Recursion Protocol

Chapter 13: Checkmate

Hayes parked the Kawasaki two blocks from Grindhouse Coffee, the engine ticking as it cooled in the morning air. His boots scraped against broken asphalt as he walked through narrow Cambridge side streets, past Victorian houses converted into student apartments and faculty offices.

The coffee shop sat wedged between a used bookstore and a vintage clothing boutique, its front window cluttered with community notices and indie band flyers. Hayes pushed through the heavy wooden door and was immediately hit by the roar of conversation and the aggressive hiss of industrial coffee machines.

The place was packed. Every table occupied, students hunched over textbooks, professors gesticulating wildly in heated academic debates. The noise was almost overwhelming after the quiet countryside roads.

Hayes squeezed through the crowd to reach the counter.

"Next!" shouted a purple haired, bearded barista over the din.

Hayes ordered a large black coffee and paid in cash. Finding a seat proved impossible—every chair taken, people standing in clusters near the windows, others perched on window sills with laptops balanced precariously on their knees.

He noticed a small alcove near the back, partially hidden behind a support beam. Someone had abandoned a table there, leaving behind a half-eaten muffin and a newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle. Hayes claimed the space, settling into a wobbly chair that gave him a partial view of the front entrance.

The coffee was bitter, but the caffeine ran through his system like electricity. Hayes carefully extracted the torn receipt fragments from his jacket pocket, fitting the pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle on the scarred wooden table. "Project Mirror" emerged from the careful blue ink across the tear.

Around him, the café hummed with the energy of academic Cambridge. Graduate students debated particle physics at the next table. A professor near the window was explaining something about medieval manuscripts to a small group of undergraduates.

Then he heard the brakes.

The first car arrived with a shriek of rubber on asphalt, followed immediately by two more. Hayes looked through the fogged window and saw three black cars blocking the street in front of the coffee shop.

The purple-haired barista paused in his coffee preparation. Other customers looked up from their laptops and conversations, heads turned toward the window.

Four men in black clothing pushed through the entrance. They carried themselves like people who were used to getting their way without having to explain why. The leader stood out despite his ordinary, forgettable appearance. His eyes were different. Cold, calculating. He wove between tables with the fluid movement.

"Dr. Brandon Hayes." It wasn't a question. The man's voice carried the neutral tone of someone stating an established fact. "You're coming with us. Don't try anything stupid." As he spoke, Hayes noticed the others had positioned themselves strategically—blocking the front entrance, the corridor to the restrooms, even the service door behind the counter.

Hayes nodded slowly. "All right. Let me just—"

He rose from his chair as if reaching for his jacket, then suddenly bolted toward the rear corridor. He made it three steps before the nearest man tackled him to the floor between two tables. Coffee cups crashed, laptops scattered, and students scrambled backward as Hayes hit the hardwood with bone-jarring force.

Two men hauled Hayes to his feet. His ribs ached where he'd struck the floor, and his left wrist throbbed from where he'd tried to break his fall. The purple-haired barista was shouting something about calling the police, but the men completely ignored him.

They dragged Hayes through the coffee shop, past shocked customers who'd pressed themselves against the walls. Outside, morning Cambridge continued its routine—pedestrians who glanced once then quickly looked away, a delivery truck navigating around the parked cars, students hurrying to class.

The men shoved Hayes into the back of a black van. The interior was equipped with bench seating and anchor points welded to the floor. Two men climbed in beside him while the others took the front seats.

Asthe van pulled away from the curb, Hayes felt a sharp prick in his shoulder,the needle of a syringe gleaming in the vehicle's interior lighting. Hayestried to resist the spreading numbness, but whatever they'd injected him withwas fast-acting. His vision blurred, and the sounds of traffic became distant.