Determined as he was to prove himself wrong, Robert could see nothing. Foot steady on the pedal, the sedan coasted along the empty street as Robert maintained constant vigilance. Night had fallen upon the idyllic residential neighborhood several hours prior; the car radio displayed 2:23 AM, time enough for the pieces of his mission to assemble together. Homes lined him to either side in an endless stream, carbon copies of one another. Green grass, mailboxes, bold red doors. White-picket fences, the kind he had only seen on television, actually existed here, completing the scene of the American dream. He was an intruder here, unwanted, a feeling that pervaded him bone-deep. His eyes continued to scan everything before them. Left to right. Right to left.

“Your destination is approaching on your right,” chimed the dashboard GPS. Flexing his hands beneath latex gloves, Robert repositioned his grip on the wheel, turning into the driveway of the house marked on the digital map. He parked in front of the garage door, discerning what he could about its occupant. The lawn wasn’t quite as manicured as its neighbors. The garbage pail, placed along the sidewalk for retrieval, was unique in that its lid was fully closed. Most important to Robert, the porch light was off. A single person lived here, one not around often enough to tend to his home or discard much waste. One who did not know or care to illuminate their property. One who was here tonight. Robert sat shrouded in darkness, waiting. No lights came on in the house, no one disturbed by his arrival. No late night visits to the restroom. Nothing.

Robert considered the attache case in the passenger seat. What little moonlight shined on it gleamed silver, a utilitarian metallic design. Robert placed it his in lap, unclasping its locks to split it open. Grey foam padding held in place a semiautomatic handgun, one full magazine of ammunition, and a suppressor. He pulled the weapon free, loaded it, attached the suppressor, and checked the sights. The house stood before him, impassive to his intentions. Robert opened the driver’s door and stepped outside.

Caldwell was not prepared for the sheer sense of dread he would experience upon entering the George Bush Center for Intelligence. “Government money, my man” Carlos had repeatedly told him, “is the best kind there is.” His boss had never been shy about his aspirations for their business. Information Technology was everywhere these days and though they had never lacked contracts from companies needing their expertise, Carlos was insistent. “Government money is where it’s at. You get that, you’re set for life.” Caldwell certainly was surprised by the numbers listed on his first paycheck from their newest contract, but it paled in comparison to the overwhelming sense of being in over his head as he first walked through the entrance doors of the Central Intelligence Agency.

The Company, as he learned it was often referred as, was increasing delving into the realm of cyberwarfare. The deaths of hundreds and thousands was quickly turning into threats against the Internet of Things: public utilities, bank accounts, classified information. And though the NSA was everyone’s favorite darling when it came to the complex relationship between the United States government and the Internet, the CIA had its own ambitions in mind. Ambitions that had led to Caldwell and his coworkers being granted access to some of the most secure servers in the world.

The job was much like any other in the beginning. Days were spent in front of computers and inside them, handling hardware and software alike to meet their employers specific needs. Guards and cameras watched their every move, inspected them before entering the job site and leaving it, ensuring everyone there did only what was asked of them and nothing more. Nights were spent in bars and gentleman’s clubs, celebrating their wild luck. Had it not been for Roger, Caldwell would never have contemplated it at all. “Have you seen this?” Roger had asked him, showing him a video on his phone.

The video was titled Collateral Murder. The video was cockpit gunsight footage from an United States Army AH-64 Apache during the July 12, 2007 Baghdad airstrike. Two journalists were killed during the firefight. The footage was provided to Wikileaks by Private First Class Chelsea Manning. Curiosity turned to shock and shock sunk towards nausea as Caldwell witnessed the footage. “Why are you showing me this?” Caldwell had asked him.

“Because I’ve seen other stuff like this. On our job.” During their lunch break the next day, Roger showed him exactly what he had seen. Quietly rushing themselves lest they be caught in the act, Roger pulled up on the terminal what he had only accidently stumbled upon before: a list of names. A list of names of people to be killed. Roger pointed to one. “He’s the Minister of Energy and Petroleum in Venezuela. And we want him dead.”

Heart pounding to burst, Caldwell spent each day onward nervous. He knew about Snowden. He had read about his methods for data collection, had searched for every possible advantage to assist with what he had in mind. Opportunities for digging were rare and fleeting; weeks might go by before his next chance to peek beneath the curtain. But what he found he could not deny. What he found compelled him to continue. Assassinations, state-sponsored terrorism, corporate espionage, election rigging, domestic surveillance. Each sliver of evidence grew and grew, until it had become something he could make a stand on. Something he could share with the world at large. All that was left was for him to make his final move.