American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

Kevin leaned back in his seat and remained silent for a moment. Then he said something very soft, almost drowned out by the sound of the engine.

“You are a good person, Lynn.”

Lynn did not answer Kevin's question. He simply nodded slightly and then turned his gaze back to the Michigan landscape outside the window, bathed in the colors of autumn.

They made a sharp turn on the highway outside Detroit, avoiding the city's core area. Jason's assessment of the route was correct—all federal forces here were focused on smuggling cases at the Canadian border, and nobody cared that an ordinary dark blue Suburban quietly drove past on the outer ring road.

Toledo, Ohio; Scranton, Pennsylvania; Newark, New Jersey—city after city flashed past the car window like a string of gray beads of varying sizes strung together. They changed drivers twice, stopped for gas three times, and washed their faces with cold water in a highway restroom. Pedro ate hot dogs from four gas stations and two bags of tortilla chips. Mike disassembled and reassembled his M4 carbine three times. Kevin read an entire newspaper he'd brought from Sioux Falls in the back seat, including the classifieds and the weather forecast.

At 4:17 p.m. the following day, the outline of the George Washington Bridge’s cables appeared directly in front of the windshield.

The Hudson River, bathed in the slanting rays of the late October sun, shimmered with a deep grey-blue hue. The ripples on its surface, stirred by the wind, created countless tiny folds, like a crumpled and unfolded sheet of tinfoil. The Palisades Cliffs of New Jersey rose majestically to the west of the bridge, their exposed rock faces taking on a warm brown hue in the sunset, the trees atop the cliffs already tinged with the vibrant, fiery colors of autumn frost. Traffic on the bridge flowed densely yet orderly, the vehicles in the six lanes moving slowly at a pace only New York commuters could comprehend. Occasionally, someone would honk, but no one was truly angry—it was simply the way the city breathed.

The moment Suboban drove onto the bridge, Lynn felt something indescribable loosen from his chest. It wasn't a sense of security—he knew all too well that Manhattan had never been a safe place—but a sense of territory. This was his city, his streets, where he had apprehended criminals, chased cars, and eaten a $1.50 hot dog in Times Square at three in the morning. He knew where every subway station led, which street had fire hydrants where he could park illegally without getting a ticket, and that the coffee machine at the end of the 26th-floor corridor in Federal Square only dispensed a proper-strength Americano by pressing the "espresso" button twice.

“We’re home.” Jason said in a low voice, his tone devoid of any particular emotion, but he took his right hand off the steering wheel for a second and gently patted Lynn’s shoulder.

The other end of the bridge was Washington Heights. After crossing the bridge, Suboban turned onto Henry Hudson Avenue and headed south along the west side of Manhattan. To his right were the trees and paths of Riverside Park, and to his left were rows of brownstone facades of pre-war apartment buildings. Several joggers in leggings and fluorescent running shoes were jogging along the path when a black Labrador Retriever darted past them, a twig it had picked up from somewhere dangling from its mouth.

Jason didn't drive directly to the FBI headquarters in Federal Plaza. According to the plan he and Lynn had agreed on the phone, their first stop was a location not on any official record—Jason's private apartment in the Lower East Side. It was rented in his mother's name, with the monthly rent automatically deducted from a bank account unrelated to the FBI, and the address not appearing in any of his personal files or insurance documents. Its existence was known only to three people: Jason himself, his ex-wife, and his lawyer.

The apartment was in an old six-story building on Essex Street, sandwiched between a Jewish bakery and a Chinese laundromat. The entrance was a peeling iron gate, and only two of the four buttons on the intercom were still functional. The stairwell reeked of laundry detergent and the musty smell typical of old buildings, and each step creaked in protest.

The apartment was on the fourth floor. It had two bedrooms and a living room; it wasn't large, but it was very clean. The window faced north, offering a small view of the sky and the fire escape of the building opposite. Jason had stocked the refrigerator with some basic food—eggs, milk, bread, a few cans of tuna—along with six bottles of beer and an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey.

