Chapter 9
They made it three blocks before SMG3's phone rang.
SMG3 stared at it like it was a live grenade. "I turned this off. I know I turned this off."
"Don't answer it," SMG4 said, but his voice lacked conviction. Because what if it was Tari? What if it was one of the others, in trouble, needing help?
What if it was their only chance?
SMG3 answered, putting it on speaker. "Who is this?"
"Jesus Christ, finally." Tari's voice crackled through, distorted and urgent. "I've been trying to reach you for twenty minutes. Don't talk, just listen. Your phones are compromised—Hawthorne's people have root access to everything. I'm routing this through seven proxy servers and it'll only stay clean for about ninety seconds, so shut up and let me talk."
SMG4's heart was hammering. "Tari—"
"I said shut up!" Her voice was sharp with fear. "I cracked the rest of the encryption. There's more on those files than just the murder footage. There are financial records. Offshore accounts. A whole network of illegal weapons deals, black site operations, assassinations. Hawthorne isn't just covering up one murder—he's covering up years of corruption. And it goes higher than him."
"How much higher?" SMG3 demanded.
"All the way to the top. The Vice President is implicated. Half the Cabinet. This is bigger than Watergate, bigger than anything. If this gets out, it brings down the entire administration." Tari's voice dropped. "But that's not the worst part."
"What's the worst part?" SMG4 asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"I found a kill list," Tari said quietly. "Active targets. People Hawthorne has marked for elimination. You're both on it. So am I. So is everyone who was in that archive room tonight."
The world tilted.
"But there's someone else on the list," Tari continued. "Someone who might be able to help us. Former FBI Director Catherine Wells. She was forced into retirement six months ago—right around the same time Senator Carver disappeared. According to these files, she was getting too close to Hawthorne's operation. They couldn't kill her outright without raising suspicion, so they destroyed her career instead."
"Why would she help us?" SMG3 asked.
"Because she's been trying to bring Hawthorne down for years. And we have the evidence she never could get. I already reached out through a secure channel. She wants to meet."
"It could be a trap," SMG4 said.
"Everything's a trap at this point," Tari shot back. "But she's our best option. She has contacts, resources, people who aren't compromised. If anyone can keep us alive long enough to go public with this, it's her."
"Where and when?" SMG3 asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Seven AM. The old cathedral on Westbrook Avenue—the one that's been closed for renovations. She'll be alone. She says to bring everything—all the files, all the evidence. She can get it to people who matter. People who can actually do something with it."
"And if she's working with Hawthorne?" SMG4 pressed.
"Then we're dead anyway," Tari said bluntly. "Look, I've done my research. Wells is clean. She's been living off the grid since her forced retirement, but she's been building a case. She just needed proof. We have that proof."
SMG3 and SMG4 exchanged a look.
"What about the pier meeting?" SMG4 asked. "Hawthorne expects us there at midnight."
"Fuck Hawthorne," Tari said. "We meet with Wells first. We get the evidence into the right hands. Then, if we're still alive, we decide what to do about the pier. But we do not walk into that meeting without backup. Hawthorne will kill you both the second he has the footage."
"He'll kill the others if we don't show," SMG4 argued.
"He's going to kill us anyway!" Tari's voice cracked. "Don't you get it? There's no deal here. There's no negotiation. Hawthorne is tying up loose ends. The only way we survive this is if we make the evidence public before he can silence us all."
The line started to crackle with static.
"I'm losing the connection," Tari said urgently. "Cathedral. Seven AM. Don't be late. And SMG4? SMG3? Don't trust anyone. Not the police, not the government, not anyone who claims they can help. The only people you can trust are each other."
The call cut out.
SMG3 immediately smashed his phone against the pavement, grinding it under his heel until it was nothing but plastic shards and circuit board fragments.
"We need to keep moving," he said. "If Tari could track us, so can Hawthorne."
They walked in silence through the industrial district, keeping to the shadows, avoiding main streets and security cameras. SMG4's mind was racing, trying to process everything Tari had said.
A conspiracy that went all the way to the Vice President. A kill list with all their names on it. A former FBI Director who might be their only hope—or might be leading them into an ambush.
And less than twenty-four hours to figure out which.
"We should split up," SMG3 said suddenly.
SMG4 stopped walking. "We already had this conversation."
"That was before we knew how bad this was. Before we knew there was a fucking kill list." SMG3 turned to face him, and in the dim streetlight, SMG4 could see the fear in his eyes. "If we're together, we're one target. If we split up—"
"Then we die alone," SMG4 interrupted. "Is that what you want? To spend your last hours running scared and isolated, wondering if I'm already dead?"
