The Obsidian cipher

Chapter 2: The Thames rendezvous

The coordinates led Elara to a bustling stretch of the Thames Embankment, just a stone's throw from Big Ben. It was the kind of place teeming with tourists and street performers, a perfect canvas for anonymity. The message had been simple: "Meet at the third lamppost east of Westminster Bridge, 22:00."

She arrived early, blending into the ebb and flow of the evening crowd, her senses on high alert. Every casual glance felt like a surveillance sweep, every hurried passerby a potential threat. Her old instincts, dulled by years of mundane data entry, were stirring, uncomfortably sharp. The air was cool, carrying the damp scent of the river, and the city lights shimmered on the water like scattered jewels.

As 10 PM approached, a figure detached itself from the shadows near the designated lamppost. Tall, lean, with a controlled gait that spoke of training, even in a worn leather jacket. He wasn't looking at the lamppost, but scanning the crowd with an unnerving intensity.

It was Marcus "Mac" Thorne.

Elara’s breath hitched. Mac. Her former liaison in Onyx Division. The taciturn, hyper-competent field operative she’d worked with on the 'Oblivion Echoes' mission, the one that had ended so disastrously. He was supposed to be long gone, fallen off the grid even harder than she had.

Their eyes met across the throng of people. A flicker of surprise, then something hardened and wary passed over Mac’s face. His hand instinctively went to his side, a gesture Elara recognized as reaching for a non-existent holster. He moved, not towards her directly, but angling to cut off an escape route, assessing her.

"Vance," he stated, his voice a low growl, barely audible above the city din. No pleasantries. No surprise. Only a question in his eyes: Why are you here?

"Thorne," she responded, her own voice steadier than she felt. "You got the message too."

He nodded curtly. "Oblivion Echoes. Had to be you. No one else knew that dead drop." His gaze swept their surroundings, unnervingly thorough. "What's Julian's ghost trying to tell us?"

Before Elara could answer, a sudden commotion erupted near the bridge. A black van, windows tinted, tires squealing, veered sharply onto the pavement, scattering tourists. Two figures in dark, tactical gear spilled out, moving with frightening speed directly towards them. They weren't police. They weren't agency. They moved with a chilling efficiency Elara recognized from her darkest nightmares.

"Run!" Mac barked, shoving her roughly behind a street vendor's stall before drawing something small and metallic from his jacket – a compact, non-lethal deterrent. Elara didn't need to be told twice. The hunt was on.