2025-08-21 12:26:58
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Chapter 91
Kabri hadn’t slept.Even as the sun began to crawl over Lisbon’s misty skyline, he remained seated in the far corner of the safehouse, a battered pair of headphones clamped to his ears, staring into the distance like a man unraveling the laws of time.The audio file had no metadata. No date, no time stamp. It had simply appeared on the decrypted folder extracted from Jamil’s second drive—file name: 04_REDSTAIN_FINAL.Kabri pressed play again.Jamil’s Voice (tired, low): "If you’re hearing this, either I’m dead or about to be. I don’t know what will kill me—Fred’s paranoia, Yusuf’s ambition, or my own guilt."The words were like a scalpel.Kabri gripped the edge of the table harder."Let me start from the beginning, because that’s what no one ever does. We all join the business thinking we’re smarter. That we’ll dodge the knives we ourselves sharpen. I was twenty-two when Fred found me in Cairo. I thought he’d be a mentor… but I didn’t realize then that he and Yusuf were already playi
Chapter 90
The rain came down heavier in Lisbon than Kabri remembered. It painted the cobbled alleys with glass and made the tiled roofs bleed color. From his vantage point in an abandoned apartment overlooking the Tagus River, he should have felt safe. Hidden. But nothing about this moment was safe.The ghost had returned.Not in the shadows. Not in his sleep.In daylight.Kabri stood still as Jamil walked through the half-lit room, just like old times—same leather jacket, same smirk, but now the wound in his neck bled as he moved. Crimson leaking from the bullet hole that had ended everything at Hollow Bridge."You came back empty-handed again," Jamil said, tilting his head. "Still chasing phantoms, brother?"Kabri didn’t answer. He didn’t have to."You know," the ghost continued, brushing dust off a windowsill, "I used to think you were the careful one. Now look at you. Talking to enemies. Sleeping with Fred’s daughter."Kabri turned his back.But the voice followed."She knows who you are. M
Chapter 89
The rain in Seville fell like whispers—soft, cold, and persistent. Evelyn stood at the edge of the old Alcázar garden, her hands trembling inside leather gloves. She wasn’t here for the view. Beneath the flowerbed near the marble fountain was a cache point, the kind only high-clearance agents knew existed.She crouched, removed the metal grid disguised as a drain, and extracted a black envelope wrapped in plastic. Inside: a photo, a burner SIM card, and a message scrawled in plain ink:"You’re in too deep, Evelyn. MI6 or Saeed? Choose wisely. You have 48 hours."It wasn’t signed. It never was. But she knew who it came from: Director Coates of MI6’s Special Asset Division.Evelyn didn’t curse. She didn’t scream. She just closed her eyes and felt the sting of betrayal twist in her stomach—for the hundredth time in a month.She had walked a line too thin to define. On one side, Kabri—now “Saeed”—a man whose darkness matched hers but whose love had kindled something she thought long dead.
Chapter 88
Zurich, Switzerland Private Medical Wing – Oberstein Clinic 03:14 CETFred had never been fond of hospitals. The smell of alcohol wipes, the cold sheen of stainless steel, the pretense of care—everything about it reminded him of vulnerability, of weakness.Tonight, though, it was all part of the plan.The sheet draped over the corpse was soaked in blood. The “body” was a man named Abel Frisch, an Estonian ex-con with a fractured skull and six hours left to live when Fred’s men found him. Abel hadn’t been told he’d be impersonating Fred. He simply woke up in a body bag after the surgeons were done. His heart stopped thirty-two minutes later. Perfect.A nurse, hand-picked and well-compensated, recorded the death certificate. Cause: Cardiac arrest following post-surgical complications. Name: Frederick Alcott (alias).By 03:27, the news had leaked to MI6, Interpol, and three major intelligence channels. “Fred,” the man known in shadows from Marseille to Mogadishu, was dead.Or so they
Chapter 87
Cairo, Egypt Midnight. The city groaned beneath the weight of its history.Dust spiraled in lazy circles around the dim alleys off Al-Muizz Street, where minarets cast jagged shadows over buildings older than European cities. Here, under the indifferent watch of ancient stones and call to prayer, Kabri walked like a man threading time itself.He had entered the city under his alias—Saeed Al-Rai—with papers forged from three nations and a biometric mask that passed facial scans 92% of the time. His stride was slow but confident. The scar beneath his wrist itched, but he didn’t scratch it. It wasn’t pain—it was memory.He turned into a gated alley where time seemed to stop altogether.Two figures stood before a cracked blue door. Kabri nodded once. They nodded back. No words. The guards stepped aside.Inside, the room smelled of old citrus wood and jasmine. It was small. Tidy. A table. One chair. No electronics. A lamp burned a single flame.And beside the lamp sat a woman in mourning
Chapter 86
Fred realizes Kabri is alive and rebranded.Fred Marlowe stood in the center of a private room beneath an abandoned theatre in the Parisian district of Belleville. The walls were papered with surveillance stills, red-thread connections, intercepted chatter from port authorities, and digital trails burned into encrypted hard drives. Fred’s empire, once an invisible skeleton beneath the modern world, now bore signs of infestation.Tonight, he stared at a ghost.“Play it again,” he said coldly.The projectionist—a nervous Algerian hacker nicknamed “Skoal”—replayed the footage captured two nights prior in Dubai. A man, olive-skinned, lean, and slightly taller than Kabri once was, exited a dark van, handed off a small crate, and vanished into the alley fog.He wore a Berber scarf. His right wrist bore a faint mark—perhaps a burn or an old scar. But it was the eyes, the walk, the controlled violence of his movements—it was unmistakable.“That’s him,” Fred murmured. “Kabri.”“No, sir,” Skoal
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