Warehouse, Queens - 10:15 AM

  Danny Martinez was starting to think this kidnapping was the best worst decision he'd ever made.

  Perseus Jackson—their hostage, their victim, the man they'd zip-tied to a chair—had spent the last fifteen minutes giving them advice on how to not get caught, explaining why they weren't bad people, and somehow making Danny feel better about his crushing medical debt.

  It was surreal.

  "We should search him," Marcus said, breaking the weird therapeutic moment they'd been having. "Make sure he doesn't have a phone or weapon."

  Perseus nodded. "That's smart. You should definitely check. My phone is in my right jacket pocket. No weapons."

  "Why are you telling us where your phone is?" Rico asked, confused.

  "Because you're going to find it anyway, and this saves time."

  Marcus approached cautiously, like Perseus might suddenly break free. He pulled the phone from Perseus's jacket pocket—an older model, nothing fancy—and held it up.

  "Passcode?"

  "I'm not giving you that."

  "We could force you."

  Perseus looked at him calmly. "You could try. But my lawyers have remote access. The moment you enter the wrong code three times, it locks permanently and sends an alert. So unless you're a professional hacker, I'd recommend just turning it off and putting it aside."

  Marcus stared at the phone, then at Perseus, then back at the phone. He turned it off and set it on a nearby crate.

  "What else you got?" Marcus started patting down Perseus's pockets. Keys, wallet, a small notebook, a pen.

  Then his hand closed around something in Perseus's left jacket pocket. Something small, metal, circular.

  He pulled it out.

  A coin.

  Ancient-looking, worn smooth by time. Marcus held it up to the light. There was a face on it—some old Roman emperor or something.

  "The hell is this?" Marcus asked.

  Danny saw Perseus's entire demeanor change.

  The patience vanished. The kindness evaporated. His expression went completely flat, and his voice, when he spoke, was colder than Danny had ever heard anyone sound.

  "Put. It. Back."

  Marcus blinked. "What?"

  "Put it back in my pocket. Now."

  "It's just a coin, man. Is it worth something?"

  "It's worth more than you can possibly imagine. Put. It. Back."

  Rico stepped closer, curious. "What's the big deal? It's just some old—"

  "It's not just some old anything," Perseus interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut. "It was a gift from a friend. A very old friend. And if you damage it, or lose it, or do anything except put it very carefully back in my pocket, you will regret it."

  The temperature in the warehouse seemed to drop.

  Danny had thought Perseus was calm because he wasn't scared. Now he realized Perseus was calm because he hadn't needed to be anything else yet.

  This was different.

  This was a man who could be very, very dangerous if he chose to be.

  "Marcus," Danny said carefully. "Maybe just put it back."

  "Yeah," Rico agreed, taking a step back. "Put it back."

  Marcus looked at the coin, then at Perseus, clearly torn between curiosity and the sudden survival instinct that was screaming at him to listen.

  "Why? What's so special about it?"

  Perseus took a slow breath, and some of the edge left his voice. But not all of it.

  "My friend Julius gave it to me. After I helped him cross a river. A long time ago."

  "How long ago?"

  "Long enough that Julius has been dead for a very, very long time."

  Marcus turned the coin over in his hand, studying it more closely. "This looks Roman. Like, ancient Roman."

  "It is."

  "How old?"

  "Old enough."

  "But you're like, thirty-five."

  "Approximately."

  Danny felt something cold settle in his stomach. The way Perseus said "approximately" made it sound like he was being generous with that estimate.

  "Wait," Marcus said slowly. "Julius. You don't mean—"

  "I mean exactly what you think I mean."

  "Julius Caesar? You're saying Julius Caesar gave you this?"

  "After I helped him cross the Rubicon. Yes."

  Silence.

  Complete, total silence.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Danny's brain was trying to process that statement and failing completely.

  "That's impossible," Rico said.

  "And yet."

  "Julius Caesar died in 44 BC," Marcus said. He'd been a history major before dropping out. "That's over 2,000 years ago."

  "2,069 years ago, actually. March 15th. The Ides of March. I tried to warn him. He didn't listen."

