Phoenix

03.

Birmingham, England - July 26

​Tricia Milner always came home late. Not from a night of fun, but from her office. Ever since her divorce from her cheating husband five years ago, she had become a different person.

It was a blessing that they hadn't had children, which made it easy to leave that scumbag behind without a second thought. The word "relationship" now made her cringe.

​She was happy on her own, spending her days at the office until nine or ten in the evening, sometimes even later. Tonight, it was eleven o’clock by the time she returned home.

​After setting down her things, she went to take a shower. Humming a soft tune, she dried her hair before heading to the kitchen. She preferred cooking for herself over eating out, determined to have at least one home-cooked meal a day, no matter how late it was.

​For a while, she had been catching a faint, mild smell. But as she opened the kitchen door, the odor hit her hard, making her feel light-headed. The smell was unsettlingly familiar.

​Gas.

​The kitchen was saturated with cooking gas. She couldn't understand how this had happened. She distinctly remembered turning off the burner that morning before she left for work.

​So, what was it? A leak in the line? How big of a leak could it be to fill the room to such an extent? She could even hear the faint hiss of gas escaping. She decided to investigate before calling for help and reached for the light switch by the kitchen door.

​That was her fatal mistake.

​The poor woman didn't know the switch had been tampered with. The moment she flipped it, it sparked. And that was all it took. The gas ignited in a thunderous explosion.

​The blast was so intense the entire neighborhood shuddered. Glass windows shattered, and a wall of fire erupted from the kitchen window, resembling the exhaust of a rocket launch.

​Tricia Milner didn't die instantly. Her entire body was seared, her skin burned away. She was a fleshy, bloody mess, barely recognizable as human. But even in that state, she managed to drag herself out of the kitchen and into the adjacent study.

​On a table sat a telephone. Gathering the last of her strength, she grabbed the table to pull herself up. She reached for the phone, but her attempts were in vain. The tabletop and the phone on the table were smeared with blood, silent witnesses to her final struggle.

​A few seconds later, the workaholic woman collapsed, finding her final sleep.
​Her desperate efforts went unnoticed by the three assassins waiting in a car a hundred feet away from her apartment. The sight of the explosion gave them the satisfaction they craved.

They knew this murder would be dismissed as a tragic accident—a gas leak and a short circuit—not an uncommon occurrence. They had done what they came to do, watched it happen, and then drove away without a second glance.

​
​Grampian Mountains, Scotland - August 8

​Eric Mortimer was a legend in the climbing community. He could easily hold his own against professional free climbers.
This expertise hadn’t come overnight; it was the result of decades of practice. He could have been a professional, but climbing was just a hobby—a passion he loved deeply. His real job was as a senior computer engineer at a multinational IT firm which he loved even more.

​Though he loved his profession, climbing was in his blood. During the good season, he ignored warnings and returned to his second love. He thrived on the danger, seeing it as a kind of a drug. Conquering a difficult cliff brought him a joy nothing else could. At fifty, he deliberately ignored the notion that he should stop.