The desert wind howled against the metal siding of Yusuf’s mountain fortress, a former NATO outpost-turned-nerve center of his expanding empire. From the outside, it looked like a relic of a forgotten war. But inside, beneath the camouflage netting and polished steel, it pulsed with technology and betrayal.Kabri walked through the command corridor with a practiced ease, flanked by two of Yusuf’s newer recruits—sharp-eyed, too quiet, and likely watching his every move. He made note of the surveillance blind spots, the gaps in foot patrols, and the unmistakable hum of the main server room beneath the concrete floor.The heart of Yusuf’s operations.Where he would strike.But not alone.Earlier that day, beneath the flicker of a power outage that lasted just six seconds—long enough to send the guards grumbling but not long enough to trigger protocol—Kabri had met with her.Naira.Yusuf’s logistics engineer. A quiet, observant woman of few words and subtle bitterness. Years ago, Kabri ha

The torches burned low in the ancestral corridors of Dunmarch Castle, their golden light flickering across stone walls and oil portraits. A thousand years of silent blood soaked the granite beneath, but none of it compared to what Kabri planned to leave behind.He walked the servant passage with a tray of bottles—aged Bordeaux, thirty years sealed, each cork infused with microdoses of a neurotoxin engineered by defectors from a closed Soviet lab. Odorless. Tasteless. Timed.Kabri wore no mask tonight.Not one for his face, at least. Only the uniform of a Highland butler, face shaven, hair dyed and slicked, his eyes dulled with grey contacts. Untraceable. Forgettable. Ghostly.The type of man no one would remember serving the wine that would mark the beginning of the end.Down in the hall, Fred continued his toast."To our alliance. To silence louder than bombs. To victory written in lines of code."Crystal goblets clinked. Twelve hands raised. Twelve enemies.Kabri moved like mist bet

The hall at Glenmaddoch Castle shimmered with opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung like suspended galaxies, their golden hues casting regal reflections across the vaulted ceilings. Velvet drapes in royal green muffled the wind that howled outside, somewhere beyond the Scottish moors. Long mahogany tables bore silver goblets, rare venison, and the finest Bordeaux wine. The conclave had begun.Seated around the table were the surviving heads of the world’s dirtiest syndicates. They came cloaked in the illusion of civility—Romanian smugglers in tuxedos, Nigerian tech lords in polished loafers, a Chinese ex-general swirling aged whiskey with a casual menace. In the center seat, where Fred once held court, now sat “Sir Malcolm Price.” His new persona bore the air of legitimacy—well-groomed, knighted, and dripping with MI6 whispers.Kabri stood to one side of the room, his new alias—Saeed Al-Rai—still unknown to most of the gathering. His skin-tight diplomatic blazer hid more than etiquette;

The smell of old stone and vintage wine was still thick in the air when Kabri stepped out of the dining hall, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors. Behind him, the lifeless body of Yusuf still slumped over the long oak table, blood soaking the velvet tablecloth beneath him. Fred’s voice echoed somewhere deeper in the castle, barking orders as chaos erupted among the guests—powerful criminals, warlords, and double-faced diplomats now scrambling like trapped rats.Kabri didn’t flinch as alarms began to howl. He pressed two fingers to the small device tucked inside his breast pocket, feeling the silent vibration.“Ignite.”Outside, the night air over the Scottish Highlands was abruptly torn by the buzz of miniature drones. Five of them, fast as hornets, zipped low across the castle grounds. They weren’t ordinary surveillance machines—they carried fire.The first explosion ripped through the east wing, where Fred’s crypto servers and communications hub were hidden beneath stone floo

The night had fallen in Marrakech like a velvet curtain—dark, soft, and deceptive. The dim light from the lanterns in the riad's courtyard barely touched the thick shadows that clung to the walls. Kabri, now going by Malik, sat cross-legged on a Berber rug, his face scarred and shaded beneath a black keffiyeh. The city outside was humming with low life—bargains, lies, footsteps—but inside the riad, silence was a god.Evelyn entered through the arched doorway, her movement silent except for the rustle of her linen shawl. Her face looked older than it should’ve. Something behind her eyes had frayed.Kabri looked up. He’d known she was coming—he’d watched her plane land, her driver change lanes three times to avoid being followed, the rhythm of her walk through the medina. He always watched now.But when she met his gaze, there was no accusation. Just weight. A burden she hadn’t brought before.She stood before him for a beat longer than necessary, then sat opposite him.“I found him,” s