  Five Eyes Video Conference

  "Did he just say—" Nigel began.

  "Julius Caesar," Beaumont whispered. "He said Julius Caesar."

  "The Rubicon," Webb said, her voice shaking slightly. "49 BCE. That's—"

  "2,074 years ago," Cartwright finished, his mouth dry.

  On the screen, they could see Amanda's shocked face as she checked her calculations.

  "Sir," she said, her voice barely audible. "If he's telling the truth... we've been wrong about his age by a factor of four. We thought 400, maybe 500 years. But if he was at the Rubicon..."

  "He's over 2,000 years old," Volkov finished, setting down his vodka glass very carefully.

  "Mon Dieu," Beaumont breathed.

  "That's not possible," Rachel said. But she didn't sound convinced.

  "The coin," Nigel said suddenly. "Can we get a visual on the coin?"

  Amanda adjusted the feed. The image zoomed in on Marcus's hand, where he held the ancient Roman coin.

  Even through the video feed, they could see it was genuine. Worn by centuries, but unmistakably authentic.

  "That's a real Roman coin," Beaumont said. "From the late Republic period. I've seen enough of them in museums. But this one is... it's in remarkable condition for being 2,000 years old."

  "Because he's been taking care of it," Webb said softly. "For 2,000 years."

  On the audio feed, Perseus was still talking:

  "—gave it to me after we crossed. Said I'd earned it. That I'd helped him change history. I told him history would judge whether that was a good thing."

  "And you've just... kept it? For two thousand years?"

  "It's all I have left of him. Of that time. Of the people I knew then. So yes, I've kept it. And I would appreciate it very much if you would put it back in my pocket."

  Warehouse, Queens

  Marcus was staring at the coin like it might bite him.

  "This is real," he said. "You're serious. You're actually serious."

  "Very serious. Now put it back."

  Marcus's hand was shaking. The coin was trembling.

  Danny watched in horror as Marcus's grip fumbled—

  The coin slipped.

  Everything happened at once.

  There was a sharp crack—the sound of zip ties breaking.

  Perseus moved.

  Danny's brain couldn't process how fast he moved. One moment he was sitting in the chair, hands bound. The next moment he was standing, arm extended, hand open.

  The coin fell directly into his palm.

  He closed his fingers around it, held it for a moment, then carefully, deliberately, slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

  Then he looked at the three kidnappers, who were frozen in shock and terror.

  "Thank you for not dropping it on the concrete," Perseus said, his voice back to its normal calm. "That would have been unfortunate."

  "How—" Rico managed. "You were—the zip ties—"

  "Practice," Perseus said simply. "A lot of practice."

  He rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms. "Those were quite tight. Uncomfortable. But not the worst I've experienced."

  "You could have escaped this whole time?" Danny asked, his voice high.

  "Yes."

  "Then why didn't you?"

  Perseus looked at him, and there was something ancient in his eyes. Something tired and patient and infinitely sad.

  "Because you're not bad people. You're desperate. And I wanted to see if I could help."

  "Help? We kidnapped you!"

  "Yes. You did. And now I've helped you understand that kidnapping is a terrible solution to your problems. Consider it a learning experience."

  Marcus was still staring at his empty hand where the coin had been. "You're over 2,000 years old."

  "Thereabouts."

  "That's impossible."

  "And yet here I am."

  "What are you?"

  Perseus smiled slightly. "Just a soldier. A very, very old soldier who's been around long enough to know that most people deserve a second chance. Even people who make terrible decisions."

  Five Eyes Video Conference

  Nobody spoke.

  They were all staring at their screens, watching Perseus stand calmly in the middle of the warehouse, completely free, facing three terrified kidnappers.

  "He broke the zip ties," Nigel said finally. "Just... broke them. Like they were made of paper."

  "He's been alive since ancient Rome," Webb said. "He knew Caesar personally."

  "He tried to warn Caesar about the Ides of March," Rachel added. "He was THERE."

  "2,000 years," Volkov repeated. "We thought 400, maybe 500. We were off by 1,500 years."

  Beaumont had his head in his hands. "We've been arresting a man who is older than France. Older than Britain. Older than most of European civilization."

