Daniel Arora
The Signal
The rain fell over Berlin in needles of silver, slicing through the pale light of the streetlamps that lined Friedrichstrasse. Adrian Cole stood beneath the brim of his hat, collar pulled high, the cold seeping into his gloves as if the city were testing him. The hour was late—too late for pedestrians, too early for traders—and yet the radio in his pocket had whispered something that forced him out of his safe flat on Krausenstrasse. A signal. Shortwave. Three dots, two dashes, then silence. The kind of sound that could tear apart whole governments if interpreted correctly.
MI6 had taught him to hear ghosts in frequencies. Tonight, the ghost had a name: the Mole. Rumors of an infiltrator had been circulating through London’s corridors for months, but whispers had become urgent cables when safehouses were raided in Warsaw and agents disappeared in Bucharest. Someone was feeding their playbook to Moscow, and the noose was tightening.
Adrian ducked into a doorway, shielding himself from the rain as he pulled out a small receiver, its dials glowing faintly green. He tuned it once more. The frequency was dead now—silent. But the message was clear: Meet at 02:00. The library. A classic dead drop signal, but dangerous in its simplicity. Too clean. Too deliberate.
His breath fogged the glass of the receiver as he whispered to himself, “Either bait… or betrayal.”
At precisely 01:58, he entered the Staatsbibliothek. The grand stone façade looked deserted, but Adrian knew better. Libraries after midnight belonged to ghosts and spies. He moved through the aisles of towering shelves until he reached the philosophy section. A faint scrape caught his ear. He turned sharply. Nothing. Only the leather spines of forgotten books staring back.
Then he saw it: a slim volume pulled slightly out of place. Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Adrian slid it free, heart thudding. A small flash drive fell into his palm. The moment his fingers closed over it, a shadow moved at the edge of his vision.
He spun, gun drawn, but the aisle was empty. No footsteps, no breathing—only the oppressive silence of old paper and dust. Then a whisper of air: a door closing softly at the far end of the hall.
Adrian pocketed the drive and gave chase. His shoes struck the marble, echoing through the empty library like hammer blows. He caught a glimpse of a coat disappearing into the night outside. By the time he reached the street, the figure was gone, swallowed by rain and neon.
He stood alone under the streetlamp, water dripping from the brim of his hat. The flash drive burned cold in his pocket. He had it now—the first clue. But the question hung heavy: who had left it for him, and who had been watching from the shadows?
As he turned back toward his flat, a single thought gnawed at him: The Mole already knows I’m here.
The Dead Drop
The flash drive was smaller than his thumb, wrapped in a thin plastic shell that betrayed nothing of the weight it carried. Adrian Cole set it on the table in his dimly lit flat, the blinds drawn, the silence absolute except for the ticking of an old wall clock. His hand hovered over the laptop he had stripped down for fieldwork, the kind with no traceable hardware, no wireless card, nothing but cold circuits ready to swallow secrets.
He hesitated. Something about the ease of the drop at the library gnawed at him. It had been too simple. No locks picked, no cutouts, no brush pass in the crowded streets. Just a book and a flash drive waiting, as if placed by someone who knew he would come. The precision smelled of orchestration. But in this game, hesitation was as deadly as a bullet.
He slotted the drive.
The screen lit up with a single folder: Nachtspiegel. Night Mirror. Inside, a cascade of documents scrolled down—names, safehouse addresses, bank transfers. Adrian’s pulse slowed, steadied, as his eyes scanned the familiar. Too familiar. Because every document listed here was already burned. Safehouses raided. Agents dead. Accounts frozen.
It was a map of destruction, not a guide to the future. Whoever had prepared this dossier wanted him to see the scope of betrayal. And then he found it, buried deep: one file, timestamped only a week ago. “Prague—Drop Alpha.”
Prague.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly. A pattern was forming, and it was no accident. The mole wanted him on a trail.
The following evening, Adrian boarded a train under a false Czech passport. The rhythmic sway of the carriage, the murmur of passengers, the metallic clatter of wheels on tracks—all of it disguised the thoughts that raced behind his calm exterior.
Berlin had given him a dead past. Prague promised something more. But it also promised exposure. Every time he crossed a border now, Adrian felt the invisible noose tighten. His face, once another shadow in the intelligence underworld, was becoming a target.
