Ghost Directive

It was the kind of room where wars were born.

Tall windows overlooked the Atlantic, their thick curtains drawn against the morning light. The sea hissed quietly against the cliffs below, muffled by bulletproof glass. A fire crackled in the hearth, more for atmosphere than warmth. Three men sat in silence, their chairs forming a triangle around a mahogany table polished to a mirror shine.

A fourth man stood by the door, face unreadable, posture still. He was the only one not wearing a suit. No tie, no cufflinks. Just a dark grey coat, zipped high, and gloves he hadn’t removed.

“You know the target?” asked the man with the silver cufflinks. His voice was smooth but strained, like he’d rehearsed it too many times.

The figure by the door said nothing.

Cufflinks continued, undeterred. “They’ll be speaking at the Atlantic Pact Summit. Geneva. Nine days from now. Tight security, but not impenetrable. We’ve arranged a brief opening during the pre-gala press window. Two minutes. Maybe less.”

Still, no reply.

The man to his right—older, with a cane resting across his lap—leaned forward. “You’re not being paid for conversation. You’re being paid for silence. Efficiency. An outcome.”

The figure stepped forward. The firelight caught his face, but there was nothing to remember. No scars, no features you’d hold onto. Just… absence.

He placed a single item on the table: a small black phone.

“I’ll contact you once,” he said. The voice was soft, mid-tone, accentless. “You’ll destroy the device after. There will be no further contact.”

“Understood,” said the third man—the youngest of the group, but perhaps the most dangerous. His eyes were cold, his smile thinner than a knife’s edge. “And your f*e?”

The assassin looked at him for the first time.

“I already accepted the job. You’re paying for a result.”

He turned without another word, stepped through the door, and was gone.

Three minutes passed before anyone breathed again.

“Well,” the old man murmured, adjusting his cane. “We’ve just unleashed a ghost.”

Six thousand miles away, in a café outside Istanbul, Damien Voss didn’t know his life was about to unravel. He was focused on his coffee, watching steam curl lazily in the cool morning air. A newspaper lay open beside him, unread. The front page showed another photo of Prime Minister Rydell shaking hands with foreign dignitaries—smiling, confident, and utterly exposed.

A ringtone pierced the quiet. He almost didn’t answer.

“This is Voss.”

A pause. Then: “We have a situation. Your kind of situation.”

He closed the paper. His pulse ticked up. It had been over a year since anyone from the Agency called.

“Tell me more.”

At 2:12 a.m., in a warehouse in Berlin, Specter opened a steel case and began assembling the weapon. Not a rifle—those were for amateurs. This was custom-made, experimental. Silent. Untraceable.

Every part clicked into place with surgical precision.

He didn’t hum. He didn’t think. He calculated.

The target would stand behind bulletproof glass.

Specter knew something the others didn’t.

Glass had seams.

In Geneva, a florist's van pulled up to the service entrance of the International Summit Hall. The driver wore a wide smile, his uniform freshly pressed, and handed over the forged delivery manifest with practiced ease.

Inside the bouquet was a transmitter no larger than a coin—already live.

From a rooftop three blocks away, Specter watched the van through a pair of polarized lenses.

And smiled.