Reed Sawyer glided through the terminal like a pro, blending in with the stream of travelers. Camera around his neck, bag over his shoulder, he looked like every other person scanning the crowded expanse ahead. But Reed wasn’t here for vacation or business. And he wasn’t alone.

  The Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport was alive and loud and busy—a whirlwind of sound and motion. Normally that chaos made Reed feel safe, invisible in the crowd. But today was different. There was something off in the air, a vibe that made his skin prickle.

  He turned and wandered into a magazine shop, positioning himself behind a stack of travel guides, his eyes scanned the terminal with slow, deliberate sweeps. That’s when he saw him.

  At Gate C13 to Washington, a man stood out—too dressed up for this time of day. His slate-gray suit was perfect, unwrinkled. He carried no bag, just a phone held loosely, like a prop. But he wasn’t looking at the screen. He was looking at Reed.

  Reed refocused, nervously flipped through a magazine without looking at it. He took short quick breaths, forcing his body to calm down. One wrong move and he was done. This was what all his training was for—the discipline that now kept him still as he turned another page, while his mind spun through scenarios.

  Had he been made? Reed thought to himself.

  The Professional Photographers Institute (PPI) looked like a legitimate organization—a global entity dedicated to education, networking and resources for photographers. But beneath that respectable fa?ade lay PPI’s true purpose: The Private Protection Initiative—a covert intelligence agency that used photographers as operatives. Their cameras more valuable than any weapon. Photographers were invisible—a fixture at events, ignored by most, and allowed to move freely, even in places others couldn’t get to. It was the perfect cover: slipping through embassy checkpoints, blending into private events, wandering restricted areas with the excuse of adjusting a lens or tweaking the lighting. But now, in his own city’s airport, something was off.

  Reed moved, set the magazine down and stepped back into the terminal flow. The man in the suit was still there, watching. Reed’s instinct told him to move. He turned to the coffee stand, wove into the line and let the crowd of travelers and families hide him.

  A few minutes later he took a look back. The man was gone.

  Reed made his way to the line for the flight to Vienna, Austria. The flight was heading through Washington Dulles International Airport. He joined the stream of passengers and moved along with them, pretending he was in a group of people anticipating their vacation. He was blending in like he always did.

  The journey to Dulles had gone by pretty quickly without any trouble. Altogether, the journey added up to just over two hours in the air, followed by a two-hour layover on the ground. But for Reed, there was nothing to be concerned about—assuming the man in the slate-gray suit had taken a different flight and wouldn't be showing up again.

  At last Reed was getting on the plane to Vienna. His eight-hour plus flight ahead did not concern him. He was too focused, too committed, on the mission. Yet the man in the slate-gray suit would not leave his mind. He hadn’t seen the man in over four hours, but the thought of him made Reed’s mind work overtime. Reed had been taught by PPI to trust his instincts. And his instinct was saying that guy was not a coincidence.

  Reed settled into 17D, stowed his bag under the seat in front of him and scanned the cabin. Everything looked normal—parents wrangling strollers, a man typing away on his laptop, a teenage girl glued to her phone, oblivious to the world. Reed breathed out slowly, relaxing into the seat. Maybe he’d overreacted.

  Then he saw him.

  The man was dressed as a flight attendant now—dark pants, white shirt, navy vest. The slate-gray suit was gone, replaced by the calm, professional uniform of the crew. But Reed’s mind caught on the familiar face: the sharp jawline, the dark, calculating eyes. Recognition hit him instantly. The man moved up the aisle, checking overhead compartments and greeting passengers with the detachment of the job.

  Reed’s heart raced but he kept himself calm, moving naturally. As he adjusted his camera lens, the action was cover to sneak another look. The man stopped a few rows ahead, smiled at a passenger struggling with a seatbelt. To the naked eye he was just another flight attendant. But Reed knew better. This man wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Their eyes met for a second, a flash of recognition on the man’s face before he turned and continued down the aisle, expression blank as stone.

  Reed sat back, fighting the urge to act. PPI had warned him about these moments—when the line between his cover and reality would blur, when the role of the “photographer” would be tested. He’d trained for this, but training was nothing compared to the raw feeling of being hunted, of knowing someone was closing in while he was in character.

