Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

Ah, Elizabeth… You know, in my line of work, it’s not the betrayal that wounds you—it’s the anticipation of it. The waiting. Like watching a scorpion circle your boot, wondering if it’ll sting you or simply scuttle away into the dark.

Anslo Garrick. Now there’s a name I hadn’t heard in years. A walking vendetta with a machine gun. He and I, well… let’s just say we’ve danced before. He never was much of a conversationalist, but oh, how he adored theatrics. Storming into the FBI’s black site with a small army? Bravado. Pure bravado.

I warned Harold that housing me in that concrete tomb was unwise. But bureaucrats love their rules, even as the wolves circle the gates. So there we were—trapped. Garrick with a gun to my head, agents bleeding out, alarms blaring, and that infernal box—a steel coffin designed to protect me but just as easily used to bury me alive.

Donald, bless his Boy Scout heart, proved tougher than he looks. Took a bullet and kept fighting. A rare breed. And Dembe… Ah, Dembe. Quiet as ever. Loyal to the end.

And Lizzie? She was on the outside, chasing shadows, grasping at smoke. But sometimes smoke leads you to fire.

So yes, Anslo Garrick, Part 1. A siege. A reckoning. And a grim reminder: the past never stays buried—it waits, patient, eager to carve itself back into the present with blood and gunpowder.

But then again, I always did love a good home invasion.

Care for some tea?