At Hlavní nádraží, Prague’s central station, he stepped onto the platform among a crowd of weary travelers. The air smelled of diesel and wet stone. He moved with them, just another figure in a gray coat, yet his senses extended outward, testing for ripples.
The instructions in the Prague file had been simple: Charles Bridge, midnight. Dead drop at the fifth statue from the east. Classic Cold War theater, recycled in the twenty-first century.
The Vltava River gleamed under a thin moon. Tourists had long vanished, leaving the Charles Bridge to the whisper of water and the shuffle of a few late drunks. Adrian counted statues. Saints carved in shadow and stone, silent witnesses to centuries of deals and betrayals.
At the fifth statue, he slowed. His gloved hand brushed the base. Nothing obvious. Then his fingers caught the edge of a small metal tube wedged between two stones. He slid it free and pocketed it in one motion, his face impassive, his stride unbroken.
And then, he felt it.
The hair on the back of his neck stiffened. A step, light but certain, echoed behind him. Not the wandering shuffle of a drunk. Not the hurried rush of someone late. Deliberate. Matching his pace.
Adrian didn’t turn. His peripheral vision caught the outline of a man in a dark coat, thirty paces back. Too steady, too aligned. The tail thought himself clever.
Adrian crossed to the shadowed side of the bridge, then descended a narrow stairwell that led to the riverbank. The footsteps followed. The old stones were slick beneath his shoes, the smell of algae rising as he ducked into a low arch beneath the bridge.
The moment he was out of sight, he flattened against the wall, gun already drawn. He waited.
One beat. Two. Three.
The figure appeared, and Adrian moved like a coiled spring. His arm snaked around the man’s throat, pistol pressed against the temple. “Who sent you?” Adrian’s voice was low, iron-cold.
The man thrashed, tried to elbow him, but Adrian tightened his grip. The tail choked out words in Russian: “You shouldn’t be here.”
A professional, then. Not a local cop. Not a petty thief.
“Answer me,” Adrian hissed, digging the barrel harder.
The man gave a strangled laugh, even as the pressure cut his breath. “You’ll be dead before dawn, Englishman.”
Adrian slammed him against the wall. The man’s head cracked stone, his body sagged, unconscious. Adrian dragged him deeper into the shadows, checked his coat. A pistol. A radio transmitter. And a tattoo on his wrist—wolf’s head inked in black.
The Wolf’s men.
Adrian’s chest tightened. The Wolf was no myth. A contract killer with Russian intelligence ties, whispered about in briefings as if he were a ghost. If his men were here, then the game was escalating faster than London had warned.
Adrian pocketed the radio, left the man slumped, and moved swiftly back to his safe flat on Nerudova Street. The metal tube from the dead drop sat heavy in his coat pocket, like a live grenade.
When he opened it, a single piece of paper slid out. Handwritten. Sharp, precise strokes.
“The Mole wears your colors. Trust no one. Next: Vienna.”
His jaw tightened. Whoever was pulling these strings was toying with him, leading him across Europe like a pawn. Yet the words echoed with truth: the traitor was inside MI6.
Adrian folded the note, his reflection flickering in the rain-smeared window. For the first time in years, he felt the edge of uncertainty pressing close. He had chased shadows across continents, but this—this was personal.
He poured a glass of whiskey, drank half in one swallow, and whispered into the night:
“Alright, Wolf. Let’s see who bleeds first.”
The Silent Assassin
The Wolf left no footprints, no signatures, no trails. At least, that was the legend. In Moscow, whispers of him passed between officers in smoke-filled rooms. In Istanbul, they told stories of bodies fished from the Bosphorus with his calling card etched in their skin. The intelligence files described him only in fragments—height approximated, hair color inconclusive, face blurred in photographs. But there was one detail consistent in every report: he never missed.
Now, Adrian Cole knew the Wolf had arrived in Prague.
The unconscious man Adrian had left beneath the Charles Bridge had been retrieved before dawn. That meant someone had been watching. And the tattoo—a wolf’s head inked into the wrist—was confirmation enough.
Adrian stared at the city through the thin curtains of his safe flat. Dawn broke over the red rooftops of Malá Strana, the river glinting like steel. He hadn’t slept. The note from the dead drop burned in his pocket. Vienna. But Vienna could wait. First, he needed to understand why the Wolf’s shadow had fallen here.
