The homeowner, Mark, clutched his head in absolute fury, ready to tear the vandal apart. But the hooded stranger didn’t flinch. Instead, they calmly raised one hand, crossing their index and middle finger to form a tight, deliberate ‘X’, before pointing straight up at the clear, blue suburban sky.
Mark’s blood instantly ran cold. His anger evaporated into sheer terror.
He knew that sign. He hadn’t seen it since his covert operations days over a decade ago. *Target lock.*
Suddenly, the thick white liquid smeared across his car’s windshield began to loudly hiss. It wasn’t soap. It wasn’t paint. As it bubbled, turning a violent shade of neon purple, Mark realized it was an anti-thermal poly-foam.
The stranger reached up and pulled back the black hood, revealing sharp, familiar green eyes.
“Elena?” Mark gasped, stepping back. She was his former handler. The woman the agency had officially declared dead three years ago.
“They found your little retirement spot, Marcus,” she said, tossing the empty blue bucket onto the manicured lawn. “You have exactly thirty seconds before a silent drone strike obliterates that house.”
Mark stared at the thick white sludge rapidly expanding over his gray sedan. It was blanketing the engine block, masking the vehicle’s heat signature from the invisible satellite circling thirty thousand feet above them.
“The house is already painted with a laser target,” Elena warned, her voice deadpan. “The car is our only blind spot. Get in.”
A faint, high-pitched hum pierced the quiet neighborhood birdsong. The projectile was already dropping.
Mark didn’t hesitate. He ripped open the driver’s door, diving behind the wheel as Elena slid into the passenger seat.
“I really liked this house,” Mark gritted out, slamming the ignition.
“You’ll love being alive more,” she smirked. “Drive.”