Alex Chen stared at the ceiling of her cramped apartment, listening to the steady drip of water from the bathroom faucet. She'd reported it to the landlord three weeks ago, but nothing had been done. Nothing ever got done in this building unless it threatened the structural integrity of the entire block.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—the third notification in ten minutes. She ignored it. The Jakarta bureau chief could wait. The story she was chasing existed in the spaces between official statements and press releases. It couldn't be rushed.
The phone buzzed again, more insistently this time. With a sigh, she rolled over and grabbed it.
"Chen," she answered, her voice clipped.
"Where's my story?" Harvey Barnes didn't bother with pleasantries. After fifteen years as Southeast Asia bureau chief for the Associated Press, he'd earned the right to be direct. "You said you'd have something by yesterday."
"I'm still verifying sources." Alex sat up, pushing her tangled hair out of her face. The digital clock on her nightstand read 3:47 AM. Another night of insomnia and obsessive research. "The government's official position is shifting daily. I need to be certain before we publish."
"We're a news organization, not a peer-reviewed journal," Harvey reminded her. "If you wait for absolute certainty, someone else will break the story first."
"If we publish too soon and get it wrong, we lose credibility and potentially put lives at risk." Alex rubbed her eyes, trying to focus. "Give me forty-eight more hours. I have a meeting with a key source tomorrow night."
Harvey's sigh was audible even through the phone's tinny speaker. "Twenty-four hours. And I want progress updates every six. The Times is sniffing around the same story, and their reporter doesn't have your scruples about verification."
"Their reporter doesn't have my contacts either," Alex countered. "Twenty-four hours. You'll have your story."
She ended the call before Harvey could argue further. Her laptop still sat open on the coffee table where she'd left it, the screen filled with satellite imagery of the northern province border region. Somewhere in those mountains, a reclusive political science professor was sitting on evidence that could bring down a government.
Alex had spent the past three months tracking the whispers—rumors of mass graves near military outposts, of civilian disappearances coordinated by the secret police, of orders given to fire on peaceful protesters. Most journalists had written them off as opposition propaganda. But Alex had been covering the region for years. She knew the difference between political posturing and genuine fear.
She had first encountered Professor Javid Farsi at a conference in Singapore two years earlier. He'd been passionate but measured, his criticisms of the regime grounded in constitutional law rather than revolutionary fervor. When the crackdowns intensified following the Azadi Square massacre, he had disappeared from public view.
Most assumed he'd been silenced like so many others—imprisoned, exiled, or worse. But six weeks ago, one of Alex's sources had passed along a message: Farsi was alive, in hiding, and he had evidence that would expose the truth behind the government's brutal suppression of dissent.
She'd made contact through secure channels, verified his identity through a series of questions only he could answer, and finally arranged a meeting at his compound in the northern province. A compound that, according to her sources, was now under surveillance by the NKVI—the nation's feared intelligence and security service.
Alex closed her laptop and moved to the window, pushing aside the curtain to look at the street below. The city was never truly dark, never truly quiet. Even at this hour, vendors were setting up food stalls for the early morning commuters, their portable lamps creating pools of yellow light in the pre-dawn gloom.
She had loved this city once, with its chaotic energy and resilient people. Now she regarded it with the wariness of someone who had seen its darker face—the disappearances that no one spoke of, the fear that permeated everyday interactions, the careful self-censorship practiced even in private conversations.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't Harvey but a text from an unknown number:
Route compromised. New meeting coordinates tomorrow. Delete after reading.
A series of numbers followed—latitude and longitude. Alex memorized them, then deleted the message as instructed. The coordinates would take her farther north than originally planned, deeper into the mountainous region that bordered the neighboring state.
More dangerous, but also less likely to be under surveillance. Farsi was being cautious, and with good reason. If his evidence was as damning as he claimed, the government would stop at nothing to prevent its publication.
Alex moved to the small safe hidden behind a loose baseboard under her bed. Inside were her emergency documents—a second passport under a different name, a substantial amount of cash in various currencies, a satellite phone that couldn't be easily traced. The tools of a journalist who had learned the hard way that truth was the first casualty in a repressive regime.
She added a small flash drive to the collection—a backup of all her research thus far, encrypted and protected by a passphrase known only to her. If something happened to her, instructions would ensure it reached colleagues who could continue her work.
A precaution, nothing more. She had navigated dangerous situations before. This was no different.
The lie didn't comfort her as much as it once had.
The northern provinces were beautiful in a harsh, uncompromising way. Rugged mountains rose like sentinels around valleys where villages had existed for centuries, largely unchanged by the political upheavals of the capital. Alex watched the landscape through the window of the battered SUV she'd hired for the journey, driven by a local man who asked no questions beyond her destination.
She had dressed carefully for the meeting—modest clothing that wouldn't draw attention, a headscarf to cover her distinctive black hair, comfortable shoes in case she needed to move quickly. The small backpack beside her contained only essentials: water, energy bars, a first aid kit, her satellite phone, and a digital recorder.
No press credentials. Those would only identify her as a target if they encountered military checkpoints or NKVI patrols.
"Many soldiers today," her driver commented, breaking the silence as they passed yet another checkpoint. This one, like the others, waved them through after a cursory inspection. A local driver with his cousin from the capital, visiting family. A common enough story to avoid suspicion.
"Is that unusual?" Alex asked, keeping her voice casual though her pulse quickened.
The driver shrugged. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no. When the government worries, they send more soldiers. When soldiers come, people worry more. It is always this way."
A succinct summary of the cycle of fear and repression she'd been documenting for years. "What are they worried about now?" she asked.
"Elections next year. Opposition getting louder. People tired of being hungry." He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "You are not really my cousin, I think."