He cleaned his pistol methodically, the click of metal steadying his thoughts. The rules of survival in the field were etched into his bones: never stay longer than forty-eight hours in one place, never trust coincidence, and above all, never assume the enemy is less prepared than you.
A knock shattered the silence. Three raps. Then two. The prearranged signal from his Prague contact. Adrian slid the gun into the waistband of his trousers, stepped to the door, and opened it a crack.
Ivana Novák stood there, her auburn hair damp from the morning mist. She was young, too young for this work, but her reputation as a courier and local asset had already saved more than one operation. Her green eyes darted past him into the flat. “You’re late for the signal, Cole. They’re watching.”
He let her in, bolted the door. “Who?”
She tossed a small bundle of papers on the table. “Russian handlers. They’ve rented the café opposite your building. Two men, maybe three. I don’t think they know who exactly they’re following. Yet.”
Adrian thumbed through the papers. Surveillance photos, blurred but damning. Men in coats, one holding a folded newspaper, another pretending to sip coffee too long. Not amateurs.
“Have you heard the name Wolf?” he asked.
Her expression flickered. “Whispers. Some say he’s here to clean house. Others say he’s chasing something of his own. But everyone agrees—when the Wolf comes, people disappear.”
Adrian slid the pistol onto the table. “Then we need to move before nightfall.”
The plan was simple. Simple plans saved lives. At dusk, Ivana would stage a diversion in the station square—dropped papers, a staged argument with a passerby—enough to draw eyes away. Adrian would slip out through the back alleys, circle south, and meet her at a secondary flat near Vyšehrad.
But simplicity had a way of unraveling when the Wolf was involved.
At 19:03, Adrian left the flat. The alleys smelled of wet cobblestone and diesel fumes, the day’s rain still clinging to the air. He kept his pace casual, his eyes tracking windows, doorways, reflections in shopfronts. He had learned to see pursuit in the bend of a stranger’s elbow, in the rhythm of their steps. Tonight, he felt it immediately: the faint pressure of eyes on his back.
He cut left, then right, into a narrower street. A shutter banged in the wind. The sense of pursuit sharpened.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. A man in a dark coat, approaching too quickly. Adrian’s instincts flared. He spun into a doorway, gun raised—
—but the figure was already there.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Eyes like glass, unblinking. The Wolf.
Adrian fired once, a clean shot aimed at the chest. The figure shifted with inhuman speed; the bullet struck stone, ricocheted into darkness. The Wolf moved forward silently, a blade glinting in his hand, the kind of weapon too personal for hired killers.
Adrian ducked, rolled across the cobblestones, and came up firing again. The Wolf vanished into shadow as if swallowed by the street itself.
The silence was worse than the pursuit.
Adrian’s breath came in sharp bursts. He pressed his back against a wall, gun steady, eyes scanning every shadow. A cat darted across the alley. A window creaked open above. Then—nothing.
A whisper of movement behind him. Adrian spun—too late. The blade slashed across his arm, pain burning hot. He fired blindly, the muzzle flash illuminating a pale, scarred face for a fraction of a second. Then the Wolf melted away again.
Adrian staggered, blood soaking his sleeve. He stumbled toward the rendezvous point, heart hammering. He knew better than to chase. The Wolf controlled the dark; to follow him was to vanish.
Ivana was waiting in the secondary flat, pacing. When she saw the blood, her face blanched. “God—what happened?”
“He’s here,” Adrian said, pressing a rag against the wound. “The Wolf.”
Her hands trembled as she reached for a first-aid kit. “Then you won’t survive Prague. No one does when he chooses his target.”
Adrian let out a rough laugh, the sound edged with exhaustion. “Then I’ll be the exception.”
But as she cleaned the wound, he stared at the window, the night beyond pressing close. He knew the truth: the Wolf wasn’t hunting blindly. Someone had pointed him at Adrian. Which meant the mole inside MI6 wasn’t just feeding intelligence to Moscow.
They wanted him erased.
And the Wolf never missed.
Adrian didn’t sleep that night. He sat in the corner with his pistol balanced on his knee, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for footsteps that never came. The wound throbbed, each pulse a reminder of how close the blade had been to ending him.
Just before dawn, Ivana placed a cup of bitter coffee in front of him. “Vienna,” she said quietly. “The note said Vienna. If you stay, you’re dead. If you run, maybe you buy time.”
