Adrian sprinted up the Adriatic Star's tilting gangway as automatic gunfire echoed through the ship's superstructure. The vessel was listing fifteen degrees to starboard, harbor water pouring through hull breaches that the Russian assault teams had systematically created to prevent anyone from escaping with information about their operations.Bodies littered the main deck—Morrison's mercenaries, ship's crew, even some of the Russian attackers who'd been caught in defensive crossfire during their boarding operation. Blood mixed with seawater as the ship continued its slow descent toward the harbor bottom.Adrian found the first stairwell that led to the cargo holds, his flashlight cutting through smoke and darkness while explosions continued detonating throughout the vessel's interior. Each step down took him deeper into flooding compartments where Mara was supposedly being held while international criminals eliminated witnesses to the betrayal of federal personnel."Cargo hold seven,"

The morning of Alex's funeral dawned gray and cold, matching Adrian's mood as he stood in his bathroom mirror adjusting his black tie with hands that shook from rage rather than grief. He'd barely slept, his mind cycling through every possible scenario Morrison might use to turn his brother's burial into psychological warfare against federal agents who'd disrupted his criminal empire.Mara knocked on his apartment door at 8 AM, dressed in a simple black dress that couldn't hide the bandages on her arms and the careful way she moved to protect her injured leg. She looked like hell, but she was here, ready to stand beside him when Morrison made his move."How are you holding up?" she asked, studying his face with the concern of someone who understood that grief and rage could make people do dangerous things."I keep thinking about Alex as a kid," Adrian said, checking his concealed weapon one final time. "How he used to follow me around asking stupid questions about everything. Why is t

The crack of sniper fire split the afternoon air as Coleman's teams engaged Morrison's foreign associates from positions throughout Saint Mary's Cemetery. Adrian threw himself sideways, tackling Detective Sullivan to the ground as automatic weapons fire raked across the gravesite where they'd been standing seconds before."Stay down!" Adrian shouted to the panicked mourners who were diving behind headstones and memorial benches. "Keep your heads down and don't move!"Janet screamed as bullets shattered the granite marker beside her, stone fragments cutting her face while she pressed herself against Alex's casket for protection. The other accountants from Alex's firm were scattered across the cemetery grounds, trapped in the open while professional soldiers exchanged fire with Adrian's unofficial security teams.Morrison had vanished in the first seconds of gunfire, disappearing behind the maintenance building with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd planned multiple escape route

The private airfield outside Richmond sat in darkness except for the runway lights that illuminated Morrison's Gulfstream like a beacon. Adrian crouched behind Coleman's van with Mara beside him, both of them studying the facility through night vision scopes while their unofficial team prepared for what felt like a suicide mission."Engines are running," Coleman reported from his position near the perimeter fence. "Boarding stairs are down, ground crew moving around the aircraft. Morrison's definitely planning immediate departure.""How many hostiles?" Adrian asked, counting defensive positions around the runway."Thirty, maybe more. Professional military contractors, not street muscle. Foreign soldiers with serious hardware - assault rifles, grenade launchers, probably sniper teams on the control tower and hangar rooftops."Russo's voice crackled through their encrypted radio: "My contacts intercepted communications in what sounds like Arabic and Russian. Morrison's got international

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and blood. Adrian lay in the bed with IV lines running into both arms, his chest wrapped in bandages that covered the rib wound, his shoulder immobilized in a sling. The doctors had spent four HOURS extracting bullets and repairing damage that should have killed him on that airfield. They'd told him he was lucky to be alive, but Adrian didn't feel lucky. He felt like Morrison had won again. Mara sat in the chair beside his bed, her leg elevated and wrapped in fresh dressings. The infection from her cemetery wounds had required aggressive antibiotics, and her face was pale from blood loss and exhaustion. But her eyes were sharp, focused on the laptop balanced on her knees where she'd been reviewing files despite doctor's orders to rest. "They're saying you need at least two weeks before you can even walk properly," Mara said, not looking up from her screen. "Two weeks is two weeks too long. Morrison's out there rebuilding his operation whi