  What did they know? How had they found him?

  The man disappeared behind the curtain to the crew’s quarters. Reed leaned his head back, his mind spinning. There was no backup, no signal to guide him. Just him, his camera and his instincts honed over years of work. And those instincts were screaming this was no coincidence. Whoever this man was, he was after Reed.

  As the plane rolled out, engines purring, he closed his eyes and attempted to calm his breathing. But his mind wouldn’t shut up. Who was this man? And why now?

  A vibration buzzed in his pocket—was it a message? He shouldn’t be doing this, but he pulled out his phone anyway. It wasn’t a text or an email. It was something else entirely. It was as if the cellular network had been hijacked and words were appearing on his screen:

  “Reed, we need to talk. Now.”

  No signature, no indication of who had sent it or how. Just six words.

  His gut clenched. PPI contacts never contacted him like this, especially not directly. Communication was always through Pro4uM.com, encrypted and buried behind multiple layers of misdirection. This kind of message was unheard of. Whoever sent it either didn’t know the rules… or didn’t care.

  The plane lurched as it lifted off and his phone switched to airplane mode. Reed’s grip tightened, his eyes fixed on the screen, the message frozen in its final moment of connection. This wasn’t a warning. Someone was watching him and playing by their own rules. Someone who knew his real name, his true purpose.

  As he was trying to process what was happening the flight attendant returned. Moving down the aisle with a tray of drinks. He stopped at Reed’s row, his smile polite but his eyes icy. He leaned in, his voice almost a whisper.

  “Hope you’re comfortable,” he said. “It’s a long flight.”

  Their eyes met, the man’s gaze challenging him to respond. Reed kept his face neutral while his mind raced beneath the surface. This was more than just a tail; this was a deliberate signal, a warning delivered in person. Reed was being followed and whoever was behind it was closer than he thought.

  As the man walked away a new kind of fear crept in, more intense than any he’d ever felt while handling a lens. This wasn’t mission thrill; this was fear of being exposed, vulnerable. And for the first time in years Reed Sawyer had no idea what was coming.

  The plane hummed along, a constant reminder of Reed’s unease. His mind spun, fully aware of his situation: cornered thousands of feet in the air, with no backup, no exit strategy, and worst of all, no weapon—not even a pocketknife. Just a bag full of camera gear. He felt like a sitting duck.

  Reed pretended to relax and let his hand wander over his gear. As his fingers touched the cool metal of his telephoto lens an idea crystallized. In the right hands these weren’t just cameras. They were weapons, ready to be used if need be.

  The image of taking someone down with a lens and a tripod suddenly became very clear in his mind. He smiled to himself.

  Then he thought: what if the man wasn’t alone?

  The calculated smile on the “flight attendant’s” face and the message on Reed’s phone were not adding up. Could there be another operative on the flight, someone blending in like him, hiding in plain sight?

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The passengers around him looked different, his gear seemed heavier. Reed was no longer just a tourist with a camera; he was a hunter armed and ready to defend himself.

  As soon as the plane’s Wi-Fi came on Reed connected and logged into Pro4uM.com. The homepage loaded, filled with PPI Sales Info and other ads for “professional photographers”. The site was PPI’s perfect cover. Reed had been lured in by this very disguise years ago—it was his introduction to the world of espionage.

  To the casual observer Pro4uM.com was just another photography site, with “educational resources” on lenses, lighting and editing. But Reed knew it was a clever disguise, with layers of coded messages and hidden links masquerading as photography articles. To outsiders it was a community of photography enthusiasts. To insiders it was a tightly controlled communication channel for PPI agents.

  Reed had stumbled upon Pro4uM.com by accident, drawn in by the promise of “exclusive techniques” and “advanced education”. It didn’t take him long to realize something was off—posts at odd hours, strange phrasing in comments, occasional redirects to encrypted pages. Cracking one of those codes had been a idle curiosity but it hadn’t gone unnoticed. A few days later he got a message from PPI inviting him to a meeting. He had no idea why or what the meeting was about but he felt he had to go.

  And that’s how it started.

  Now years later he was back on the site—not as a professional photographer but as a covert operative. Reed logged into Pro4uM.com with ease, navigated to the private area. Once there he typed in the cryptic message he’d received: Reed, we need to talk. Now.