Six people squeezed into the not-so-spacious living room. Pedro immediately took over the only sofa, sinking in with a satisfied sigh. Mike sat down in the folding chair by the window, opening his laptop and placing it on his lap. Diana leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed. Kevin found a low stool in the corner. Jason brought out a few glasses and the bottle of whiskey from the kitchen.

“Take a sip first,” Jason poured everyone a small half-glass, “then let’s get started.”

The moment the whiskey went down his throat, Lynn felt that the string he had been holding together for five days since San Francisco had finally snapped a little. The amber liquid, with its oaky caramel flavor and a warm, spicy sensation, burned down his esophagus, turning into a warm, comforting fire in his stomach.

“Alright,” he said, placing the cup on the coffee table, “now who can give me a clean computer?”

Mike nudged the laptop on his lap towards him. “I bought this myself; it’s never been connected to any of the bureau’s networks. The operating system is a clean install of Linux, and the hard drive is fully encrypted. I also brought a portable VPN router; the signal goes through a Dutch node of a commercial VPN service provider, leaving no trace of any connection to the US federal network.”

“You brought the entire IT department with you.” Lynn took the computer.

"I previously worked part-time as a technical liaison officer at the Los Angeles branch for six months. Some habits are hard to break."

Lynn placed the computer on the coffee table and then took the USB drive out of her inner pocket.

All eyes in the room were fixed on the thumb-sized black plastic case. It looked unremarkable—no label, no markings, its surface slightly shiny from being rubbed in a pocket for days. But everyone in the room knew that what was on that USB drive was enough to cause an earthquake in Washington.

“Before you insert it,” Jason’s voice became serious, “there’s one thing I need to confirm. Lynn, how much of this data have you personally reviewed?”

"I did a quick scan while I was in San Francisco. It included accounting documents, communication records, and some personnel file numbers. But I didn't have time for in-depth analysis; I've been on the move ever since."

"Where's Kevin? Did you look at the contents when you stole these things from the server?"

Kevin looked up from the low stool in the corner. "I've looked at some of it. Mainly the file structure and directory hierarchy, used to verify data integrity. As for the content... some of the folder names are quite alarming."

"for example?"

Kevin swallowed hard. "There's a folder called 'Training Plan'."

The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed.

“A training program?” Pedro sat up straight on the sofa. “Train what?”

"I don't know. I didn't dare click to look. You know the situation at the time; it was a miracle I even managed to copy the entire data package."

Lynn plugged the USB drive into Mike's laptop. A file manager window popped up on the screen, listing the directory structure of the USB drive.

He spent a few seconds browsing the top-level directory. The folders were named in a concise and systematic way—"Finance," "Communications," "Personnel," "Operations," "Assets," "Training Programs"—each folder containing multiple layers of subdirectories. The entire data package was approximately four gigabytes in size, which, for the core database of a criminal organization, meant an extremely high information density.

Lynn first opened the "Personnel" folder.

Inside were a series of encrypted spreadsheets, but the encryption method was not complicated—a simple password protection. Mike took the computer from him and cracked the password in thirty seconds using an open-source cracking tool.

The moment the spreadsheet opened, Lynn's pupils contracted slightly. A list.

"What's wrong?" Diana walked over from the doorway and looked down at the screen.

“A list. A list of fraternity informants infiltrated across various federal agencies.” Lynn’s fingers slid across the touchpad, the number of lines on the screen increasing. “FBI, DEA, ATF, Department of Homeland Security, U.S. Marshals Service. Each line has a name, a position, a date of joining, and an ‘active’ status.”

"How many people?" Jason's voice came from behind him, deep and resonant, as if it were rising from the ground.

Lynn scrolled to the last row of the spreadsheet.

One hundred and seventy-three.

