The sea churned like an unsettled god.Aboard the Aurelia Nova, Kabri leaned over the rusted railing, wind slicing through his dark trench coat. The rising sun painted the Atlantic in hues of crimson and ash—a fitting palette for what was about to unfold.Today, Saeed Al-Rai would die.Again.And this time, the whole world would watch.Two Days Earlier – LisbonEvelyn shut the dossier with a snap."You understand the gravity of this, Kabri?" she said, her voice steady. "A second death? You’ll lose every ally you’ve made.""Only the ones I can’t trust," he replied. “I need the rest to believe I’m gone—long enough to operate from below the radar.”"Then what?"Kabri’s eyes darkened. "Then I become the shadow they fear. Not a name, not a face. Just consequence."They were standing in a silent villa above the Tagus River. Yusuf’s lieutenants had begun sniffing around Morocco. Fred’s new frontmen were rising from his fake ashes.It was time to vanish again—but this time with purpose.Prese

Some wars are fought with bullets. Others with silence. This one began with a single keystroke in a basement beneath Amsterdam.The UndergroundAt a Turkish-run café on Kinkerstraat, with mint tea steaming and oud music humming faintly, Kabri waited in the back corner. His posture calm. His eyes scanning.Then she appeared.The hacker.No one knew her real name. Kabri only called her Naazim, a ghost pulled from the dark web, who once erased an Iranian colonel’s financial life in under thirty minutes.She wore a loose hoodie, glasses with micro-AR text flickering against the lenses, and a ring bearing a Quranic inscription—though Kabri doubted she followed any god but data.“You know this will collapse markets if I go too far,” she said in flawless French.Kabri slid a file toward her: a full crypto wallet list with Fred’s aliases, seed phrases, old backup codes, and the name of a Swiss regulator he had bribed.“Don’t go too far,” Kabri replied.“Just far enough,” she said, cracking

The London air was grey with a kind of cold that wrapped itself into the bones. The Houses of Parliament stood tall and indifferent, Gothic spires piercing a cloud-laden sky. Across the street, in the warmth of a black Mercedes Maybach, a man adjusted his cufflinks and leaned back into the leather seat. His face, taut and composed, was different now—surgically refined, polished, professional. His voice had changed too—more English, less Balkan. But the eyes. The eyes remained the same.Fred was dead.Now, Sir Malcolm Price lived.The driver—a former MI6 asset turned personal valet—glanced at him through the rearview mirror and spoke with a gentle Scottish brogue. “Parliament’s ready for your arrival, Sir Malcolm. Lady Orton will be waiting inside the Committee Room.”Malcolm Price nodded, folding the Financial Times and setting it beside a leather dossier marked Private Intelligence Briefing. The man once feared as a shadowy crime lord was now a decorated statesman. A philanthropist.

Geneva was never quiet. Not truly. Beneath the still diplomacy and glistening façades, it buzzed with hidden pacts and corrupted oaths. It was a city built on secrets, veiled in neutrality.Kabri walked through the underground parking garage of the Palais Wilson, a black duffle bag over his shoulder and a slow, measured gait. He wasn’t limping anymore. The scar from Marrakesh was healing, but the real wound—the one Jamil left behind—burned hotter each day.A single text had summoned him here. One phrase:“Confirm drop. Blood pact.”That was all it took to shake the bones of Interpol.Inside the bag was a portable quantum drive, about the size of a cigarette box, containing one of the most dangerous pieces of footage ever captured: a 2009 backroom blood pact between three men who swore loyalty over corpses in the shadows of Côte d'Ivoire.The men:Jacques Morvan, now Director of Interpol.Fred Mekaoui, then just “The Broker.”A third man, unknown even to Kabri—but clearly a Vatican dip

A thin drizzle fell across the Turkish-Syrian border as Kabri approached the checkpoint in Hatay province. The world on this side of the fence was dustier, darker, wrapped in thick coils of memory and betrayal. His boots splashed through muddy puddles, each step echoing a promise he no longer believed in.Yusuf’s men were already waiting.Three black SUVs lined up in front of a weather-worn mosque turned forward operating base. Armed men flanked the doors, their faces shrouded, but their body language tense. They didn’t greet Kabri as an old brother, nor did they raise their weapons. Instead, they simply nodded and opened the door.The unspoken message: We know who you are. We just don’t know if we trust it yet.Kabri stepped in.Inside, the walls still bore the banners of Yusuf’s faction: red falcons on black silk. But the floors were new—polished, imported stone. The air was perfumed, the guards wore upgraded gear, and the smell of war was replaced by something colder—organization.