READ THE BOOK

The hotel suite was empty at three in the morning. The lights were off except for the glow from the city below. Tokyo. Or maybe Singapore. These jobs blurred together after a while.

I stood by the window. Sixty floors up. The city looked like a circuit board. Lights tracing patterns. Traffic flowing like blood through arteries. I could see my reflection in the glass. Scar over my left eye. Gray hair at the temples. Forty-two years old. Most of them violent.

The client was asleep in the bedroom. Tech CEO. Young. Rich. Scared. He thought someone was trying to kill him. He was probably right. Rich people usually are. I walked through the suite. Checked the doors. The windows. The vents. Routine. Muscle memory. My body moved without me telling it to. Twenty years of this. First with the Marines. Then Force Recon. Now private contracts. The settings changed. The work didn’t.

My phone vibrated. A text from the agency.

“Status?”

I typed one word. “Clear.”

Sent it. Put the phone away.

The suite was too quiet. That was the problem with high-end places. They sucked out all the noise. All the life. You could hear your own heartbeat. Your own breathing. The tiny sounds your body makes when it’s waiting for something to happen.

I sat on the couch. Didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t read. Just sat. Watching the door. Watching the windows. Watching my own reflection in the dark glass.

My hands hurt. Arthritis, the doctor said. I said it was twenty years of hitting things. He wrote arthritis on the form anyway.

I flexed my fingers. Made fists. Relaxed them. The knuckles popped. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

The first attack came at 3:47 AM.

I heard the elevator ding. Soft. Almost silent. But I heard it. Then footsteps in the hall. Four sets. Heavy. Tactical boots on carpet.

I was already moving. Across the suite. To the bedroom door. Opened it. The client was asleep. Snoring softly. Rich people sleep well even when they’re scared. I shook him awake. Put a hand over his mouth. His eyes went wide. White in the dark.

“Stay here,” I whispered. “Don’t make noise.”

He nodded. I could feel his heart pounding through my hand.

I closed the door. Locked it. From the outside. He’d be safer in there.

The suite door exploded inward.

Not kicked. Exploded. Charges. Professional.

Four men came through. Black suits. No faces. Masks. Night vision goggles. They moved in formation. Two left. Two right. Covering angles. Clearing the room. I was behind the bar. Marble counter. Good cover. For about thirty seconds. They saw me. Didn’t shoot. Came forward. Hands up. Empty. That was strange. The lead man spoke. Voice filtered through mask. Robotic.

“Jack McClain. Stand down. This is a retrieval.”

I didn’t move. “Retrieval of what?”

“You.”

That’s when I noticed it. The way they moved. It was familiar. Too familiar. I’d seen it before. Trained against it. In VR. At Project Looking Glass.

But I’d never been in Project Looking Glass.

Or had I?