He didn’t scream. Couldn’t. The syringe had done its work before his brain even registered the sting. In the hushed suite of the InterContinental Hotel, one of Britain’s top biochemists was dying. Quietly. Alone.

 

Dr. Edward Miles lay motionless on the king-sized bed, white sheets drawn up to his chest. The sleeping pills he had taken to blunt the jet lag had done their work. His face, resting on the pillow, was turned toward the window—a gentle, rhythmic snoring, undisturbed and unaware. City lights crept through the drapes, casting pale blue slashes across the carpet. The bedside lamp glowed an amber over a neat stack of untouched symposium papers. A single phrase on the top sheet, circled in red: CLADES – Variant 3.

A figure moved from the shadows—slim, silent, anonymous. Black clothing tightly hugged the frame. A thin scarf masked the lower face, exposing only sharp and expressionless eyes. Hooded and anonymous. In the gloved left hand, a slender stainless-steel syringe glinted under the bedside lamp—a custom device loaded with a compound engineered to induce fatal cardiac arrest, leaving no trace behind. The form gently raised the scientist’s left arm. The needle slid cleanly into the soft web of flesh between thumb and forefinger—no resistance, no sound. Just pressure. A practised push, and it was done.

Edward Miles stirred briefly. His breathing faltered, chest rising shallowly, then pausing.

Ten seconds passed. Then fifteen.

The operative watched with indifference for signs of failure—none came. The compound was working. Satisfied, the killer opened the nightstand drawer. Inside was a British passport, a small leather journal, and a bottle of sleeping pills for jet lag. A perfect cover. The assassin removed the cap and spilt several pills onto the glass surface. Then, gently, the bottle was placed in the doctor’s clasped hand.

As the final breath escaped Dr. Edward Miles’ lungs, the agent of death stepped back, paused, and then turned silently toward the door.

Within hours, the scientist’s death would be ruled a tragic heart failure. Exhaustion. Stress. Age.

No one would know that the war for the future of bioweapons had just begun.

 

♦♦♦♦

 

Surrey, England - 14 Hours Later:

The fog clung low to the ground. At the edge of a private wood near Farnham, a hulking complex of concrete and steel loomed silently beneath security floodlights:

Verotech Biosystems plc.

To the casual eye, it was just another research centre. But behind its reinforced walls were files and specimens that no government would publicly catalogue.

At 2:00 a.m., the only sign of life was a gatehouse where a bored security guard—a heavyset man in a crumpled uniform—hunched over a thermos of tea, reading the sports section. The sedan’s approach was silent. Black, with tinted windows. It halted before the barrier. The guard stood, frowning. Nobody was scheduled at this hour. He closed the newspaper, folded it, and laid it on the table. He grunted and stepped outside.

“Can I help y….”

The pop was barely audible.

The silenced round took him clean through the left eye. He dropped where he stood, dead before his knees buckled. Blood pooled quickly beneath him, steaming in the cold air. A second figure emerged from the car and dragged the body out of view while the killer slipped into the guardhouse.

Tap-tap-tap. 8-4-3-2-7-1-9-6. Beep

While the heavy steel security gates parted, a gloved hand reached for the surveillance unit. The tape was pulled, pocketed, and gone. Then came the others—two more in full black tactical gear, balaclavas, and rubber-soled boots muffling every step. They moved in near silence. No words were exchanged.

At the centre was the lead intruder—taller, upright, with the posture of a man shaped by the military. The others deferred to him without hesitation. He scanned the perimeter once, then led the sprint across the car park to the main entrance of the facility—a sleek, four-storey glass structure.

The lobby lights were still on.

Outside by the main entrance, a second keypad.

Inside, the reception area was brightly lit—highly polished floors, CCTV domes in every corner, and a wide central desk flanked by sliding security doors. Two unarmed guards sat inside, one sipping coffee, the other typing up an incident log—all quiet as usual, Nothing to report.

The first guard looked up, startled.

“Hey—what the he—”

The shot caught him mid-sentence. He slumped sideways, the coffee cup crashing to the floor. The second had barely risen before the second round struck him clean in the chest. Both were dead within seconds.

The intruders moved fast. They crossed to the stairwell and ascended. Another keypad. Another code.

Inside the central lab, rows of equipment lined the walls and benches—refrigeration units, incubators, microscopes, centrifuges and test tubes. The lead intruder crossed to a reinforced corner office.

One last keypad.

Inside was a steel safe, in the corner, bolted to the floor. He dropped to one knee and began to turn the dial by feel.

Four Clicks later, the lock released with a satisfying thunk.

Inside were papers and folders—none of interest. His hand went straight to a black metal box—the size of a shoebox—and a cassette tape.

The label on the tape read: CLADES.

He carefully set the box—sturdy and with reinforced edges—on the floor. A small four-dial combination lock was built into the front. The kind used on secure field cases and modified attachés.

He spun the dials. 7-3-1-6.

The latch gave a soft metallic click. He pulled up the lid.

Inside, nestled in precisely-cut foam, were two sealed glass vials—one faintly yellow and viscous, the other blue and iridescent. He paused just long enough to check for damage. The vials were intact. Labels unbroken.

He closed the lid, reset the dials to zero, and packed the box and tape into his backpack. He didn’t need to understand them. Someone else did.

Then came the final phase.

Two team members reached for belt-mounted canisters—compressed incendiary devices. They activated the pins and tossed them into the room.

The room exploded in a quiet but powerful whoosh as the devices ignited. A flash of fire roared instantly across the countertops and shelving. The files, documents, and lab equipment caught fire within seconds, thick plumes of smoke already beginning to curl toward the ceiling. The fire spread fast, filling the air with acrid smoke as they rushed down the stairs, discharging more devices on the way. The flames lit up the corridor behind them, shadows flickering ominously on the walls. They didn’t look back.

A few seconds later, the sedan vanished into the darkness.
Behind them, the night sky flared orange as Verotech’s secrets burned. Smoke rolled into the trees—thick and low. Somewhere in the undergrowth, a fox barked once, then went quiet.