Three days after the weapons interdiction, Adrian received an invitation that marked his formal entry into the inner circle of Sokolov's Miami operations. The message came not through encrypted channels or anonymous phone calls, but through a perfectly legitimate business card delivered by a courier who looked like any other messenger in a city full of people moving documents between office buildings. *Meridian Holdings International cordially invites you to a private reception celebrating new business partnerships. Black tie required. Fisher Island Club, Saturday evening, 7 PM.* The card was embossed on expensive paper, the kind used by companies that measured their worth in billions rather than millions. But what caught Adrian's attention wasn't the formality, it was the name of the hosting company. Meridian Holdings International, which traced back through a maze of shell corporations to the same financial networks they'd been tracking since their investigation began. "Fisher Isl

The rain eased by the time they prepared to leave the warehouse. It came not as a cleansing but as a whisper — soft, persistent, carrying the weight of everything that had happened.Ross pulled on his coat once more, his movements calm, deliberate, as though none of it — the storm, the blood, the chase — had touched him at all. His men fell into silent ranks, disciplined shadows that would vanish as quickly as they had appeared.Adrian checked the case again before finally securing it under his arm. Mara moved closer, her eyes scanning every exit, her shoulders taut with unspent tension.Ross’s gaze swept over them, lingering only briefly. “You’ll hold here for the night,” he said, his tone firm, practical, like any commander giving orders. “At first light, move discreetly. The city won’t be quiet for long.”Adrian gave a short nod. “And you?”Ross adjusted his gloves, his voice steady, unreadable. “I have other matters to settle. Stay sharp, Cross. You’ve carried weight heavier than

The city did not sleep. Not really. It shifted, it groaned, it hid its ugliness beneath layers of neon and shadow, but beneath the surface its pulse was restless. And on this night, Adrian Cross felt it more than ever.They slipped from Mara’s lab into the dripping avenues, the faint glow of storm-scattered lights still bleeding off the streets. The bookkeeper waited where they’d left him, curled against the wall like a discarded rag doll, eyes darting up as though he’d been watching for their return every second.“You—” he stammered, trying to rise, “you came back—”Adrian silenced him with a look. “Move.”The man stumbled forward, his feet splashing shallow puddles, his breath ragged with fear. Adrian kept him ahead, Mara at his side. Lane’s voice still lingered in the back of his skull, replaying with the quiet authority of someone who had meant every word.Curiosity can be fatal.Some hills aren’t worth the body count.Adrian’s grip tightened on the case. Lane had left like a man

The warehouse breathed with silence—an oppressive, waiting kind of silence. The men in the shadows had not spoken, had not shifted, had not even raised their weapons. They stood like statues, their presence alone enough to tighten the air.At the desk, the man in the gray suit watched Adrian with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His fingers traced lazy circles across the papers before him as though none of this were unexpected, as though Adrian and Mara were already pieces he had moved across a board.Adrian’s gun remained leveled, his body still as stone. “Name,” he said flatly.The man in gray chuckled softly. “Names have weight, Mr. Cross. Surely you of all people understand the power of leaving one’s own… unspoken.”He leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “But if it eases you, you may call me an accountant of sorts. A custodian of order, if you prefer. My task is simple—ensure the numbers align, ensure the flow continues, ensure… interruptions are dealt wi

Six months after the collapse of Sokolov's network, Adrian stood in the departure lounge of Reagan National Airport, watching rain streak the windows while waiting for a flight that would take him to Prague, where intelligence suggested another foreign-controlled criminal organization was recruiting American federal agents. The assignment briefing was thick enough to serve as a weapon, filled with photographs and financial records that documented systematic corruption spanning three continents.Mara emerged from the bookstore carrying coffee and the kind of technical magazines that most people used as sleep aids, settling into the seat beside him with the comfortable familiarity of someone who had become his partner in every sense that mattered. Over the past months, their professional relationship had deepened into something that transcended case assignments and agency protocols."Flight delayed again," she observed, noting the departure board that showed their connection to Frankfur