"I want you to live," SMG3 said, his voice breaking. "I want you to get as far away from this as possible. Change your name, leave the country, start over somewhere safe. I can meet with Wells. I can handle the pier meeting. You don't have to—"
"Stop." SMG4 grabbed SMG3's jacket, pulling him close. "Just stop. I'm not leaving you. I'm not running away while you throw yourself on a grenade for me. That's not how this works."
"Then how does it work?" SMG3 demanded. "Because from where I'm standing, we're both dead. And I'd rather it just be me than both of us."
"Well, that's not your choice to make."
"The hell it isn't!"
"We're partners!" SMG4 shouted, and the word echoed off the empty buildings around them. "That's what you said, remember? We're in this together. That means I don't get to sacrifice myself for you, and you don't get to sacrifice yourself for me. We either both make it out, or neither of us does."
SMG3 stared at him, something raw and desperate in his expression. "You're an idiot."
"Yeah, well, you're the one who fell for an idiot, so what does that make you?"
"An even bigger idiot." SMG3 laughed, but it came out choked. "God, Four. I never wanted this. I never wanted to drag you into something like this."
"You didn't drag me anywhere. I walked into it with my eyes open." SMG4 softened his grip, sliding his hands up to cup SMG3's face. "I chose this. I chose you. And I'd do it again, even knowing how it ends."
"How does it end?" SMG3 asked quietly.
"I don't know," SMG4 admitted. "But I know I want to face it with you. Whatever happens tomorrow—at the cathedral, at the pier, wherever this goes—I want to be standing next to you when it does."
SMG3 closed his eyes, leaning into SMG4's touch. "I love you," he said, so quietly SMG4 almost didn't hear it. "I know we haven't said it. I know it's too soon and too complicated and probably the worst possible timing. But if we're going to die tomorrow, I need you to know. I love you. I think I've loved you since the first time you walked into my café and ordered that disgusting sugar-bomb excuse for coffee."
SMG4's throat tightened. "I love you too," he said. "And for the record, my coffee order is perfect."
"It's an abomination."
"You're an abomination."
"And yet you love me anyway."
"Yeah," SMG4 said softly. "I really do."
They kissed there in the shadows, slow and deep and desperate, like they were trying to memorize each other. Like they were saying goodbye.
When they finally pulled apart, SMG3 rested his forehead against SMG4's.
"Okay," he said. "Together. But if this goes sideways—if it looks like we're not going to make it—I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"Run. Don't try to be a hero. Don't try to save me. Just run, and don't look back."
"Three—"
"Promise me, Four. Please."
SMG4 wanted to argue. Wanted to tell SMG3 that he'd never leave him behind, that he'd fight until his last breath to keep them both alive.
But he also knew that sometimes love meant making promises you had no intention of keeping.
"I promise," he lied.
SMG3 must have known it was a lie, because he smiled sadly. "You're a terrible liar."
"I learned from the best."
They found another abandoned building to hole up in—an old office complex with broken windows and graffiti-covered walls. It wasn't much, but it had a clear view of the street and multiple exits. Good enough for a few hours of rest before the cathedral meeting.
SMG4 set up the laptop, pulling up the files Tari had mentioned. The financial records were damning—millions of dollars moving through shell corporations, payments to known arms dealers, transfers to offshore accounts in the names of high-ranking officials.
And there, buried in the metadata, was the kill list.
Twelve names. Some he recognized—journalists who'd been investigating government corruption, whistleblowers who'd disappeared, activists who'd died in "accidents." And at the bottom, in fresh entries dated just hours ago:
Tari Webber24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsLLrZfsfLT
Mario Mario24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbeYeiB76xK
Meggy Spletzer24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡL3pbvgEdx1
Luigi Mario24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqpR3DtGEDc
SMG424Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKdGYNe66wx
SMG3
"We're not even at the top of the list," SMG3 observed darkly. "Guess we're not that important."
"Or they're saving us for last," SMG4 said. "Maximum psychological impact."
"Comforting."
SMG4 kept scrolling, looking for anything they could use. Anything that might give them leverage, or protection, or—
He stopped.
"Three. Look at this."
It was an email chain, heavily encrypted but now accessible thanks to Tari's work. Correspondence between Hawthorne and someone identified only as "CARDINAL."
The footage is a problem. The YouTubers are a problem. Clean it up.
Already in motion. They'll be eliminated within 48 hours.
Make it look like an accident. We can't afford another scandal.
