Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

You know, there’s a peculiar breed of monster that doesn’t wear a mask at all—just walks among us, perfectly average, perhaps even charming, until you catch a glimpse of the rot beneath. The Good Samaritan Killer is precisely that sort: a vindictive little phantom with a martyr complex and a scalpel, doling out retribution under the pretense of justice. Eye for an eye, rib for a rib. I’ve met his kind in Dar es Salaam and Düsseldorf—people who confuse vengeance with virtue.

Meanwhile, my delightful friends at the FBI are chasing shadows while I, as ever, do the heavy lifting. I’m hunting someone too: the man who put a bullet through the beautiful curve of my ribcage. And believe me, when I find him, it won’t be an act of revenge. It will be a lesson in consequences.

Ah, and Lizzie. Poor, stubborn Lizzie. Still clinging to the hope that her life isn’t riddled with secrets. I do admire her resolve. I truly do.

So pour yourself something strong and buckle up. This one’s messy.

Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

There’s something poetic about being caged. Not in the literal sense—though I was, of course, boxed in like a prize thoroughbred at the glue factory—but in the existential sense. You see the truth of people when the bullets start flying. The veneer peels away. The cowardice. The courage. The betrayal.

Anslo Garrick continued his symphony of carnage with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. His objective was clear: extract me, by force or by blood. I don’t begrudge him that—it’s just business, after all—but I do take issue with his taste in music. So loud. So… uncultured.

Inside that box, I had a front-row seat to the collapse of order. Poor Luli… loyal, intelligent, utterly irreplaceable. She was executed in cold blood. And Dembe? Even bound and bleeding, he was unshakable. I’ve seen mountains with less resolve.

But the real twist? The mole. The rot inside the FBI. You think you’re surrounded by patriots, people with credentials and lanyards and moral compasses, and then—snap!—someone’s feeding your movements to the highest bidder. It’s always the quiet ones.

And then there’s you, Elizabeth. Racing against time, clutching at shards of hope like a child collecting fireflies in a jar that’s already cracked. You did well. Found Aram. Got the signal. Nearly saved the day.

Nearly.

But in the end, the box was opened—not by rescue, but by design. Mine. You see, I had a contingency. I always have a contingency. And when the dust settled, when Garrick made his fatal mistake, well… let’s just say I reminded him that I am not a man to be cornered.

Trust is a luxury I cannot afford, and sentiment… sentiment is a weakness best left to those who haven’t made enemies of the world.

So yes, Part 2. Blood. Steel. Loyalty. And the high cost of knowing me.

Now then… would you pass the salt? These eggs are a bit bland.

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?