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 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. FX-18 didn't wait for a reply