Agent Secret Fx 18 - (1964) 01:33:13 Today

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.

"Loud and clear," he whispered, his eyes tracking a shadow moving on the catwalk above. "But I have company. They’ve brought in the Corsican mercenaries." Agent Secret FX 18 - (1964) 01:33:13

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