Alex met his gaze steadily. "Does that bother you?"
"Depends what you're doing here. If you bring troubles, yes. If you tell truth about what happens here..." He shrugged again. "Maybe not so much."
"I'm trying to tell the truth," she said simply.
He nodded, satisfied with her answer. "Truth is dangerous. But silence more dangerous, I think."
They drove on in companionable silence, the mountains growing closer, the villages more sparse. Finally, they turned onto a dirt track barely wide enough for the vehicle, winding upward through increasingly rugged terrain.
"I stop here," the driver announced, pulling over beside a weathered signpost marking a hiking trail. "You walk from here. One hour that way." He pointed to a path that disappeared into the pine forest covering the mountain's lower slopes.
Alex checked her GPS. The coordinates matched what she had been given. "Will you wait?"
"Two hours," he said. "After that, I must go. Family will worry."
"I understand." She handed him extra payment, which he accepted with a nod. "If I'm not back..."
"I will say nothing," he assured her. "Good luck, not-cousin."
Alex shouldered her backpack and started up the path. The forest was quiet, unnaturally so, as if the birds and small animals sensed something she couldn't perceive. The path was steep but well-maintained, suggesting regular use despite its remote location.
After thirty minutes of steady climbing, the forest began to thin, giving way to rocky outcroppings and occasional clearings that afforded views of the valley below. No signs of military presence, but that didn't mean they weren't watching.
Her GPS indicated she was nearing the meeting coordinates. Alex slowed her pace, scanning her surroundings with increased vigilance. The path opened onto a small plateau where a single structure stood—a herder's shelter, perhaps, made of stone with a wooden roof.
No signs of life. No vehicles. No indication that anyone awaited her arrival.
Alex approached cautiously, her instincts sharpened by years of reporting from conflict zones. Something felt wrong. The shelter's door was slightly ajar, moving gently in the mountain breeze.
"Professor Farsi?" she called softly, stopping several yards from the entrance.
No response. The silence seemed to press against her ears.
Making a decision, she moved forward and pushed the door open wider, letting sunlight spill into the dim interior.
The shelter was empty except for a small table and chair, and a burner phone resting on the rough wooden surface. As Alex approached, the screen lit up with an incoming message:
Not safe. Compromised. Meet at original location tonight. 2200. Come alone.
Alex stared at the message, unease prickling along her spine. This wasn't how Farsi usually communicated. His messages were typically more elaborate, with verification codes they had established to confirm his identity.
The phone buzzed again:
Bring no one. Tell no one. Matter of life and death.
She hesitated, torn between journalistic instinct and caution. If Farsi was in danger, she needed to help him. His evidence could expose years of government atrocities. But if this was a trap...
Alex had survived this long by trusting her instincts. And right now, every instinct was screaming that something was very wrong.
She left the phone where it was and exited the shelter, her mind racing. The original meeting location was Farsi's compound—a place that, according to her sources, was likely under NKVI surveillance. Going there would be walking into a trap.
But what if Farsi truly was in danger? What if the NKVI had discovered his evidence and was moving to silence him permanently?
Alex checked her watch. Four hours until the meeting time. Enough to return to her driver, reach the nearest town, and make inquiries through her network of sources. She needed more information before she decided her next move.
As she started back down the path, a sound stopped her—the distinctive crack of a rifle shot echoing through the mountains, followed by several more in rapid succession. The sound came from the direction of Farsi's compound, several miles away but clearly audible in the mountain air.
Alex froze, calculating. If the NKVI was raiding the compound, they might already have Farsi. The evidence would be their next target. If she wanted the truth, she needed to move now.
Decision made, she abandoned the path and began making her way cross-country, using the GPS to guide her toward the compound. It would be a difficult journey, but if she moved quickly, she could reach it by nightfall. In the confusion of a raid, she might be able to slip in unnoticed. It was a desperate plan, but desperation had been her companion for months now.
The sound of helicopter rotors in the distance spurred her to move faster. Whatever was happening at the compound, she needed to be there to document it. The truth might cost her life, but silence would cost so much more.
Darkness had fallen by the time Alex reached the vicinity of Farsi's compound. She had abandoned her original route, choosing instead to approach from the rugged terrain above, where surveillance would be less likely. The journey had been grueling—steep ascents, treacherous descents, constant vigilance for patrols.
From her position in the rocks above the compound, she could see that something was very wrong. The security lights were on, but there was no movement visible. The main gate stood open, unguarded. A vehicle she didn't recognize—military style but unmarked—was parked in the circular driveway.
Alex adjusted the night vision monocular she'd brought, scanning the perimeter. No guards at their usual posts. No sign of the house staff who normally moved about the grounds in the evening. The silence was ominous.
She had two choices: retreat and report what little she knew, or move closer and try to determine what had happened. The first was safer. The second might be the only way to uncover the truth.
Journalism wasn't about safety. It was about bearing witness.
Taking a deep breath, Alex began picking her way down the rocky slope toward the compound wall. The outer security was minimal—designed more to deter casual intruders than to withstand a determined approach. She found a section where the wall met the natural rock face, creating a blind spot in the camera coverage.
Scaling the wall was more difficult than she had anticipated, her city-dweller's muscles protesting the unfamiliar exertion. But desperation lent her strength, and soon she was over the top and dropping silently into the garden beyond.
The compound was eerily quiet. No voices, no movement, just the gentle sound of wind through the cypress trees that lined the main path. Alex moved from shadow to shadow, making her way toward the main house.
The front door was ajar—another bad sign. She bypassed it, circling around to find a less obvious entrance. A service door near the kitchen stood unlocked.