“How long has he been behind us?” I asked.
“I don’t know… maybe since we left the office.”
The light turned green. I turned sharply onto a side street. The SUV followed me. I turned around. There it was again.
“This isn’t an accident anymore,” I said through gritted teeth. “Call the police.”
She took out her phone, but just before she could dial the number, the screen went black . She tried again. Nothing.
“It freezes it… my phone restarts on its own,” she said.
“Okay, try mine…” I handed it to her. But when she took it, mine froze as well . A single word remained there, against a black background:
“YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.”
“Who… WHO is warning us?” I shouted.
Suddenly, the SUV caught up with us. The right window rolled down.
There was no face. Just… a mask . White, expressionless. And a single message, written on a piece of paper, was presented to us:
“Stop looking. Or next time it won’t just be a message.”
I cut the curve and pressed the accelerator. The SUV didn’t accelerate; it simply disappeared around the corner, as if its mission was accomplished.
I stopped at a nearby cafe with video surveillance. We went in. The owner recognized us—we came here often. I asked him to look at the cameras.
“A black SUV pulled up here about ten minutes ago, we saw it, it must be registered,” I said.
He looked at us strangely. “That’s not true. The cameras haven’t been working since last night. We cut the power.”
My wife had turned pale. “We have to go home. Right now.”