Understood. What about Wells?
She's been neutralized. No longer a threat.
SMG4's blood ran cold. "Tari said Wells was clean. That she could help us."
"Maybe she was wrong," SMG3 said slowly. "Or maybe..."
"Maybe Wells is already dead," SMG4 finished. "And tomorrow's meeting is a trap."
They stared at each other.
"We can't go," SMG3 said. "If Wells is compromised—if she's dead and they're using her identity to lure us in—"
"Then we walk right into an ambush," SMG4 agreed. "But if she's not dead—if she's actually our only chance—"
"Then we die at the pier instead."
SMG4 scrubbed his hands over his face. "There has to be another option. Someone else we can trust."
"Like who? The police are compromised. The FBI is compromised. The entire fucking government is compromised." SMG3 paced the room, agitated. "We're two YouTubers with a hard drive full of evidence that could bring down the most powerful people in the country. We don't have the resources to fight this. We don't have the connections. We don't have—"
"We have the internet," SMG4 said suddenly.
SMG3 stopped pacing. "What?"
"The internet. Social media. We have millions of followers. What if we just... go public? Upload everything. The footage, the financial records, the kill list. All of it. Make it impossible to bury."
"They'll kill us the second we hit upload."
"Maybe," SMG4 said. "But the evidence will be out there. It'll spread too fast to contain. Even if they kill us, even if they kill everyone on that list, the truth will be public. They can't murder the entire internet."
SMG3 considered this. "It's suicide."
"It's the only play we have left."
"What about the others? Tari, Mario, Meggy—if we go public, we paint targets on all of them."
"They already have targets on them," SMG4 pointed out. "At least this way, their deaths would mean something. At least this way, Hawthorne doesn't get away with it."
SMG3 was quiet for a long moment. Then: "When?"
"Tomorrow. After the cathedral meeting—whether it's real or a trap, we'll know by then. If Wells is legitimate, we give her the evidence and let her handle it through official channels. If it's an ambush..." SMG4 took a breath. "If it's an ambush, we upload everything from a remote location and run. We don't go to the pier. We don't give Hawthorne the satisfaction. We just burn it all down and hope we survive the fallout."
"That's not much of a plan."
"You have a better one?"
SMG3 didn't answer.
They spent the next few hours preparing. SMG4 set up a dead man's switch—an automated upload that would trigger if they didn't check in every six hours. If they were killed, if they were captured, if they simply disappeared, the evidence would go public automatically.
It wasn't perfect. But it was something.
Around three AM, exhaustion finally caught up with them. They'd been running on adrenaline and fear for so long that when it finally wore off, the crash was brutal.
"We should sleep," SMG3 said, though he didn't sound convinced. "A few hours, at least. We need to be sharp tomorrow."
"I don't think I can sleep," SMG4 admitted. "Every time I close my eyes, I see Boopkins. I see that red dot on his chest. I see—"
"Hey." SMG3 pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him. "I know. I see it too. But we're still here. We're still alive. And we're going to stay that way."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
They lay down together on the dusty floor, using their jackets as makeshift pillows. It was uncomfortable and cold and nothing like the secret room at the café, where this had all started.
God, was that really only a few days ago? It felt like a lifetime.
"Three?" SMG4 said into the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"If we don't make it—if tomorrow goes wrong—I want you to know that I don't regret any of this. Not the investigation, not the danger, not any of it. Because it gave me you. And that's worth everything."
SMG3's arms tightened around him. "Don't talk like that. We're going to make it."
"But if we don't—"
"We will." SMG3's voice was fierce. "We're going to walk out of that cathedral tomorrow. We're going to expose Hawthorne and everyone involved. We're going to watch them all burn. And then we're going to go on that stupid date I promised you. Dinner and a movie and setting something on fire. All of it."
"You really think we can do this?"
"I think we don't have a choice," SMG3 said. "But yeah. I think if anyone can pull off something this insane, it's us. We're SMG3 and SMG4. We've been rivals, enemies, partners, lovers. We've survived everything the universe has thrown at us. What's one corrupt government conspiracy compared to that?"
SMG4 laughed despite himself. "When you put it that way..."
"Exactly. Now shut up and sleep. We have a long day ahead of us."
But neither of them slept. They just lay there in the darkness, holding each other, listening to the distant sounds of the city. Sirens. Traffic. The ordinary sounds of a world that had no idea how close it was to falling apart.
At six AM, they got up. Gathered their things. Checked and rechecked the dead man's switch.
"Ready?" SMG3 asked.
