The snow fell lightly over the outskirts of Brașov, Romania, draping the derelict customs station in a deceptive calm. Inside a rust-colored van parked at the edge of the compound, Kabri adjusted the lapel pin on his coat—an emblem of the United Nations—while his forged identification rested snugly in the breast pocket. He was no longer Kabri, nor Malik. Today, he was Dr. Amir Salib, biochemical surveillance expert, certified and vetted by Geneva’s fictitious Eastern Inspection Bureau.Evelyn’s voice crackled in his earpiece. “Satellite eyes show the trucks are inbound—two of them. Romanian license plates. Red and black. Estimated six minutes.”Kabri didn’t respond immediately. His mind, sharpened but strained, registered the incoming data while his eyes scanned the faces of the guards lounging by the checkpoint gate. All local. Armed. Paid to look the other way, unless someone paid better.“Visual confirmed,” he finally said. “Going dark.”Sliding out of the van, Kabri approached the

The sky above the Romanian countryside was stained a noxious orange, choked with smoke and chemical haze. Kabri—now only known as Malik—stood on a ridge overlooking the valley, his silhouette outlined by the rhythmic pulse of emergency strobes and the glimmer of fire eating into metal structures.The plant was one of Fred’s final strongholds—a clandestine facility that manufactured weaponized nerve agents for black-market distribution. Malik had found it through a line of breadcrumbs, each clue peeled from encrypted files buried in the remains of Yusuf’s old network. Evelyn’s last whispered tip before her capture had made it real.And now, it would all burn.He pressed the comm unit tucked into his collar.“Reaper, come in.”A crackle. “Standing by.”“Execute Strike Three. All squads pull back to Phase Delta zones.”The line went silent, then—“Copy. Strike Three—live.”The hill shook beneath his boots as the first missile hit, screaming down like a spear from heaven. It struck the so

The cold wind of the Carpathians howled through the crumbled arches of the abandoned monastery. Night cloaked the hills in silence, broken only by the drone of Malik’s blacked-out helicopter as it descended onto the snow-dusted landing pad. Kabri stepped out, his face expressionless beneath the hood, the scar under his right eye stark against his pale skin.He didn’t speak to the three men behind him. They were shadows, trained ghosts like he was now—men who had defected, disappeared, and owed their lives to the phantom Kabri had become.Inside the monastery, time had stopped. Cracked frescoes stared down like silent witnesses to the pain within. Kabri moved swiftly, silenced pistol drawn, eyes scanning every corner. The information from the rogue agent—Evelyn’s old friend in MI6—had been brief but precise: Fred had used this place before. A site for breaking enemies and hiding sins.He reached the lower level. The stench hit him first—damp stone, blood, and something chemical. The do

Kabri kills Fred—but something in the footage stuns him.The air was heavy with moisture and tension. Deep beneath the Albanian mountains, inside an abandoned Soviet nuclear silo repurposed into Fred’s final fortress, Kabri stood alone in a corridor of shadows. Cold concrete, stripped cables, flickering halogen lights—it all smelled of endings.He had chased this moment through blood and betrayal, fire and snow. Now, only a thick steel door separated him from Fred—the man who destroyed his brother, poisoned his love, and ruined whatever was left of his soul.Kabri’s grip on his suppressed pistol tightened. No guards remained. No barriers. He’d burned through Fred’s last defenses with wrath and precision. Still, his heartbeat refused to slow. His mind, long trained to be colder than steel, flickered.Jamil’s face. Evelyn’s last whisper. The final video Fred promised.He inhaled.Then he pushed the door open.The inner chamber looked nothing like a warlord’s throne room. No gilded dec

Tangier.The city where Africa brushed lips with Europe. Where Arabic poetry echoed in narrow alleys and ocean winds carried the scent of mint tea and betrayal.Kabri hadn’t returned to Tangier since the mission that nearly got Jamil killed in 2017. That op still haunted him—broken contacts, a failed arms intercept, a rooftop chase that ended with Jamil coughing blood into his palm. They’d left the city bitter and bruised. Now he was back, chasing ghosts. Again.The photo from the monk in Portugal stayed folded in his jacket pocket. The boy’s eyes stared at him every time he reached for a lighter. Evelyn noticed. She hadn’t spoken about it. But she noticed.They were staying low in a small riad deep inside the Kasbah, a maze of whitewashed corridors and blue shutters. The owner, an old woman with sharp eyes and no questions, let them pay in cash. Evelyn watched the street from the rooftop every morning. Kabri wandered the medina at dusk, showing the boy’s photo to fruit sellers and ca