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Chapter 103
The castle was older than the wars that had birthed the men gathered within it. Perched atop the jagged cliffs of the Scottish Highlands, with a cold mist curling along its grey stone walls, it had once been a fortress, then a monastery, and now—under Fred’s command—a war room. Reborn, just like him.Sir Malcolm Price. The name now echoed in the halls of parliament, across investment boards, and within the darkest corners of the international web. But here, in this conclave of criminals, spies, and ex-generals, he shed even that mask.Here, he was Fred once more.Inside the great dining hall, every seat had been handpicked.At the head of the long oaken table sat Fred, his silver hair slicked back, his lips curled in permanent disdain. To his left: Oleg Baskov, the Russian ex-financier turned arms dealer, whose drones had scorched half of Moldova. Next to him, Teresa León, Spanish AI magnate and silent broker of border manipulation programs.There were fifteen in all—cartel lords, rog
Chapter 102
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
Chapter 101
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.
Chapter 100
A sky of rust hung over the Afghan hills, clouds curling like smoke trails from a sniper’s barrel. The wind carried dry silence and the occasional crack of rock shifting in the heat. Beneath the jagged cliffs of Badakhshan, a convoy of armored vehicles lay still—hidden, waiting.Kabri stood on a ridge overlooking the valley, the desert scarf around his neck stained with dust and old blood. His eyes were sunken but sharp, scanning the wasteland below where his fate—maybe the fate of everything—now rested in negotiation.He wasn’t the same man anymore. Kabri was gone. The whispers on the street called him Saeed al-Rai, “The Ghost of the Oath.” And ghosts had no past—only vengeance.Behind him, Evelyn adjusted her shawl, standing quietly as the sun carved orange lines across her face.“You trust this man?” she asked, voice low.“No,” Kabri replied. “But I trust the price.”They had flown in under the radar—private jet, no transponder, arranged by a Moroccan fixer with just enough fear in
Chapter 99
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
Chapter 98
The cold of Switzerland had a stillness that seeped into the soul.Evelyn sat in a candlelit suite at a secluded inn just outside Lucerne. The air was thick with firewood smoke and the faint scent of pine. Outside, snow drifted past the windows like falling ghosts.Inside, Evelyn held a photograph. Not one from her childhood, but from a folder marked Operation Larkspur—a declassified MI6 mission she had stolen two days earlier in a silent break-in at the Geneva diplomatic archives.The woman in the photo looked like her.Brown hair. Green eyes. That same tilt of the chin Evelyn had studied in herself for years. But this woman was thinner, worn by life, and wearing a red scarf Evelyn remembered from a box she had been forbidden to open.She flipped the photo.A date: March 21, 2007.A location: Tangier, Morocco.An annotation in red pen: Eliminated. Cleared by FM/Blackrose directive.She stared at the initials. FM.Fred Mekaoui.Her father.The words didn’t make sense in her mind. They
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