The safe house was in a quiet suburban neighborhood in New Jersey, the kind of place where federal witnesses disappeared into anonymity while their testimony was prepared for court. It was a two-story colonial with a carefully maintained lawn, completely unremarkable except for the subtle signs of security—reinforced doors, camera systems disguised as outdoor lighting, and two armed federal marshals rotating shifts inside.
Marcus Vega had been there for three days, giving testimony during the day at DEA headquarters in Manhattan, then being transported back each evening under heavy security. His wife and daughters were in a separate location—protocol dictated that cooperating witnesses and their families be kept apart to minimize exposure if one location was compromised.
At 11:43 PM on his third night, Vega lay in the upstairs bedroom staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Every sound made him tense—the house settling, wind against windows, distant traffic. He'd crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed, and now he was completely dependent on the federal government to keep him and his family alive.
Downstairs, he could hear the two marshals—Agent Roberts and Agent Kim—conducting their hourly perimeter check. Their voices were low, professional, routine.
Then the voices stopped.
Vega sat up, instantly alert. The silence felt wrong. He strained to hear something—footsteps, conversation, the normal sounds of security personnel going about their duties.
Nothing.
He stood and moved quietly to the bedroom door, listening. Still nothing. His heart began to hammer. This could be nothing—maybe they were outside, checking something they'd seen on the cameras. Maybe they were in the kitchen making coffee.
Or maybe something had gone very, very wrong.
Vega opened the bedroom door slowly, trying to see down the stairs without exposing himself. The first floor was dark except for the glow from security monitors in what had been converted into a command station.
"Roberts?" he called softly. "Kim?"
No response.
Every instinct screamed at him to stay in the room, lock the door, call for help. But he needed to know what was happening. He crept down the stairs, staying close to the wall, moving as silently as his former Marine training had taught him.
The living room was empty. The command station showed all camera feeds active—perimeter clear, no signs of intrusion. But where were Roberts and Kim?
He found them in the kitchen.
Both marshals were on the floor, unconscious but breathing. No blood, no signs of violence—they'd been taken down quickly and quietly, probably with some kind of sedative or taser. Professional work.
Vega's blood turned to ice. He spun around, looking for the threat he knew had to be present.
"Hello, Marcus."
The voice came from the darkened dining room. A figure stepped into the light from the kitchen—tall, angular features, completely calm. Vancouver Sell.
Vega's hand went instinctively to his waistband, but he had no weapon. The marshals' service weapons were still in their holsters—whoever had taken them down hadn't bothered to take their guns.
"How did you—" Vega started.
"Get past federal security?" Vancouver finished. "It's surprisingly easy when you have the right access codes and know exactly when the external surveillance systems cycle through their monitoring patterns."
The implication hit Vega like a physical blow. "You have someone inside. Someone feeding you information."
"We have resources you didn't know about," Vancouver said. He pulled out a tablet and tapped the screen. "Your wife Maria is at a safe house in Pennsylvania. Your daughters—Isabella, age eight, and Sofia, age six—are with her. They're being protected by two marshals, just like you. The location is supposed to be secret."
He turned the tablet so Vega could see. It showed a photograph taken from a distance—Maria and the girls entering a house, clearly recent based on the clothing and weather.
Vega felt sick. "If you touch them—"
"That depends entirely on you." Vancouver pocketed the tablet. "You made a choice to betray the organization. I understand why—fear, guilt, whatever motivated you. But that choice has consequences. Not just for you, but for everyone connected to you."
"I'm cooperating with the DEA. I've given them testimony. Killing me won't stop that—it's already on record."
"True. Which is why killing you isn't about stopping your testimony. It's about sending a message." Vancouver's voice was perfectly calm, as if discussing a business transaction. "To everyone else in HTBB who might be thinking about cooperating. To the other men we arrested who are sitting in cells right now, deciding whether to take a deal. They need to understand that cooperation has consequences."
Vega's Marine training kicked in. He lunged for Agent Roberts' service weapon, his fingers closing around the grip—
Vancouver moved faster. A suppressed gunshot—barely louder than a cough—and Vega felt a massive impact in his chest. He stumbled backward, hitting the kitchen counter, his hand losing its grip on the unfired weapon.
He looked down and saw blood spreading across his shirt. A lot of blood.
"I'm sorry, Marcus," Vancouver said, and his tone suggested he might actually mean it. "You seem like a decent man who got caught up in something bigger than himself. But examples must be made."
Vega tried to speak, tried to reach for the emergency phone in his pocket, but his strength was fading rapidly. The wound was high on his chest, probably hit his lung, maybe his heart. Fatal. He had minutes at most.
He thought of Maria, of Isabella and Sofia. He'd done this to protect them, to give them a father they could be proud of instead of a criminal. And now he was dying in a federal safe house, and Vancouver had photographs of where his family was hiding.
"Your family will be fine," Vancouver said, as if reading his thoughts. "This was about you, not them. As long as they stay quiet, stay in witness protection, never speak about HTBB or testify, they'll live normal lives under new identities. That's my word."
Vega slid down the cabinet to the floor, his vision starting to gray at the edges. He wanted to call Vancouver a liar, wanted to believe the federal government would protect Maria and his daughters better than they'd protected him.
But he'd seen the photographs. Vancouver had found them. If HTBB wanted to reach his family, they could.
"Tell Noah..." Vega managed to whisper. "Tell him... inside..."
"I'll tell him nothing," Vancouver replied. "But he'll figure it out eventually. He's smart, persistent. Maybe smart enough to realize that some fights can't be won."
Vega's vision darkened. His last thought was a prayer that someone would protect his daughters, that his sacrifice would mean something, that—