  The screen went black for a moment before lines of encrypted text appeared. Reed’s heart was racing. This wasn’t how Pro4uM worked.

  Then a single line appeared at the top of the page:

  Look closer, Reed. You’re in the frame.

  Reed squinted, the words eating at him. “In the frame” wasn’t a casual phrase—it was a warning.

  Then another line appeared:

  Section: 3. Page: 16. Code: 105-B.

  He furrowed his brow as he glanced at his gear. He knew the drill—“in the frame” meant the answer was in something he carried. But he hadn’t received a physical package from PPI in months.

  Before he could do anything, another message appeared:

  Someone’s watching. Play your part.

  Reed’s throat constricted. Whoever sent this knew he was being followed and knew more than he was telling. The numbers in the message could refer to a hidden document, an embedded file or something in his camera or an archive from a past mission. But one thing was clear—“play your part” meant keeping his cover, playing the photographer.

  He closed the laptop and the message felt like a weight on his chest. He looked around the cabin. The man in the flight attendant uniform had disappeared behind the curtain but Reed knew he wouldn’t stay hidden for long.

  The message echoed in his head: Look closer, Reed. You’re in the frame. A warning, layered and menacing. The numbers—Section 3, Page 16, Code 105-B—tugged at his brain, a puzzle he had to solve. It had to point to something specific, something he’d seen before.

  He pulled out the telephoto lens from his bag, pretended to clean it, his fingers tracing the notches along the metal barrel. This lens had a hidden compartment, a trick PPI agents used to store microfilm or compact storage drives. It wasn’t likely what the man behind the curtain was after—Reed hoped not—but it would give him a second to react if things got hairy.

  The plane rumbled as the passengers settled in, the cabin was quiet. Reed shifted, angled the lens to peer through the glass and catch a reflection in the window. The man reappeared. He slipped out from behind the curtain, scanned the rows with a practiced air of nonchalance. His eyes flicked to Reed for a second before moving on.

  Reed’s mind was racing, connecting the dots fast. If he was “in the frame” it wasn’t just surveillance—it meant he was the target of whatever was happening. Was the man PPI or an outsider who’d cracked Pro4uM.com? Either way was bad.

  He had to move.

  Reed stood up, camera in hand and walked into the aisle as if to the lavatory. Space—he needed space, a vantage point, somewhere he could think without the eyes on him feeling like a chokehold. He’d barely stood up in the aisle when the plane hit a patch of turbulence and the man in the flight attendant uniform blocked his path with a tray of drinks.

  “Can I help you with something, sir?” The words were friendly but the look in his eyes said otherwise.

  Playing the part of a passenger caught mid-walk Reed said, “Just stretching my legs,” and added a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  The man nodded slightly. “I think you should sit down. It’s about to get rough.”

  Reed saw the subtle tension in the man’s stance, the way his fingers gripped the tray ready to drop it at a moment’s notice. The threat was silent but clear.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Reed said, shifting his weight, his fingers wrapped around the camera body. It wasn’t much but it was something.

  As he waited for whatever was to come, he saw a number out of the corner of his eye: 16B. The seat was one row up, to his left. The occupant—a middle-aged man in a crumpled suit—had his head back, looking like he was asleep. But under the seat in front of him was a small, unassuming case. Most would miss it, but not Reed. This was no ordinary case—it was a PPI covert camera case, designed to be invisible.

  Reed’s heart was racing, adrenaline pumping, and he felt a new sense of purpose. Reed forced a smile and nodded like he was giving in.

  “I’ll sit back down,” he said, moving into the aisle and letting the flight attendant step aside. But his eyes never left 16B. He was no longer just observing; he was preparing for what was to come.

  Reed’s mind was racing as he slid back into his seat, his eyes scanning the passengers to focus on the man in 16B. He watched as the middle-aged man shifted slightly as if he knew Reed was looking at him. The case under his seat, so invisible a moment before, now seemed to glow. Reed had to get closer, to figure out if this man was the key or just another complication.

