The stranger didn’t lower his hood, but he lowered his pistol. It was a heavy, double-barreled distinct piece that looked like it cost more than Tim’s entire homestead. He stepped over the blood Valder had left behind, his boots making no sound on the sawdust-strewn floor.
“You’ve got about ten minutes before Valder’s hounds pick up the scent,” the stranger said. His voice was gravel, the kind earned by shouting orders over cannon fire. “The MDA doesn’t like losing face, and they hate losing blood even more. Name’s Mercer.”
Tim scrambled to his feet, shoving the warm derringer into his belt. “Mercer? Who are you? A spy?”
“Something like that. A custodian of sorts,” Mercer replied, gesturing to the door with his chin. “Grab your tools, Tim. Not the big ones. Just the ones that fit in a bag. And that manifesto. Especially the manifesto.”
Tim didn’t argue. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by the cold, prickling reality of being hunted. He swept his chisels, a small hammer, and a pouch of black powder into a canvas sack. He looked back at the shed. It was his sanctuary and his livelihood, and he knew he might never see it again.
“Where are we going?” Tim asked, blowing out the lantern. Darkness swallowed them, save for the sliver of moonlight cutting through the door.
“To the only place in Virginia safe from the Mandate’s eyes,” Mercer said, pushing open the door. “We call it the Foundry. It’s not on any map.”
They moved through the woods like ghosts. Mercer led the way, setting a pace that burned Tim’s lungs. Every snapping twig sounded like a musket hammer cocking. As they ran, Tim’s mind raced. The number scratched on his bench. He looked at Mercer’s back. “That number,” Tim wheezed, hurdling a fallen log. “One-seven-one. What is it?”
Mercer didn’t slow down. “It’s a ratio, Tim. For every one of us willing to stand against the tide, there are a hundred and seventy-one who will kneel for ‘safety.’ It’s the odds we face. Always have been. From the Romans to the Redcoats, and now the Mandate. We are the One.”
They broke through the tree line onto a muddy river road just as the sound of hooves thundered in the distance. Carriage lamps cut through the fog. It was the MDA outriders.
“Too late for the Foundry,” Mercer hissed, scanning the roadside. He spotted a shallow ravine filled with dry brush. “We make a stand here. You said you’re a tinkerer? Tinker something.”
Tim looked at his bag. A hammer, chisels, a pouch of powder. He looked at the approaching lights. Desperation is the mother of invention, but gunpowder is the father. “Give me your flask,” Tim demanded.
Mercer didn’t hesitate, tossing a silver flask of whiskey to Tim. Tim poured half of it out, shoved the black powder inside, tore a strip from his shirt for a fuse, and jammed it into the neck. It was a primitive grenade. Rough, volatile, and illegal as hell.
“Get low,” Tim warned.
Three riders burst through the mist, their coats bearing the faint, silver lapel pins of the MDA. They weren’t lawmen. They were cleaners. Valder wasn’t with them, but his orders clearly were to leave no witnesses.
Tim struck flint to steel. The spark caught the alcohol-soaked rag. He counted to two, his heartbeats thumping like war drums, and hurled the flask. It tumbled through the air, end over end, landing right beneath the hooves of the lead horse.
BOOM.
The explosion wasn’t military-grade, but in the quiet Virginia night, it was the voice of god. The flash blinded the horses. The concussion threw the lead rider into the mud. The other two mounts reared, throwing their riders into chaos.
Mercer was up instantly, his double-barreled pistol barking twice. One rider grabbed his shoulder, spinning away. The other fired blindly into the trees, the ball whizzing past Tim’s ear like an angry hornet.
“Move!” Mercer yelled, dragging Tim toward the riverbank where a small skiff was hidden in the reeds. They shoved off just as the riders began to recover, shouting curses into the smoke-filled air.
As the current caught the boat, pulling them into the safety of the river mist, Tim looked down at his hands. They were black with soot and shaking, but strong. He touched the pocket where the manifesto lay against his chest. Then the realization hit him like a cold wave.
“Sarah,” Tim gasped, gripping the gunwale. “My boy. They’re still at the cabin. Valder… he’ll go back.” He made to stand up, to jump into the water. “I have to go back.”
Mercer stopped rowing and grabbed Tim’s shoulder, forcing him back down. “You go back now, you die. And they die watching you die. That’s how the Mandate works.”
“I can’t just leave them!” Tim shouted, though the river fog swallowed the sound.
“You aren’t,” Mercer said, his voice dropping to a low, deadly calm. “We have protocols. My partner is already en route to your homestead. If Valder touches that door, he’ll find more than a frightened woman waiting for him. But you? You are dead to the world now. That is the only way they survive. If the MDA thinks you escaped, they will hunt you. If they think you drowned or burned… they move on.”
Tim slumped back, the image of Sarah alone in the dark eating at him. He had to trust this stranger. He had no choice.
Mercer reached into his coat and pulled out a small, iron coin. He flipped it to Tim.
On one side was the Agency logo, a shield bearing a quill and a gear. On the other side was a map, etched so finely it looked like grain in the metal. Stamped deep near the bottom edge was the number 17.
“Welcome to the fold, Tim,” Mercer said. “You’re Operative 17 now. The map leads to the safehouse. Study it.”
Tim clutched the coin. The shed was gone. His old life was ash. His family was in the hands of a shadow war he barely understood. But as he looked down the dark river, he didn’t feel fear anymore. He felt a purpose. The 171 were always watching, and back at the cabin, the war was about to knock on Sarah’s door.