The room fell silent for five seconds. The hustle and bustle of Essex Street outside the window—the honking of taxis, the clanging of the metal gates as the bakery closed, the hum of the dryers in the laundry room downstairs—seemed to be shut out in another world for those five seconds.

Pedro broke the silence. "One hundred and seventy-three federal agents have been bribed. One hundred and seventy-three."

“Not all of them are agents. Some are administrative staff, technical support personnel, or logistical support staff. But at least forty of them are active-duty field agents or mid- to high-level managers.” Lynn’s finger stopped on a name on the screen.

"Is Brooks up there?" Jason asked.

"Line 3. Richard S. Brooks. Deputy Director of the FBI. Activation Status: Active. Joined: March 2019."

Jason's fist slowly clenched at his side. His knuckles made a series of tiny clicking sounds.

“Keep reading.” His voice was unnaturally calm.

Lynn closed the personnel folder and opened the "Training Program".

This folder has a more complex structure than the others. At the top level, there are three subdirectories: "Facilities," "Subjects," and "Protocols."

He first clicked on "Facilities".

There was only one file inside—a PDF document with satellite images and coordinate labels. He opened it.

A high-resolution satellite image appeared on the screen. At the center of the image was an island—small in size, shaped like a slightly crescent moon, surrounded by the deep blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. Several low-rise gray buildings, a short concrete running track, and a large compound enclosed by barbed wire were visible on the island. The layout of the buildings had a disciplined feel characteristic of military installations—right angles, parallel lines, and symmetrical structures—but it didn't quite resemble a military base, as one corner of the compound contained an open area that looked like a sports field, and several glass-roofed buildings that resembled greenhouses or laboratories.

The coordinates are shown at the bottom corner of the image: 28°12′N, 177°22′W.

“Midway,” Mike said the name behind him.

Lynn nodded. Midway Atoll—the atoll in the North Pacific famous for the Battle of Midway in 1942. After the Cold War, the Navy closed the island's air station and transferred it to the Fish and Wildlife Service as a National Wildlife Refuge. Theoretically, the island should now have only a small number of administrators and occasional visiting scientists.

However, the buildings in the satellite photos are clearly not the size a bird protection station should be.

“Open the subject folder,” Diana’s voice came from above his shoulder.

Lynn opened the "Subjects" subdirectory.

Inside were a series of numbered files—not by name, but by numerical codes. Each file contained a photograph, a description of physical characteristics, a category labeled "Ability Type," and a brief text labeled "Method of Acquisition."

He opened the first one.

The photo shows a girl of about fifteen or sixteen years old, with long black hair, an Asian face, and vacant, tired eyes. Ability type: Temperature control (low-temperature direction). Acquisition method: In June 2024, in Los Angeles, initial contact was made under the guise of school counseling, followed by transfer from a foster family under the pretense of home care.

“Transfer.” Kevin repeated the word in a low voice from the corner.

Lynn opened the second one.

A twelve-year-old boy. Caucasian. Blonde curly hair. Ability type: Limited metal perception. Acquisition method: In April 2024, in Tucson, Arizona, both parents died (in a traffic accident), he was transferred from a state orphanage, and adoption documents were forged.

The third one. A nineteen-year-old African American woman. Ability type: Biocharge accumulation and release. Acquisition method: November 2023, Chicago, recruited through a community outreach program, with a "research subsidy" as bait to sign a voluntary participation agreement.

The fourth one. A 2-year-old Latino male. Ability type: Bone density enhancement. Acquisition method: February 2024, Miami, discovered at an illegal fighting arena, he cooperated on the condition of having criminal charges dropped.

Lynn flipped through the pages one by one. With each page he turned, the expressions of the people gathered around the coffee table grew increasingly grim. Outside the window, it was completely dark, and the streetlights on Essex Street cast orange beams of light onto the fire escape stairs of the building across the street, while several moths spun frantically around the lights.

"How many people are there in total?" Jason's voice sounded like it was being squeezed out between clenched teeth. (End of Chapter)