  "He's been saving humanity for 2,000 years," Cartwright said quietly. "And we keep forgetting to not arrest him."

  On screen, Perseus was talking to the kidnappers, his voice gentle again:

  "I'm going to leave now. You three are going to sit here for exactly one hour and think about your choices. After one hour, you're going to turn yourselves in to the nearest police station. You're going to tell them the truth—that you attempted to kidnap someone, realized it was a terrible idea, and are surrendering voluntarily."

  "They'll arrest us," Danny said.

  "Yes. But you'll get far lighter sentences than if they have to hunt you down. Trust me on this. I've seen how legal systems work. Voluntary surrender with genuine remorse? That matters."

  "And if we don't?"

  Perseus's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Then the very protective lawyers I mentioned will find you. And they've been representing me for 346 years. They're very, very good at what they do."

  "346 years?" Marcus whispered.

  "The firm has been in business slightly longer than the United States. They know how to find people."

  Perseus walked to the door, then paused and turned back.

  "For what it's worth, Danny—your mother's cancer treatment? There are programs that can help. Charity organizations, hospital payment plans, advocacy groups. The debt isn't as insurmountable as it seems. Rico, your rent situation? There are tenant advocacy services. Marcus, your fresh start? Community college has financial aid. You don't need to kidnap people. You just need to ask for help."

  He opened the door.

  "One hour. Then surrender. And please—" he looked at each of them in turn, "—make better choices."

  And then he was gone.

  Five Eyes Video Conference

  Amanda's voice broke the silence: "He's walking out. Heading east. Should I coordinate pickup?"

  "No," Cartwright said. "Let him walk. He's earned it."

  "He's earned a lot more than a walk," Nigel said. "He's earned... I don't even know what. Compensation for 2,000 years of service?"

  "He doesn't want compensation," Webb said. "He just wants to be left alone to drink coffee and read books."

  "And we can't even do that right," Beaumont said. "We keep arresting him."

  Volkov raised his vodka glass, his hand slightly unsteady—though whether from the vodka or the revelation, it was hard to say.

  "To Perseus Jackson," he said. "Who is older than Russia, wiser than all of us combined, and still patient enough to help three idiots who kidnapped him."

  "To Perseus," they chorused, and drank.

  On screen, Danny Martinez was sitting on the floor of the warehouse, crying.

  "We kidnapped a 2,000-year-old man," he was saying. "We kidnapped someone who knew Julius Caesar. What is wrong with us?"

  "Everything," Rico said, also crying. "Everything is wrong with us."

  Marcus was still staring at his hand. "He caught the coin. He moved so fast I couldn't even see it. And then he gave us advice. He gave us advice on how to surrender."

  "He's the kindest person I've ever met," Danny said. "And we kidnapped him."

  "One hour," Rico said, checking his watch. "Then we turn ourselves in."

  "Yeah," Marcus agreed. "Yeah, we do."

  Cartwright watched them for a moment longer, then closed the feed.

  "Agent Foster, monitor the situation. Make sure they actually surrender."

  "Yes, sir. And sir?"

  "Yes?"

  "Should we... should we update Perseus's file? With his actual age?"

  Cartwright looked at the other directors. Nigel nodded. Beaumont shrugged. Rachel was already making notes. Volkov had poured another drink. Webb was staring into space, processing.

  "Yes," Cartwright said finally. "Update the file. Perseus Jackson. Born approximately 512 BCE. Age: approximately 2,537 years. And add a note: DO NOT ARREST. SERIOUSLY. HE'S 2,500 YEARS OLD. WHAT IS WRONG WITH US?"

  "That last part is not standard format, sir."

  "I don't care. Add it anyway."

  "Yes, sir."

  The video conference ended, but none of the directors closed their laptops immediately.

  They just sat in their respective offices, across five countries and three continents, contemplating the fact that they'd spent years monitoring a man who was older than their civilizations.

  And they'd arrested him anyway.

  Multiple times.

  Beaumont summed it up best in a text to the group chat:

  "We are the stupidest collection of intelligence agencies in human history."

  Nobody disagreed.