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?

Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

You know, there’s something beautifully ironic about an anti-capitalist who exploits capitalism’s most fragile nodes to make his point. Enter General Ludd—a digital-age Luddite with a fondness for explosives and melodrama. He believes he’s fighting for the everyman, toppling economic systems one body at a time. Noble, perhaps. Effective, certainly not. You don’t bring down the machine by yelling at its gears—you become part of the oil slick.

While Agent Keen is distracted by a dying father and an identity built on secrets—spoiler alert, she’s not the only one—Ludd strikes at the heart of commerce: the skies. Grounding planes, panicking markets, creating the kind of chaos that gives a man like me… a rare and lucrative opportunity.

Oh, and let’s not forget the real fun—identity theft, black-market passports, and a little stroll down memory lane to acquire something very special. I always say: never waste a good act of domestic terror when there’s a legacy to be secured and a favor to be collected.

Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

Ah, Episode 7. “Frederick Barnes.” Now there’s a name that sends a chill down even the most fortified spine. You see, Frederick wasn’t your run-of-the-mill madman. He was a scientist—brilliant, methodical, and burdened with the kind of grief that turns a man’s genius into something… grotesque. When a subway car in D.C. became a sarcophagus of foaming mouths and collapsed lungs, it wasn’t terror for the sake of chaos—it was clinical. Barnes had found a way to weaponize a rare, genetically-targeted disease. All in the name of curing his own terminally ill son. Desperate men make dangerous chemists.

Agent Keen, bless her wide-eyed, morally-upholstered heart, tried to see the man behind the mask. She wanted to believe he could be reasoned with. But Barnes wasn’t looking for redemption—he was looking for results. He was ready to unleash an epidemic just to get a pharmaceutical company’s attention. I must admit, I respected his clarity of purpose. Deranged, yes, but refreshingly unambiguous.

In the end, Lizzie learned that sometimes, justice is a bullet. There’s no elegant way to contain a man willing to slaughter innocents to save one life—not in the world we operate in. She pulled the trigger, and perhaps she took a step closer to understanding the cold arithmetic of our trade. As for me? I had tea. Rooibos. It pairs well with moral compromise.

Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

Ah, Episode 6—“Gina Zanetakos.” A name that rolls off the tongue like a fine wine with a trace of arsenic. This one, Lizzie, is a particularly tangled thread—pull it, and the whole tapestry starts to unravel.

You see, Gina is no ordinary contract killer. She’s a corporate terrorist with a penchant for explosions and subterfuge, the kind of woman who leaves blood in her wake and questions in your mind. But what makes this escapade especially delicious is the revelation that your dear, sweet husband Tom… may not be so dear or so sweet. His fingerprints show up on things they most certainly shouldn’t, and suddenly the quiet schoolteacher seems more like a wolf in a particularly well-tailored cardigan.

I told you, Lizzie: secrets are currency. And in this episode, the market is booming. Everyone’s lying—Tom, Gina, even you, if only to yourself. But the truth? Ah, the truth always finds a way to crawl out of the shadows. Eventually.

Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

Ah, yes… Episode five. “The Courier.” An unassuming title, for a man capable of withstanding unspeakable pain. Quite literally—our courier doesn’t feel it. A genetic condition. Makes him rather good at his job… and a nightmare to interrogate.

You see, a package has gone missing—a man, actually. An Iranian hacker with access to classified intel. He’s being slowly suffocated in a buried glass coffin, left as collateral in a most unpleasant exchange. Time is short. Lizzie is, as usual, frustrated with my methods. I, of course, am patient. These things require finesse… and the occasional use of a cattle prod.

In the end, secrets are unearthed—not just in the desert, but between Lizzie and her shadowy husband. Always so many secrets, like layers of skin on an onion. And like all onions… eventually, they make you cry.

Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

It started simply enough—evicted from my caravan, abandoned in the wilds. A small injustice, but one that set the stage for something greater. There, I met Jean-Luc. A Frenchman, full of curiosity and charm. We built a house from sticks. A symbol, really. What are the foundations of life? The things we build, or the people we share them with?

Then came the boar. Bandit, as wild and elusive as any challenge. We chased him relentlessly, thinking the catch was the goal. But, as with most things in life, the chase was the point. Each failure only made us more determined.

And when it ended—Jean-Luc, gone with the dawn—I was left with a sprouting tree. A reminder of something fleeting, yet precious. People come into our lives, stay for a moment, then vanish. But the joy they leave behind... that’s what stays.

So here I stand, watching that tree grow, waiting for the next adventure. Because, in the end, what is life but a series of moments? Some fleeting, some lasting—but all worth every second.