  Reed adjusted his camera again, angling it to keep 16B in the frame of his telephoto lens. The act of taking pictures was the perfect cover for him to observe without drawing attention. He zoomed in, noting the worn edges of the case, the tapping of the man’s fingers on the armrest.

  As Reed focused his lens the man opened his eyes, shifted slightly to push the case further under the seat. 16B turned his head to the right and their eyes met and in an instant the man’s expression changed from fake sleep to full alert.

  A small nod. Just enough to confirm what Reed knew. This wasn’t a random passenger. He was involved and he knew Reed was too.

  Reed stood up, stretching like he was loosening his muscles. As he walked by 16B the man spoke without turning his head, his voice low and even.

  “Check your case,” he said, the words almost lost in the drone of the engine.

  Reed kept walking, acting like he hadn’t heard but inside he was reeling. The man in 16B had either just given him a lifeline or set a trap. The air in the cabin seemed to thicken, every second dragging.

  He glanced back and caught the flight attendant’s eyes, narrowed in on him like he hadn’t missed the exchange. The plane dropped slightly and Reed slid back into his seat, holding his camera.

  Look closer, Reed. You’re in the frame. The message echoed in his mind. Check your case. Whatever was in his own case was part of the puzzle and he was in deeper than ever.

  The numbers ran through his mind again: Section 3. Page: 16. Code: 105-B. It couldn’t be just random numbers; it was a key. Reed’s eyes drifted to 16B. The man sat with a calmness that only a trained operative could achieve. The message from Pro4uM.com wasn’t a warning. It was a lifeline.

  Reed tried to settle into his seat, the drone of the engines a constant buzzing in his ears. His mission had seemed simple—at least at first: photograph Secretary Lucien Kessler, one of the most powerful men in the U.S. government, at an exclusive event in Vienna. The press pass, courtesy of PPI, was his cover. A routine assignment—or so it seemed. But just minutes after he received the mission its true scope came into focus. The real task was embedded in the shoot itself: pass on a coded sequence hidden in a routine photo op. The mission was two-fold—get a picture of Secretary Kessler and confirm the code was received.

  It was supposed to be easy. Almost too easy. Too easy to have extra operatives on his tail now. Reed’s confusion grew. And now that plan felt shaky. The man in 16B was the missing piece—ally or threat unknown.

  Reed looked at his bag, pretending to dig through it. Section 3—could it be a chapter in his camera manual? And Page 16? Maybe it wasn’t a literal page but an image or technical reference within Chapter 3. PPI often hid messages in the mundane, using the complexities of photography as cover. Camera manuals were perfect for this: dense with diagrams, jargon and obscure details—ideal for hiding something in plain sight.

  105-B. To most, just a description. But to Reed, a code. A directive only a trained PPI operative would understand. The beauty of hiding codes in camera manuals was that no one read them in detail, making them the perfect hiding spot. PPI’s cryptographers were experts at embedding these hidden triggers, so agents would have access to secret instructions where no one would ever think to look.

  He felt a surge of excitement as the pieces started to fit together. If the answer was in the manual, then the next step was in his hands.

  Play your part, the Pro4uM message had said. Reed sat back, his fingers running over the worn edges of the camera manual. The familiarity of it calmed him as he opened it to Section 3—Emergency Alerts and Error Messages.

  His heart was racing as he turned to Page 16 and flipped through it quickly. There it was: an image of emergency alerts for his camera and beneath it Item 105-B:

  Flash unit that does not support red-eye reduction attached, and flash mode set to red-eye reduction or red-eye reduction with slow sync.

  To most it was technical mumbo jumbo, the kind only a photographer would notice. But to Reed it was a code song. It meant an operative, or unit, working without support—a PPI agent in the field using improvised means to signal presence. Flash mode meant need for subtle synchronization without drawing attention.

  Reed’s heart rate steadied, confusion giving way to clarity.

  Reed kept the manual open, his eyes scanning the page as if lost in technical details. But now it was more than a manual; it was a roadmap to survival. And the man in 16B wasn’t just a coincidence—he was Reed’s lifeline.

  The flight attendant emerged from behind the galley, her eyes like razors. Reed’s heart missed a beat but he covered it with a small smile, keeping his cover.

  He had time. Now he just had to live long enough to act—and get to Vienna and get the Kessler job done.