SMG4 looked at him—really looked at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands trembled slightly as he zipped up his jacket. At the man who'd been his rival, his enemy, his unexpected salvation.
The man he loved.
"No," SMG4 said honestly. "But let's do it anyway."
The cathedral loomed against the dawn sky, all Gothic spires and stained glass windows. It had been beautiful once, before the renovations started and the money ran out. Now it was just another abandoned building in a city full of them.
They approached carefully, watching for signs of an ambush. Snipers on the rooftops. Black SUVs in the parking lot. Anything that screamed "trap."
But the street was empty. Quiet.
Too quiet.
"I don't like this," SMG3 muttered.
"Me neither."
They entered through the side door, which was unlocked. Inside, the cathedral was dim and dusty, light filtering through the broken stained glass in fractured rainbow patterns. Scaffolding covered the walls. Drop cloths draped over the pews.
And standing in front of the altar, silhouetted against the rose window, was a woman.
She was in her fifties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a dark suit and carried herself with the rigid posture of someone who'd spent decades in law enforcement.
Former FBI Director Catherine Wells.
Or someone pretending to be her.
"SMG4. SMG3." Her voice echoed in the empty space. "Thank you for coming. I know you have no reason to trust me."
"You're right," SMG3 said, his hand moving to the small of his back where SMG4 knew he'd hidden a knife. "We don't."
"Smart." Wells smiled slightly. "If you'd walked in here trusting me blindly, I'd have been disappointed. Trust is earned, not given. Especially in our current situation."
"Are you really Catherine Wells?" SMG4 asked.
"I am. And before you ask—yes, I was forced into retirement. Yes, I've been investigating Hawthorne for years. And yes, I want to help you. But I need to see the evidence first."
SMG4 and SMG3 exchanged a glance.
"How do we know you're not working with Hawthorne?" SMG4 asked.
"You don't," Wells said bluntly. "But consider this: if I were working with Hawthorne, you'd already be dead. He has the resources to take you out from a distance. He doesn't need to lure you into an elaborate trap. The fact that you're still breathing suggests I'm exactly who I say I am."
"Or you want the evidence before you kill us," SMG3 countered.
"Also possible," Wells acknowledged. "But unlikely. I've spent the last six months building a network of people I trust—journalists, prosecutors, politicians who aren't compromised. People who can actually do something with evidence like this. If you give it to me, I can make sure it reaches the right hands. I can make sure Hawthorne and everyone involved goes down."
"And if you can't?" SMG4 asked.
"Then we all die trying," Wells said simply. "But at least we die knowing we fought back. That we didn't just roll over and let them win."
SMG4 looked at SMG3. They'd talked about this. They'd planned for this. But now, standing here in this abandoned cathedral with a woman who might be their salvation or their executioner, the decision felt impossibly heavy.
"Show me something," SMG3 said suddenly. "Prove you're who you say you are. Give us a reason to trust you."
Wells reached into her jacket—slowly, carefully—and pulled out a folder. She tossed it to SMG3, who caught it and opened it.
Inside were documents. Official FBI reports. Classified memos. And photos—surveillance photos of Hawthorne meeting with known criminals, accepting briefcases full of cash, standing over bodies.
"I've been collecting evidence for years," Wells said. "But I could never get the smoking gun. The one piece of proof that would make the case airtight. You have that proof. The footage of Carver's murder. The financial records. The kill list. Together, we can end this."
SMG4 looked at the documents. They looked real. But then again, forgeries could look real too.
"We need a minute," he said.
Wells nodded. "Take your time. But not too much time. Hawthorne knows you're here. He's probably already moving assets into position. The longer we wait, the more dangerous this becomes."
SMG4 and SMG3 moved to the far corner of the cathedral, speaking in low voices.
"What do you think?" SMG4 asked.
"I think she's either the real deal or the best actress I've ever seen," SMG3 said. "Those documents look legitimate. And her story checks out—I remember when she was forced into retirement. It was all over the news."
"But?"
"But we're betting our lives on this. If we're wrong—if she's compromised—we hand over the only leverage we have and die for nothing."
SMG4 looked back at Wells, who was waiting patiently by the altar. Then he looked at SMG3.
"What does your gut say?"
SMG3 was quiet for a moment. Then: "My gut says she's telling the truth. My gut says this is our best shot."
"Mine too," SMG4 admitted.
"So we do it?"
"We do it. But we keep the dead man's switch active. If anything goes wrong—if she betrays us, if Hawthorne's people show up—the evidence goes public automatically."
"Agreed."
They walked back to Wells.
