Special Agent Lucas Monroe stared at his phone, brow furrowed, as he sat in his cramped office at the North Carolina branch of Homeland Security. The call had come in twenty minutes ago, directly from someone in D.C.—not his usual chain of command. And the request had been, frankly, bizarre.
"Check the markings," the voice had said. "A patient admitted to St. Mary's two days ago. A young woman, name's Jenna Ralston. We received an alert through a flagged system. This may be connected to a pattern we're tracking. We need visual confirmation."
Markings?
He'd half-expected them to follow it up with a joke. Tattoos? Was this really how they were using federal resources now?
Still, a minute later, an encrypted message arrived with an attachment: a blurry but unmistakable photo of a wrist bearing seven strange geometric symbols—angular, almost tribal, and nothing Monroe had ever seen in any gang or criminal database. The image had been flagged by a facial-recognition program used on hospital security feeds.
He tapped the image again, zooming in. The symbols were intricate, too symmetrical to be random. They looked almost… ancient.
Or alien.
"This better not be another prank from cyber ops," Monroe muttered to himself as he grabbed his keys and badge.
The automatic doors of St. Mary's Hospital slid open, and Monroe flashed his badge at the receptionist with practiced ease. "Agent Lucas Monroe, Homeland Security. I'm here to check on a patient, Jenna Ralston. I was told she was brought in two days ago."
The nurse blinked, surprised, then nodded slowly. "ICU. Room 312. Still unconscious."
"Anyone else been in to see her?"
She hesitated. "Only one or two friends. No family listed. You'll need to speak with Dr. Mahoney before going in."
"I'll catch up with him afterwards," Monroe said, already walking away.
He moved through the hall with calm urgency, his boots clicking against the tile. The ICU was quieter than he expected. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. When he reached Room 312, he paused, took a breath, and pushed the door open.
The room was dim, with only the soft beeping of machines and the low whir of oxygen flow breaking the silence. Jenna lay still on the bed, her face pale, a bandage at her temple. Her left arm rested limply outside the covers.
Monroe approached slowly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching.
Then he lifted the edge of her blanket and gently turned her wrist upward.
There they were.
Exactly as in the photo: seven symbols, tattooed into the skin like inked constellations.
His brows drew together.
Just fucking tattoos. He thought
He took out his phone, snapped two quick photos, then pulled back the blanket and stepped away.
Just as he reached the door, he stopped.
Turning back to Jenna, he stared for a long moment.
"Why the hell would the government be interested in tattoos?" he whispered.
" Are you some weird new cult?"
Then he left the room, already dialing D.C.
"She's got them," he said quietly into the phone. "All seven. Just like the image. We've got a confirmed case."
There was silence on the other end.
Then: "Keep eyes on her. We're sending someone. Do not let anyone near her"
As the call ended, Monroe looked through the small glass window in the door at the unconscious girl lying on the bed.
He had no idea what those markings meant.
But he had the sinking feeling things were about to get very, very complicated.
He grabbed his phone and quickly dialed his wife, letting her know he would be late for dinner. His job now was to babysit and unconscious girl who was not going anywhere.
This was usually a job for the local police, but his instructions crystal clear: watch the girl, don't lose her. Reinforcements would be arriving within the next twenty-four hours. Until then, she was his responsibility. To do that he needed a few things from his car.
Agent Monroe stepped into the dimly lit stairwell, the click of his polished shoes echoing against the concrete walls as he descended toward the underground parking garage. The cold metal handrail felt slightly damp under his grip. Everything about the place felt colder, quieter—an unnatural stillness hanging in the air.
But something about it still didn't sit right with him.
Those markings—they weren't normal tattoos that you see everyday, but Tattoos even strange ones do not trigger encrypted alerts at Homeland Security's biometric recognition database.
As he pushed the door open into the underground garage, his other hand instinctively brushed the grip of the Glock holstered beneath his jacket. He wasn't expecting trouble, but his instincts were on high alert.
