FX-18 didn't wait for a reply. He pivoted, firing two suppressed shots that sent a guard tumbling into a stack of empty oil drums. The clang echoed like a funeral bell.
The warehouse on the edge of the Marseilles docks was a cathedral of rusting iron and the sharp, metallic tang of diesel. At exactly 01:33:13, Agent Secret FX-18—known to his handlers as Francis Coplan—pressed his back against a cold shipping crate, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight filtering through the skylights. Agent Secret FX 18 - (1964) 01:33:13
He checked the action on his Beretta. Silence was a luxury he no longer had. Somewhere in the labyrinth of crates ahead, the "Siren" was counting down. It wasn't a bomb, but something worse: a high-frequency transmitter capable of scrambling the guidance systems of every NATO jet over the Mediterranean. FX-18 didn't wait for a reply
He broke into a sprint, his trench coat snapping behind him. He reached the central control hub—a wall of spinning magnetic tapes and glowing vacuum tubes. At the heart of it sat a mahogany briefcase, wired directly into the warehouse’s power grid. The warehouse on the edge of the Marseilles