Shadows of Loyalty

Chapter 4

The morning light had barely touched the skyline when Quinn stood in front of the unmarked SUV, dressed in a custom-tailored black suit. Hidden underneath was a lightweight, custom bulletproof vest—Gary’s design. It was sleek, flexible, and virtually undetectable, something Gary had proudly boasted about for months.

Quinn adjusted his earpiece and checked the suppressed pistol tucked into his side holster. The briefing was short and rushed. A high-value arms dealer who supposedly had ties to The Hand of Justice was making a quiet transaction in an abandoned textile mill on the outskirts of the city. The lead was promising but unverified.

Gary’s voice crackled through the comms. “You sure you don’t want backup?”

“I’ve got this,” Quinn replied. “Just keep the line open and track me. If anything goes sideways—”

“I’ll call the cavalry. Copy that.”

The mill was a relic of rusted iron and shattered glass, sunlight bleeding through cracks in the boarded-up windows. Inside, the silence was oppressive. Quinn moved with calculated grace, each footstep deliberate. He made it to the upper catwalk, overlooking the exchange point. The place was too clean. No footprints in the dust. No echo of whispered deals. It felt... wrong.

Then the first bullet sang past his shoulder.

“Ambush!” Quinn hissed into the comms, diving behind a support pillar.

Gunfire erupted from multiple directions. Whoever was here knew exactly where Quinn would be. They had anticipated every move. It was a trap.

He returned fire with expert precision, taking out two assailants with clean headshots. He moved low and fast, his training kicking into high gear. Years of Marine discipline and CIA fieldwork channeled into pure survival instinct. He scaled a collapsed support beam, rolled behind a conveyor line, and launched a surprise attack on a third shooter, disarming him with a brutal knee to the chest and snapping his wrist.

But one sniper remained. From an elevated position, he fired a single, perfectly placed round.

The impact hit Quinn square in the chest.

He dropped.

“QUINN!” Gary’s voice exploded through the earpiece.

Breathing heavily, pain pulsing through his ribs, Quinn blinked through the shock. He wasn’t bleeding. No shattered bones. Just bruising.

Gary’s vest.

“Still breathing,” Quinn groaned, voice tight. He dragged himself into cover, took aim, but the sniper was already gone.

Minutes later, CIA extraction arrived. The attackers were gone. Cleaned out like ghosts. No intel left behind. No trace of who tipped them off.

Back at HQ, the medical team cleared Quinn—just severe bruising. He walked into the briefing room where Gary was pacing.

“You good?” Gary asked, eyes wide with concern.

“Yeah,” Quinn muttered. “Your vest saved my life.”

Gary’s face lit up. “Told you! Slim-profile Kevlar-polymer blend. Bullet stopped cold, just like the tests.”

Quinn gave him a tired smirk. “Next time, make it punch-proof too.”

Before Gary could respond, Director Emily Mason entered the room and locked the door behind her.

“I need to speak with you both. Now.”

Her usual calm demeanor was replaced by something much sharper.

“Sit.”

They obeyed.

Mason folded her arms. “There’s a mole in the CIA.”

The room went still.

“A deep one. Embedded. Someone’s feeding intel to outside parties. Your op this morning? Blown. They knew you were coming.”

Gary swallowed hard. “How do you know it wasn’t one of us?”

Mason narrowed her eyes, her voice like a knife. “Because all I have to do is look at you and you break down. Remember when you stole my yogurt from the breakroom fridge?”

Gary’s ears turned red. “It had no name on it.”

She turned to Quinn. “And you’re too much of a damn boy scout to sell out your country.”

Quinn leaned forward. “So what now?”

“I’ve called in a favor,” Mason said. “An old friend. A little... unorthodox. He used to be one of us before he went rogue.”

“Why would he help?” Gary asked.

“Because he owes me. Big.”

Quinn exchanged a look with Gary. This wasn’t standard procedure. If Mason was calling in someone like that, the situation was worse than they thought.

She walked to the window and stared out at the sprawling city below.

“If we don’t root out the mole soon, this whole agency could collapse from the inside. I need people I can trust. That’s you two.”

Gary let out a slow exhale. “So what’s the plan?”

Mason turned, her face hardening. “We’re going hunting. And the first breadcrumb is already on its way.”

That night, after Quinn got home to his house, soreness creeping into every joint, he silently entered through the front door. The house was dim, the only light spilling from the kitchen nightlight and the subtle glow of the security panel. He placed his keys in the tray by the door, loosened his tie, and made his way upstairs. The ache in his chest reminded him of the bullet, and the rush of what had happened.

In the master bedroom, Alicia was already asleep. Curled beneath the comforter, her breathing slow and steady, one arm draped across his side of the bed. He paused in the doorway, watching her for a long moment—studying the peaceful rise and fall of her chest, the softness in her expression that only came when she was unconscious. He said nothing.

Still in his dress shirt and blood-smeared slacks, he walked to the bathroom, peeled off the bullet-riddled clothing, and stepped into the shower. Hot water rushed over him, stinging every scrape and bruise, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside his head.

The mission. The mole. The moment when everything went sideways.

The target had known they were coming. Somehow, the intel was compromised before they even suited up. Ambushed from three sides, his team scrambled to return fire. Quinn moved with lethal precision, instincts honed by years in the field. He dropped two attackers before the sniper’s bullet caught him—square in the chest. The impact sent him crashing to the ground, air knocked clean from his lungs.

If it hadn’t been for the bulletproof vest—Gary’s custom design, light and strong, thin enough to wear under a suit—he’d be dead. Someone had wanted him gone. And they’d gotten close.

After the shower, Quinn towel-dried his hair and quietly dressed in sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He stepped out of the bedroom, leaving Alicia undisturbed, and made his way down the stairs. But he didn’t stop at the kitchen. Instead, he moved to the far wall near the laundry room, pressed a recessed panel behind the shelving unit, and watched it slide open.

Beyond it, a narrow staircase descended into darkness.

He flipped the switch.

The lights flickered on, revealing a steel-reinforced basement office—walls lined with file cabinets, locked drawers, a weapons locker, encrypted drives, monitors, maps, and intel folders dating back over a decade. No one knew about this room. Not even Alicia. Especially not Alicia.

This was his sanctuary. His vault of truths.

He crossed the room, opened a locked cabinet, and retrieved a bottle of whiskey and a single glass. He poured a generous amount, sat in the leather chair facing his main desk, and stared at the bulletproof vest laid out in front of him. The plate was warped, cracked at the point of impact.

One inch higher, and he wouldn’t be here.

He took a slow sip.

Mason’s words still played in his mind:

There’s a mole in the CIA. Someone deep. Someone with access. And they want you dead.

And then—I’ve called in a favor. From someone unorthodox. He used to be Agency. Went rogue. But he owes me.

Quinn set the glass down and leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Who the hell was this rogue agent? And how the hell had their operation been compromised?

He’d been in the game long enough to recognize when the rules had changed.

And tonight proved it.

This wasn’t just another mission.

This was war.

And it had come home.