of code. Weekdays, it’s chaos. Sundays, it’s a dead city. Empty. Hollow. Like the whole place is holding its breath."


Zoey shivered, though she hid it with a small laugh. "Sounds like hell in a business suit."


Frank’s jaw tightened. "Exactly."


The rest of the flight passed in silence. Both stared out the chopper’s open door, neon sprawl giving way to jagged skylines. The closer they got, the quieter they became, nerves sharpening into resolve. Whatever Northvale threw at them, they’d be ready.


They landed hard, rotors still screaming as armed escorts rushed them inside. The Operation Command Room looked like the brain of a machine: glowing screens, officers moving in practiced rhythm, the hum of servers filling the air.


A tall man stepped forward. Broad shoulders, weathered eyes, and a voice like gravel.


"Colonel Rickleton," he introduced himself, then with a grin: "But you can call me Ricky."


Zoey glanced at Frank, stifling a laugh. Frank’s eyebrow arched — the closest he got to amusement.


For a moment, the heavy air cracked lighter.


"Welcome to Northvale," Ricky said, voice hardening again. "You’ll get your full briefing tomorrow. Tonight, you rest."


Frank’s gaze narrowed. "No preview? Not even a hint?"


The colonel studied him for a moment, then leaned in. "Major tech scam. Bigger than anything Velmara’s seen."


Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left.


Zoey folded her arms. "That’s... not comforting."


Frank lit another cigarette, the flame bright in the sterile light. "It’s vague on purpose. Means whatever’s going on... it’s already too big."


They were led to the barracks — Frank to the men’s, Zoey to the women’s.


Frank’s quarters were plain: metal bunks, rows of lockers, the smell of gun oil and old sweat. Soldiers greeted him with nods, curiosity flickering in their eyes. He didn’t speak much, just watched, listened.


Dinner was stew and bread, washed down with bitter black tea. Conversations floated around him: whispers of cyber-heists, syndicates, even names of cartels muttered like curses. Frank stored every word.


Zoey, across in her own quarters, felt the same eyes on her. Some measured, some skeptical. But she knew one thing — having Frank by her side would tip the balance.


Later, Frank lay on the bunk, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, staring at the ceiling. The barracks noise had died to silence, soldiers drifting to sleep.


His thoughts were sharp, restless. Tech scam. Cybercrime. Shadows with keyboards. But why us? Why now?


The napkin’s words returned, etched like scars in his mind:


Never get out of the fight. Be ready for a mission.


Frank closed his eyes, smoke curling in the dark. Sleep came slow, heavy, carrying questions into the night.


Tomorrow, Northvale would show its true face.