The private jet touched down at a secure airfield just outside Washington, D.C. Winsten didn't waste a single second. He stepped off the plane and straight into a black SUV. Vance's operatives were already inside, checking their gear in total silence.
The AI didn't just get Winsten into the National Gallery gala. It completely rewrote the guest list.
"Digital passes generated," the AI said in his mind. "I have added your name, along with four of Vance's operatives, to the official event roster online. On paper, you are a high-net-worth real estate investor from New York. Security will see nothing unusual."
The SUV pulled up to the grand entrance of the National Gallery. The building was massive, lit up with bright floodlights that cut through the dark rain. Well-dressed people—politicians, CEOs, and diplomats—were walking up the stone steps under large umbrellas.
Winsten stepped out. He adjusted the cuffs of his matte black suit. The four operatives followed closely behind him, their faces completely neutral. They looked like high-end private security, which was exactly the point.
They walked through the front doors. The security guards at the scanner checked the digital tablet. Winsten's fake profile flashed on the screen with a green checkmark. The guard nodded respectfully and waved them through.
The gala inside was loud but sophisticated. The grand hall was filled with expensive sculptures and massive paintings hanging on the walls. Hundreds of wealthy, powerful guests moved around the room, chatting in low voices while holding small plates of gourmet food and glasses of sparkling cider or juice.
Winsten grabbed a glass of dark cranberry juice from a passing waiter's tray. He took a slow sip, his eyes scanning the crowd.
"Locating Cyrus Miller," the AI said. A small, blue icon blinked in Winsten's vision, cutting through the crowd. "East wing. Standing near the landscape paintings."
Winsten walked toward the east wing. The four operatives spread out naturally behind him, keeping a short distance but never losing sight of him.
Winsten spotted his target. Cyrus Miller was standing in front of a massive oil painting of a storm over a forest. He looked exactly like a high-level government official—mid-fifties, graying hair, wearing a tailored tuxedo. Standing right next to him was his wife, a well-dressed woman looking at the art with a polite smile.
Winsten walked up calmly and stood right next to Miller. He took another sip of his cranberry juice and looked up at the painting.
"Beautiful painting of nature, isn't it?" Winsten said, his voice casual.
Miller turned his head. He looked Winsten up and down. His eyes lingered on the perfect fit of Winsten's suit and the absolute confidence in his posture. As Director of the Treasury, Miller met wealthy and powerful people every single day. He could tell immediately that this man carried himself like someone important.
Winsten looked familiar to him, but Miller couldn't quite place the face.
"It is," Miller replied, nodding toward the canvas. "The artist captured the sheer chaos of a storm perfectly. Nature doesn't care about our structures. It just destroys and rebuilds."
Winsten stared at the painted trees bending under the dark sky.
"Human nature is the same way, don't you think? People build up these massive walls of wealth and power, thinking they are safe. But when a real storm comes, it knocks them down just like these trees."
Miller smiled politely, though his eyes grew a little sharper.
"A bit cynical for an art gala, but not entirely wrong."
Suddenly, Miller's phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He ignored it. A second later, it rang again, vibrating intensely.
Miller frowned and reached for his pocket.
"Mr. Miller, don't bother picking that up," Winsten said, his tone entirely flat.
Miller stopped, his hand resting on his jacket. His face twisted into a confused look.
"What do you mean?"
"The person calling you is going to tell you two things," Winsten said, finally turning his head to look Miller dead in the eye. "First, that call will tell you that Igor Mince is missing. And he is very likely compromised."
The polite mask instantly dropped off Miller's face. Pure fear flashed across his eyes. His skin went slightly pale.
Miller's mind started racing. This stranger knew about Mince. Who could have sent him? Did the Sentinels find out Mince was a liability and send someone to eliminate him too? Or was it the CIA? The FBI?
Winsten didn't give him time to figure it out. He took another step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"The second thing that call will tell you," Winsten continued, "is that your son—the twenty-four-year-old you love so much—has been picked up too. He is missing."
Miller froze completely. The air seemed to leave his lungs.
"What?"
"Yes," Winsten said. "I picked him up."
Miller's hands started to shake. He leaned in, trying to keep his voice down so his wife wouldn't hear them.
"You don't know who you are dealing with. I am the Director of the Treasury. I have guards and soldiers in this city who will protect me."
Winsten let out a short, cold laugh.
"Nope. You are not. You are a Sentinel. And I really wonder what the government will do when they find out their Director is actually loyal to a completely different group."
Miller felt a wave of anger crash through his panic, but then he noticed the movement around him.
Vance's four operatives had quietly moved into position. They had perfectly boxed Miller in from every angle, blocking his paths to the exits. They stood perfectly still, their hands resting near their jackets, looking highly trained and incredibly dangerous. If Miller made a single wrong move, they would take him down before he could even yell for help.
Miller looked back at Winsten, sweat forming at his temples.
"Who are you? Why did you take my son?"
"I'm the man you tried to kill," Winsten said. "Winsten Stone."
Miller gasped, his eyes widening in total shock.
"You survived? The highway…"
Then, a sudden realization hit him. The precision, the compromised bank accounts, the untraceable data—it all clicked.
"The AI," Miller whispered, his voice trembling with deep fear. "You're with the AI."
Winsten didn't answer. He just kept his cold gaze fixed on the older man.
Miller looked at his wife, then at the four dangerous men surrounding him. He knew he had lost. His power, his title, his security—none of it meant anything right now.
"Fine," Miller croaked out, his hands clenched into fists.
"I'll come with you. Just don't hurt my son."
Winsten nodded once.
"He's safe. For now."
"Then take me out of here fast," Miller urged, his eyes darting anxiously toward the main entrance of the gallery. "The Sentinels are going to realize Mince is gone any second. If they haven't already, they will act fast. They will send an escort team to pull me out of the city or eliminate me. We need to leave right now."
Winsten set his empty glass down on a nearby ledge. He turned toward the exit, his movements sharp and calculated.
"Move," Winsten ordered.
The operatives tightened the circle around Miller, guiding him smoothly through the crowded gallery toward the back doors before anyone else in the room realized a Director had just been taken.