The garage was nearly empty, save for a few parked sedans and the hum of a lone overhead fluorescent flickering ominously. His black SUV sat near the back, right where he left it, the shadows from the concrete pillars swallowing most of the space around it.
Lucas walked calmly, keys in hand. The distant echo of a door slamming somewhere above reverberated faintly through the structure, followed by silence.
He reached his car, pressed the unlock button, and the lights flashed in acknowledgment. Just as he reached for the handle—
Crack.
Pain exploded at the base of his skull.
White-hot light flared behind his eyes, and the world spun violently sideways.
He dropped to one knee, his gun still holstered, his fingers scrambling for it. But before he could draw it, a powerful arm grabbed him from behind, yanking him backward. He found himself flying through the air into the side of the stone pillar, slamming against it in a bone shattering force, his breath caught in a choking gasp.
Then darkness swallowed him whole.
Sam had just pulled into his driveway and squeezed his big truck beside Emily, just as the sun was dipping behind the trees, when his phone buzzed with an incoming call. He glanced at the screen—Jake.
He swiped to answer. "Jake, what's up?"
Jake's voice came through, fast and tight. "Sam, I'm at the hospital. I came to check on Jenna, but something weird just happened."
Sam sat up straighter in his seat. "Weird how?"
"I saw some guy coming out of her room. Never seen him before, and he is no doctor or nurse."
Sam's heart thudded. "Did he see you?"
"No. I ducked behind the nurse station. But I don't like this, He was looking around all suspicious like, do you think its him, the one that is after us ?"
"I don't know," Sam said, already turning his key back in the ignition. "Don't do anything yet. I'm coming right now. We'll confront him together."
"I don't know, Sam. I think he's leaving. If I don't follow him now—"
"Jake, don't," Sam warned. "Just wait for me. Ten minutes."
But the line went dead.
Panic flood hime as he quickly tried to call Jake again, he was visibly pissed when he went straight to voice mail.
Quickly he ran inside to let Emily know what happen. She ushered him out, watching him as he jumped back in his truck.
In the underground garage beneath St. Mary's, Jake crept between two parked cars, eyes locked on the man in the black suit as he headed toward his SUV. The tension in Jake's chest felt like a coiled spring ready to snap.
The guy looked official, dangerous. And something in Jake's gut screamed he wasn't here to help.
As the man opened his car door, Jake made a decision.
He launched forward, slamming into the man's back with the full weight of his body. The agent grunted in surprise, crashing into the side of the SUV. Before he could recover, Jake grabbed him and threw him backwards with all the force he could muster.
The man slammed into the pillar and collapse in a heap.
Jake stood over him, panting hard, adrenaline roaring in his ears.
"Holy shit…" he breathed, crouching down beside the unconscious man. His hands trembled as he patted him down and found a badge wallet.
He flipped it open—and froze.
Lucas Monroe. Homeland Security.
"Oh God…" Jake's throat went dry. "What the hell did I just do?"
In full panic now, Jake hauled the heavy agent's body upright, staggering with the effort, and shoved him into the backseat of the SUV. He slammed the door shut and backed away, staring at the vehicle as if it might explode.
He pulled out his phone and texted Sam:
Jake: Garage. Level 2. Need you NOW.
Sam's truck screeched to a stop minutes later, tires squealing as he spotted Jake pacing in front of the black SUV. He jumped out, storming over.
"What happened?"
Jake spun, wild-eyed. "I followed him. He was heading out. I thought— I thought he was one of the people after Jenna. I took him down."
Sam's face paled. "Jake, what do you mean 'took him down'?"
Jake gestured toward the SUV. "He's in the back. I didn't check his ID until after. He's Homeland. Federal agent."
Sam rushed to the vehicle, yanked open the back door, and stared down at the unconscious man. A nasty bruise was already forming on his temple.
"Jesus Christ, Jake."
"I didn't know!" Jake cried, running a hand through his hair. "He came out of her room. Alone. No nurse. No escort. He looked like he was up to something."
"Jake he was wearing a goddamn suit… that should have told you something…..I can't believe you assaulted a federal agent and stuffed him in his own car," Sam said, his voice low and furious. "Do you have any idea what this means?"