Adrian studied her face, the tremor in her hands. He couldn’t tell if she feared for him, or for herself.
He downed the coffee, set the cup aside, and holstered his weapon. “Then we leave tonight. Before the Wolf finishes what he started.”
As the first light crept into the Prague sky, Adrian understood that the hunt had become personal. And personal hunts were always bloodier.
Double Game
The train to Vienna left Prague under the cover of rain. Adrian Cole sat in the corner of the compartment, a battered newspaper open before him, though his eyes rarely touched the print. Every reflection in the window, every cough from another passenger, every shifting of luggage on the overhead racks fed his awareness. He could still feel the sting of the Wolf’s blade on his arm, the reminder that he was prey as much as hunter.
Ivana sat across from him, her scarf pulled tight around her neck, lips pressed into a straight line. She hadn’t spoken since boarding. That silence was its own kind of warning. Adrian knew enough to read fear in the smallest details: the way she checked the door every few minutes, the way her fingers twitched against her knees. She was already calculating escape routes.
“Talk to me,” Adrian murmured, eyes fixed on the blurred countryside sliding past.
She hesitated, then leaned forward. “You know the Wolf isn’t here for Russia alone. He doesn’t take state contracts anymore. Too unpredictable, too visible. He chooses his jobs now.”
“And someone chose me,” Adrian said quietly.
Her green eyes lifted, steady now. “Someone inside your own agency.”
He didn’t flinch. He’d already suspected. The note from Prague had been clear enough: The Mole wears your colors.
But hearing it aloud from someone else hardened the truth. The betrayal wasn’t abstract. It was seated in London, maybe even in Vauxhall Cross itself. Someone he might have briefed, someone who had seen his reports, his movements. That was the cruelest cut: the Wolf’s knife was sharp, but treachery from within was sharper still.
The train pulled into Wien Hauptbahnhof under a gray sky. Adrian and Ivana melted into the crowd, passports ready, eyes averted from surveillance cameras. Vienna carried its own legends of espionage—neutral ground, a crossroads where East had always met West. But neutrality was an illusion. The city thrived on double games.
Their safe flat was a narrow room above a shuttered bookstore in Leopoldstadt. Dust coated the shelves; the smell of paper and mildew hung heavy in the air. Adrian set his bag down, checked the locks, and went straight to the window. He had already memorized the street below: a bakery, a flower shop, a tram stop.
“Vienna’s no safer,” Ivana said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The Wolf has contacts here. Everyone does.”
Adrian opened the dead drop tube again, reread the note: Trust no one. The handwriting was steady, clinical, without flourish. The author was deliberate—someone accustomed to leaving no trace.
He turned back to her. “There’s something you’re not saying.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “There’s a rumor. In Vienna, they say the Wolf was once one of you. Not Russian, not officially. British-trained. He learned your tradecraft before he turned freelance.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. That detail had never appeared in any file. If true, it explained too much—the way the Wolf anticipated his moves, the precision of his ambush.
“And who’s your source?” he asked.
“I trade in whispers, not sources,” she replied.
Adrian studied her for a long moment. The double game wasn’t just being played in London. It was here too, between them.
That evening, he arranged a meet with an old contact. Viktor Dobrev, once a Bulgarian intelligence officer, now a fixer in Vienna’s underworld. They met in the back room of a jazz bar off Mariahilferstrasse, the air thick with cigarette smoke and brass horns.
Viktor’s belly had grown, but his eyes were still sharp, wolfish in their own way. He embraced Adrian like an old friend, but his grip was too tight.
“You’ve made enemies, my friend,” Viktor said in a heavy accent, pouring whiskey into chipped glasses. “Men are asking about you. Dangerous men.”
“Then I need answers,” Adrian replied. “Who’s pulling the Wolf’s strings?”
Viktor’s smile thinned. “You don’t pay me enough for answers like that.”
Adrian slid a photograph across the table—the unconscious Russian he’d left under Charles Bridge, tattoo exposed. “Then start with him.”
Viktor studied it, tapped ash from his cigar. “Bratva muscle. The Wolf recruits them sometimes. Disposable.”
“Which means the orders came from higher up.”
Viktor raised his glass. “Always. But higher up may be closer than you think.”
Adrian didn’t drink. “London?”
Viktor’s eyes glittered. “Who else would want their own agent erased so thoroughly?”