"We'll give you the evidence," SMG4 said. "But we're keeping copies. And we've set up a dead man's switch. If anything happens to us, everything goes public. Understood?"
"Understood," Wells said. "And smart. I'd have done the same thing."
SMG4 pulled out the hard drive, holding it for a moment before handing it over. This was it. The point of no return.
Wells took it, her expression grave. "Thank you. You're doing the right thing."
"I hope so," SMG4 said.
"What happens now?" SMG3 asked.
"Now, you disappear," Wells said. "Go dark. Stay off the grid. I'll get this evidence to my contacts. Within forty-eight hours, this will be front-page news. Hawthorne will be arrested. The conspiracy will unravel. But until then, you're still targets. So you run, and you hide, and you don't surface until I give you the all-clear."
"What about the pier meeting?" SMG4 asked. "Hawthorne expects us there at midnight."
"Don't go," Wells said firmly. "It's a trap. He'll kill you both the second you show up. Let him wait. Let him wonder. By the time he realizes you're not coming, it'll be too late."
It made sense. It was the smart play.
So why did SMG4 feel like they were making a mistake?
"Go," Wells said. "Now. Before Hawthorne's people close in."
They left through the side door, moving quickly through the early morning streets. The sun was rising, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. It should have felt like hope. Like a new beginning.
Instead, it felt like an ending.
"We did it," SMG3 said as they walked. "We actually did it. We got the evidence to someone who can use it."
"Yeah," SMG4 said. But something was nagging at him. Something Wells had said. Something that didn't quite add up.
"What's wrong?" SMG3 asked, reading his expression.
"I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe I'm just paranoid."
"After everything we've been through, paranoia is healthy."
They kept walking, putting distance between themselves and the cathedral. They needed to find somewhere safe to hole up for the next forty-eight hours. Somewhere Hawthorne couldn't find them.
SMG4's mind was racing, replaying the conversation with Wells. The documents she'd shown them. The way she'd talked about her network of contacts.
And then it hit him.
"Three. Stop."
SMG3 stopped, turning to look at him. "What?"
"Wells said she's been building a network for six months. Since her forced retirement."
"Yeah. So?"
"So the email we found—the one between Hawthorne and CARDINAL—it said Wells had been 'neutralized.' That she was 'no longer a threat.'"
SMG3's eyes widened. "You think—"
"I think if Wells was really building a case against Hawthorne, he'd know about it. He'd have her under surveillance. He'd have compromised her network. He wouldn't just dismiss her as 'no longer a threat.'"
"Unless she's not a threat," SMG3 said slowly. "Unless she's working with him."
"We just gave her everything," SMG4 said, his voice hollow. "The footage. The financial records. The kill list. Everything."
"The dead man's switch—"
"Won't matter if she destroys the evidence before it can go public. We're fucked. We're completely fucked."
They stood there in the empty street, the weight of their mistake crushing down on them.
"We have to get it back," SMG3 said. "We have to go back to the cathedral and—"
"She's already gone," SMG4 said. "She's probably already handed it over to Hawthorne. We're out of time."
"Then we trigger the switch manually. We upload everything now, before they can stop us."
"We don't have everything anymore," SMG4 said. "We gave her the primary drive. We only have partial backups. It won't be enough."
SMG3 grabbed his shoulders. "Then what do we do?"
SMG4 looked at him. At the fear and fury and desperate determination in his eyes.
And he made a decision.
"We go to the pier," he said. "Tonight. Midnight. We meet with Hawthorne."
"That's suicide."
"Maybe. But it's the only move we have left. Hawthorne thinks he's won. He thinks he has all the evidence. He thinks we're cornered and desperate. So we use that. We make him think we're coming to surrender. And then we record everything. His confession. His threats. Everything. And we stream it live. We make him the evidence."
SMG3 stared at him. "That's insane."
"You have a better idea?"
"No," SMG3 admitted. "But Four—if we do this, we're not walking away. You know that, right? Even if we get the confession, even if we stream it to the world, Hawthorne will kill us. He can't afford to let us live."
"I know," SMG4 said quietly. "But at least we'll take him down with us. At least we'll make it mean something."
SMG3 was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled SMG4 into a fierce kiss, desperate and claiming.
"Okay," he said when they broke apart. "Okay. We do it. Together."
"Together," SMG4 agreed.
They had sixteen hours until midnight.
Sixteen hours to prepare.
Sixteen hours to say goodbye to the life they'd almost had.
And then they'd walk into the darkness, and whatever waited for them there.
ns216.73.216.141da2
and then Add to home screen.