The rain hammered the city like a relentless interrogator, turning the streets into mirrors of blurred neon and shadow. Jack Collins pulled his hood lower, his breath ragged as he darted through the alley behind the Apex Biotech tower. The USB drive in his pocket felt like a live grenade, its contents a death sentence for anyone who knew. Project Nemesis: a synthetic virus engineered to wipe out populations with 98% lethality, airborne, undetectable until it was too late. He’d stumbled upon it by accident—or so he thought—while debugging a server glitch late at night.
His fingers had trembled as the files unfolded: memos about deployment trials in remote villages, black-market negotiations with shadowy figures labeled only as ‘Client X.’ Apex wasn’t saving the world; they were shopping it around like a commodity. Jack had copied everything, heart slamming against his ribs, then bolted. Now, every passing car headlight felt like a spotlight, every pedestrian a potential hunter.
He slipped into a crowded subway station, the air thick with the stench of wet wool and desperation. Bodies pressed close, a claustrophobic press that made his skin crawl. Was that man in the gray trench coat staring? Jack pushed deeper into the throng, the metallic screech of arriving trains drowning his paranoia—but not quite. As the doors hissed open, he surged inside, squeezing between commuters. The coat-wearing man followed, eyes locked through the forest of legs and arms.
Jack’s stop came too soon. He elbowed out, sprinting up the stairs into the downpour. Footsteps echoed behind—real or imagined? He didn’t stop to check. His apartment was three blocks away, a third-floor walk-up in a crumbling brownstone. The stairs creaked under his weight, each step a betrayal. Inside, he double-locked the door, shoved a chair under the knob, and collapsed against the wall, gasping.
The laptop glowed accusingly on the coffee table. He plugged in the USB, files spilling across the screen. There it was: genomic sequences, casualty projections, even a video of a test in a sealed chamber—rabbits convulsing, fur sloughing off in bloody clumps. ‘For the greater good,’ one exec had emailed. Jack’s stomach churned. He had to get this out. WikiLeaks? A journalist contact? But who could he trust?
His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He stared at it, pulse thundering. Answered on the fourth ring. ‘Jack? It’s Mike. From accounting. You left your jacket—hey, wait, are you okay? You look spooked.’ No, that wasn’t right. Mike was the voice, but the line crackled with something off. ‘Just… bring it tomorrow,’ Jack muttered, hanging up. Coincidence? Or had they traced him already?
Sleep evaded him. Every creak of the building was a footfall, every distant siren a siren for him. Dawn broke gray and unforgiving. He couldn’t stay. Grabbing a go-bag—cash, fake ID from a shady online buy, the USB—he slipped out the fire escape. The alley below was empty, but as he dropped down, a black SUV idled at the street end. Engine growl, tires squealing—it lunged.
Jack ran. Through backyards, over fences slick with moss, lungs burning. The SUV couldn’t follow, but shouts pierced the rain—two men, burly, radios crackling. He vaulted a gate into a busier street, blending with morning rush. A cab—miracle. ‘Waldorf Hotel, now!’ He barked at the driver, who grunted and peeled away.
Checked in under alias, paid cash. Room 412, musty but secure. Laptop out again. Encrypted email to Lena, old college buddy turned investigative reporter. ‘Got the story of the century. Meet me tonight, Pier 17, 10 PM. Come alone.’ Send. Now wait.
The day crawled. He paced the tiny room, walls closing in like a coffin. Paranoia gnawed: CCTV in the lobby? Bugs in the phone? He smashed the landline, taped the peephole. Lunch from room service—untouched. By evening, cabin fever peaked. Curtains drawn, he peered out. A figure across the street, under umbrella, motionless. Gray coat again.
9 PM. Time to move. Back alleys to the waterfront, hood up, avoiding lights. The piers loomed, warehouses hulking against the Hudson. Wind whipped salt and rain. 10:05—Lena emerged from shadows, trench coat flapping. ‘Jack? What the hell?’
He thrust the USB at her. ‘Apex. Bioweapon. They’re selling it. Proof’s all there.’ Her eyes widened, scanning the drive. ‘This is huge. But why me? Why not go public?’
‘Someone’s after me. Saw the guy twice today.’ Footsteps splashed nearby. They ducked behind crates. Flashlights swept, voices low: ‘Split up. He’s here.’ Lena gripped his arm. ‘We run. My car’s two blocks—’
Gunshot cracked the night. Lena slumped, blood blooming on her chest. Jack screamed, firing blindly with the pistol he’d bought off a street dealer—missed. The shooters advanced, three now, shadows detaching from dark. He bolted, zigzagging through rusted machinery, bullets whining past.
Pier end—dead. Water black below. No choice. Dive. Cold shock, current dragging. Swam parallel to shore, lungs exploding. Hauled onto a barge, gasping. Sirens wailed distant. Lena—dead. His fault.
No more contacts. Only one left: Brother Tom, upstate cabin. Off-grid, loyal. Hitchhiked north, trucker dropping him miles out. Hiked muddy trails, paranoia a constant companion. Every rustle a pursuit, every birdcall a signal.
Tom’s cabin squatted in woods, smoke curling from chimney. Door opened—Tom, bearded, shotgun loose in hand. ‘Jack? Christ, you look like death. Get in.’
Inside, fire crackled. Jack spilled it all: Nemesis, the chase, Lena. Tom listened, face grim. ‘Show me the drive.’ Laptop fired up, files open. Tom’s brow furrowed. ‘Jack… this code. I recognize it.’
Jack froze. ‘What?’
Tom pulled a hidden panel, old photos tumbling: Jack in lab coat, smiling with team. Emails printed: ‘Dr. Collins, lead on Nemesis. Brilliant work.’ Jack’s hand shook. ‘No… I found it. I was fixing servers—’
‘Servers? Jack, you don’t work IT. You’re the chief virologist. Lab accident six months ago—chemical fire. You inhaled fumes, amnesia. Woke up thinking you were a nobody clerk. We covered it, kept you safe while you recovered. But you wandered off last week, started digging your own project.’
Lies. Had to be. But the photos… his face, younger, confident. A scar on his temple—he’d dismissed as bar fight.
‘Those hunters? Our security, trying to bring you home before you leaked your own work. Nemesis isn’t for sale—it’s defensive, against worse threats. But if it gets out…’ Tom trailed, eyes sad.
Jack backed away. ‘You’re lying. Apex killers—’
Tom sighed, syringe glinting. ‘For your own good, bro.’ Needle plunged. World spun, darkness claiming.
Last thought: Had the gray coat been his own reflection in windows? The footsteps, echoes of his flight? The secret that got everyone killed… was him.