The Drive That Screamed

The truck bounced over the uneven dirt road, the engine growling like a wounded animal. I clutched my bleeding shoulder with one hand and the hard drive with the other, my pulse hammering in my ears. The jungle outside was a blur of green shadows and streaks of rain.

Malik drove with both hands clenched tight around the wheel. “You still with me?”

“Barely,” I rasped. “How far to the drop point?”

He glanced in the rearview mirror. “If Rahman didn’t sell us out—twenty minutes.”

That “if” hung between us like a curse.

Every mile we drove, I could feel the walls closing in—the weight of sirens, the flash of gunfire still echoing in my skull. The faces of the guards we left behind. Amir’s smirk. My mother’s pale face flickering on the screen.

That image burned harder than any wound.

Rain hammered down harder, turning the road into mud. Malik slammed the brakes, and the truck fishtailed to a stop in front of a half-collapsed warehouse at the edge of the forest.

“This is it,” he said.

We stumbled out, our shoes sinking into wet earth. The place smelled of rust, oil, and rot. A stray cat darted across the shadows as we entered.

Rahman was waiting inside—alone, sitting on a crate, a pistol in one hand and a bottle of cheap whiskey in the other.

“You made it,” he said flatly. “I heard the commotion.”

Malik leveled his gun immediately. “We had company. You told us it’d be clean.”

Rahman took a slow sip. “You think Megatech doesn’t have eyes everywhere? You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“Barely,” I muttered, pulling off my blood-soaked jacket. “You said this drive could expose them.”

Rahman nodded. “Let’s see what the devil keeps under his skin.”

He set up his laptop on a crate and plugged in the drive. The screen flickered, then filled with encrypted code. Rahman frowned, typing fast.

“This isn’t just a ledger backup,” he muttered. “It’s… deeper.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

He looked up at me. “This thing is wired. There’s a deadman encryption—someone triggers a kill code, and the drive fries itself.”

“Can you bypass it?” Malik asked.

Rahman smirked grimly. “Can a drowning man breathe underwater? Let’s find out.”

Minutes turned into an hour. The rain outside grew into a storm, rattling the tin roof. I sat in the corner, pressing a torn shirt against my shoulder, trying not to pass out.

Finally, Rahman’s fingers stopped.

The screen changed—lines of data giving way to a series of names, dates, and project titles.

Malik leaned closer. “What the hell is this?”

Rahman scrolled down. “Not shipments. Not just bombs. Operations. Political manipulation, targeted assassinations, intelligence buyouts—funded by Megatech, executed through private contractors.”

Then he froze. His eyes widened.

“Oh my God…”

I pushed myself up. “What?”

He pointed to a list labeled “Project Lazarus.”
Underneath, I saw two familiar names:
Kamal Hossain — Operative.
Ashique Rahman — Delivery Asset.

My stomach turned cold.

“They classified you as an asset, not a suspect,” Rahman said, his voice almost a whisper. “That means they used you intentionally. You weren’t framed—you were programmed into the plan.”

I staggered back. “No… I didn’t even know what was in that package—”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Rahman said. “They used your delivery route, your ID, your innocence. You were the perfect ghost—someone to blame and forget.”

Malik slammed his fist against the crate. “So they made him the scapegoat from the start.”

Rahman nodded slowly. “And here’s the twist—they’re planning another operation. Code: Lazarus II. Destination: Dhaka. Launch date… three weeks from now.”

The rain outside seemed to stop for a moment.

“Three weeks,” I said. “They’re repeating it.”

Rahman turned the screen toward me. “And you’re in it again. Look at this.”

Next to my name was a status update:
“Subject: Active. Confirmed in Batam. Surveillance ongoing.”

Malik’s hand went to his gun. “They know you’re alive.”

Before I could speak, the laptop emitted a sharp beep. Rahman’s face went pale.

“Oh, no.”

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“They triggered the kill code,” he said, typing frantically. “They know the drive’s been accessed.”

The screen flashed red. A countdown began—00:59… 00:58… 00:57…

“Grab the drive!” Malik shouted.

Rahman ripped it out of the port, but sparks flew, and smoke poured from the socket. The entire laptop shorted out.

“Damn it!” Rahman yelled. “They traced us!”

Headlights flared outside the warehouse. The low growl of engines filled the air.

“Company,” Malik hissed.

Rahman grabbed his gun and ducked behind a crate. “Megatech’s private security. They don’t arrest. They erase.”

I peeked out through a crack in the wall. Four SUVs. Armed men in black tactical gear fanning out in the rain.

My pulse spiked. “We can’t fight them head-on.”

“Then we run,” Malik said.

Rahman shook his head. “They’ll flank the exits. But there’s a drainage tunnel behind the east wall. Leads straight to the docks.”

Bullets shattered the windows before he could finish. Glass rained down like shards of ice.

“GO!” Rahman shouted, firing toward the doorway.

We sprinted through the back as gunfire roared behind us. Rain and mud blurred together underfoot. Malik kicked open the rusted hatch to the drainage tunnel, and we crawled in, water sloshing around our legs.

The tunnel was narrow, suffocating, and pitch-black. My shoulder throbbed, but adrenaline drowned the pain. Behind us, the echo of footsteps grew closer.

Malik yelled, “Faster!”

“I’m trying!”

Rahman slipped on the wet concrete. Malik grabbed him, but before he could pull him up—
a bullet tore through Rahman’s back.

He gasped, blood spilling from his mouth.

“Go,” he choked. “Finish it.”

“Rahman—”

“GO!” he roared, shoving Malik forward.

We had no choice. We crawled faster, the tunnel light ahead growing faint. Another explosion rocked the passage, and the stench of burning plastic filled the air.

When we finally burst out into the open, we were by the edge of the docks. A cargo ship loomed in the distance, its lights glimmering through the rain.

Malik collapsed beside me, panting. “We lost him.”

I stared back into the tunnel. Smoke poured out—Rahman’s final stand swallowed by fire.

I looked down at the hard drive—it was scorched, half-melted, useless.

Malik met my eyes. “We’re back to zero.”

I shook my head slowly. “No. We’re not.”

“What do you mean?”

I turned the drive over. Beneath the burnt casing, a small slip of paper had been taped inside—handwritten coordinates, barely legible.

“Vault 7 – Port of Jakarta.”

Malik leaned closer. “You think that’s where the full data’s stored?”

I nodded. “Rahman knew he might not make it. He left us the next piece.”

Thunder cracked overhead, drowning out our voices.

“We’re going to Jakarta,” I said.

Malik laughed bitterly. “You realize every hitman in Asia’s gonna be looking for you?”

“Then let them look,” I said, standing. “Because I’m done running.”

I turned toward the storm, the cold wind biting at my face.

The past had chased me long enough.
Now, it was my turn to hunt.