Chapter One: The Explosion

Baltimore, Maryland — Inner Harbor, near Fells Point

Monday, March 4 — Cold, Cloudy, 42°F

Weather Forecast:

Overcast, slight breeze, morning fog

Jordan Cade squinted through the viewfinder of his Nikon D7200, tracking The early morning mist as it drifted across the dark water of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Behind the camera, the world made more sense.

It was focused, controlled—every frame framed exactly how he wanted life To be. Out here, with his eye pressed to the glass, life obeyed him. He could freeze a moment before it spoiled.

He swung the camera left, then right, allowing the telephoto lens to find its rhythm.

Swing. Stop. Click.

Swing. Stop. Click.

The Inner Harbor tourist district was waking up—vendors setting up stalls, early sightseers wandering toward coffee stands, the hum of city

Life starting to build like a distant overture. Cade was supposed to be capturing them. People enjoying themselves. Water taxis on the move. Tourists gawking at whatever tourists gawked at.

But his mind wasn’t in it. It hadn’t been for years.

He wasn’t the Pulitzer-winning photojournalist anymore. He was a recovering drunk with a second-rate assignment from a third-rate East Baltimore Sentinel, taking pictures that didn’t matter. These days, he didn’t even follow the rules of composition. He let the camera wander, unfocused, his finger tapping the shutter when it felt like it.

Swing. Stop. Click.

Swing. Stop. Click.

And then something caught his eye. A man was climbing aboard a small yacht moored at the far end of the pier. His polished leather shoes were the first thing Cade noticed. Too slick for boats. He was wearing a dark green jacket, a tie, and carried a backpack, the straps cutting deep into his shoulders as if the weight was dragging him down. Cade’s pulse picked up.

Instinctively, he zoomed in.

Click.

The backpack looked heavy. Too heavy.

Click.

Something was off.

Cade lowered the camera. He told himself this wasn’t his story. Not anymore. He wasn’t that guy. The world without the lens was dull anyway, the colors washed out, the details harder to find. He should leave it alone.

But he didn’t.

He raised the camera again. The man was at the top of the companionway now, standing with his arms slightly out, swaying in the breeze. The backpack was gone. There was something about the jacket—it caught the light strangely. Shiny material, almost new. Cade squinted, zoomed in further, and saw the patch on the sleeve. A logo. Simple. Clean. He couldn’t make it out.

He exhaled slowly and took another shot.

Click.

Then the man turned. For a second, Cade was certain the man was looking directly at him.

Their eyes locked through the glass.

Cold. Measured.

Cade froze, the camera heavy in his hands. Then the man moved again. He stepped forward on the deck, looking left, and lifted his hand in a casual wave to someone onshore. Cade swung the camera to follow his line of sight.

Another man stood near the volleyball courts. Older. Long coat. Hat low over his face. Cade focused on him and felt something tighten in his chest. The man was staring directly at him, not at the man waving. Cade’s hands manually adjusted the focus, narrowing in. Wide-set eyes. A wispy mustache. A strange, loopy smile that didn’t change as he raised his hand in a slow, deliberate motion.

Was he waving?

Signaling?

He’s definitely waving at me.

Cade snapped a few more shots, his breathing shallow. The man turned and walked away without a glance back.

Cade swung back toward the boat.

And then it happened.

The explosion ripped through the quiet morning, a brutal eruption of fire and metal that swallowed the yacht in an instant. Cade felt the shockwave before he heard it. The blast hit him like a punch, throwing him backward and slamming him to the ground. For a moment, there was nothing but ringing in his ears and a burning haze in his eyes.

He pushed himself upright, fumbling for his camera even as his legs trembled beneath him. His instincts took over.

He started shooting—floating islands of fire burning on the water, wreckage, smoke rising in thick columns.

People running. Screaming.

Sirens in the distance, drawing closer. And there, through the chaos, Cade spotted him.

The man in the trench coat. Still standing near the volleyball courts, his back turned to the blast.

Calm.

Hands in his pockets. Looking at his watch like he was checking the time between errands.

Cade’s stomach clenched. The man wasn’t reacting. Wasn’t afraid.

He was leaving.

Cade lifted the Nikon and took more shots, tracking the man as he strolled away, casual as anything. His gut told him this wasn’t over.

That man wasn’t just a witness.

Swinging back toward the water, Cade caught sight of something floating

Near the pier.

A large chunk of the hull.

Zooming in, he saw the logo again, clear against the scorched fiberglass.

Almost the same one that had been on the man’s jacket.

And then he remembered.

Something old.

Something he hadn’t thought about in over a year.

A gut-level warning bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. A cry snapped him back.

“Help! Please help me, mister!”

Cade turned toward the voice. A woman was sitting on the bricks, her jeans soaked in blood. A jagged piece of metal was lodged deep in her thigh. She was clawing at it, trying to pull it free. Cade was already moving.

“Don’t!” he shouted, closing the distance in seconds. “Stop! You’ll make it worse!”

He knelt beside her, catching her hands, holding them still.

The plaza was filling with first responders—EMTs shouting instructions, police corralling the crowd.

The smell of smoke and blood hung thick in the air. Bodies lay scattered across the donor bricks, names half-obscured

Beneath smears of red. Cade’s hands were shaking. His camera dangled from its strap, the lens cracked but still functional.

He kept it close. He always did. Something told him this was just the beginning.