Jake was visibly shaking now. "I thought I was protecting Jenna."
Sam stepped away, breathing hard, trying to think. "Why would the feds be interested in Jenna? They must know something. That's why he was here."
Jake leaned on the hood of the car, his voice breaking. "What do we do?"
"We leave. Now," Sam snapped. "Before hospital security or someone from his office shows up."
"And him?" Jake asked, nodding toward the SUV.
"We hope he doesn't remember your face," Sam muttered grimly.
Sam shook his head, still holding his side where his heart had just started to calm. "First Marcus, then Jenna, now this. We need to figure out what's really going on—"
VROOOM.
The low rumble of an engine made them both turn.
A dark SUV rolled into the garage from the lower ramp—smooth, silent, like a predator gliding through fog. Its headlights were dimmed, but not off. Sam squinted into the shadows, eyes narrowing at the vehicle approaching them like a shark circling in still water.
That's when he saw it.
A barrel. Protruding slowly from the passenger window. The unmistakable silhouette of the nozzle of a gun, and the long, thin body of a suppressor attached.
Sam's blood ran cold.
"Jake," he said softly. "Run."
PFFT! PFFT!
The silenced gunshots came almost too quietly for how devastating it was. Sam's body jolted as the round struck him in the chest. He stumbled backward, a shocked grunt escaping his lips before he slammed onto the concrete with a sickening thud.
"Sam!" Jake shouted.
But another burst of shots sent him diving behind the Homeland SUV. On hands and knees, he crawled between vehicles, ducking behind tires and doors, breath ragged, panic clouding his thoughts.
Doors opened from the SUV, and heavy boots echoed.
Hans Schmidt stepped out first, calm and methodical, his gun drawn, scanning the shadows. Karl emerged behind him, larger, meaner, eyes scanning for movement.
Hans didn't waste time. He moved to Sam's collapsed body and crouched beside him. With a gloved hand, he rolled up Sam's sleeve—and froze.
There, on Sam's wrist, were the markings. All seven.
Hans's eyes narrowed. "Is it him?"
Before he could speak again—
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Agent Monroe, dazed and limping, had staggered out of the driver's seat of his SUV, blood still crusted on his temple. He raised his gun, teeth gritted, as he held himself up with one hand on the hood.
Hans turned, lips curling.
"I said DROP IT!"
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
The firefight exploded in a thunderclap of sound. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark like strobe lights. Monroe fired first, two clean shot caught Karl in the shoulder.
Karl roared in pain, spun back, and returned fire.
One of his bullets caught Monroe in the side, the agent buckling to one knee, his weapon slipping from his grasp as he collapsed against the SUV.
"Time to go!" Hans barked.
Hans gave one last glance at Sam, then jumped into the vehicle. Karl gunned the engine, tires squealing as the vehicle reversed hard and roared toward the exit ramp.
Silence returned.
The smell of gunpowder hung in the air.
A minute passed. Then two.
Jake, heart pounding, finally crawled from beneath a parked car, hands trembling. His ears were still ringing, but all he could hear now was the echo of blood rushing through his veins.
"Sam?" he whispered.
He turned a corner—and stopped.
Sam was on one knee, propped against a pillar, breathing hard but upright. One hand was rubbing his chest.
"Sam!" Jake ran to him, grabbing his arm. "I thought you were— I thought they—"
Sam winced. "They must have missed. I think I hit my chest when I fell"
Jake let out a shaky breath, a half-laugh, half-sob. "Jesus, man. I thought I lost you."
Behind them, Monroe lay still by his SUV, groaning faintly, alive but barely.
Jake looked at the carnage, then back at Sam.
"This is getting out of control," he said.
Sam nodded slowly, pain etched into his face. "We need to get out of here."
He could hear the door of the garage creaked open and people was pouring into the garage. Jake helped Sam into his truck then ran around to the drivers seat. From the rear view mirror he could see the Agent clutching his side and crawling towards the front of his SUV. Jake turned the corner and headed for the exit.