Later that night, Adrian returned to the flat, the city rain washing neon across the streets. Ivana was gone. The bed unslept, the window slightly ajar.
His hand went to his gun, instincts on fire. He swept the room. Nothing. No struggle. No sign of forced entry. Just absence.
On the table lay a single sheet of paper, written in the same hand as the dead drop notes.
“You’re running in circles. The game is inside your own house. Vienna is only a mirror.”
Beneath the message was something else: a list of names. MI6 handlers. Supervisors. People Adrian knew personally. At the bottom, underlined twice, was a name he had trusted for years: Harrington.
His chest went cold. John Harrington—London section chief, the man who had recruited him, the one who’d sent him to Berlin in the first place.
Adrian dropped into the chair, the weight of it pressing down. If Harrington was the mole, then nothing in the service could be trusted. Every cable, every contact, every order could be a trap.
A sound cut through his thoughts. A floorboard creaked.
He was up instantly, gun raised. The door burst inward. A flash, a roar. The room exploded with gunfire. Adrian dove behind the desk as splinters flew. Shadows moved in the doorway—two men, armed, faces hidden beneath balaclavas.
He fired twice, dropped one. The other returned fire, bullets chewing through plaster. Adrian rolled, flanked, and shot the second through the throat. Silence crashed down, broken only by his ragged breath.
He checked their weapons: Russian make. But their movements, their training—too polished. Mercenaries, yes, but guided.
The Wolf’s men.
And Ivana—gone, her fate uncertain.
Adrian stripped the bodies of anything useful, pocketed a burner phone, and slipped into the night. Vienna glowed around him, but it was no longer neutral ground. It was a stage, and he had been cast as both hunter and hunted.
He lit a cigarette with trembling hands, something he hadn’t done in years, and let the smoke steady him. Harrington’s name still burned in his mind. Mentor. Handler. Traitor.
The double game was clear now: someone inside MI6 had lit the Wolf’s path. And Adrian Cole was the firewood.
He dropped the cigarette into the gutter, pulled his coat tighter, and whispered into the rain:
“London. I’m coming home.”
The Woman in Red
Vienna’s night was a wash of amber streetlamps and rain-slick cobblestones, a city of mirrors where spies and ghosts overlapped. Adrian Cole walked with his collar up and his gun pressed into his ribs, Harrington’s name echoing in his skull. Mentor turned betrayer. The Wolf circling like a vulture. Ivana vanished. And now the trail led not to London—not yet—but to a woman.
Her name had surfaced in Viktor Dobrev’s whispers, half-drowned in cigarette smoke: Elena Volkova. A Russian-born art dealer with galleries in Paris, Vienna, and Milan, she trafficked not just in oils and sculptures but in secrets folded inside them—microdots hidden behind canvases, coded numbers inside shipping invoices. If the Wolf was a blade, Elena was the velvet sheath that concealed it.
She was known in Vienna as The Woman in Red. Always red—dresses, gloves, lipstick like a cut across porcelain. A mark of vanity, or maybe defiance. But Adrian had learned never to underestimate vanity.
He found her at a charity auction inside the Palais Liechtenstein, where chandeliers threw golden light on gilded frames. Vienna’s elite floated through the halls in tuxedos and gowns, their laughter brittle as glass. Adrian slipped among them with the anonymity of a well-tailored suit, glass of champagne in hand, his eyes scanning for the splash of crimson.
And then he saw her.
Elena Volkova stood near a marble column, surrounded by men whose smiles grew sharper the longer they lingered in her orbit. She wore a scarlet dress that curved like poured fire, her black hair coiled into an intricate knot. She spoke in soft tones, but her eyes flicked constantly, cataloguing exits, measuring distance. A professional.
Adrian approached as the auctioneer began rattling numbers in German. He slid beside her, casual but deliberate, as though he were simply another patron admiring the art.
“Monet’s brushstrokes never did justice to water,” he murmured, studying a painting nearby.
Elena’s lips curved faintly. “And yet water drowns more men than bullets. Which is your preference, Mr…?”
Her accent was faint, smoothed by years in Europe.
“Cole,” he said. He never gave false names when the truth worked better. “Adrian Cole.”
Recognition flickered in her eyes—too quick to hide. She knew him. Or at least, she knew of him.
“Then you’re already drowning,” she replied.
They left the hall for the gallery’s quieter wing, her heels striking marble like a metronome. Adrian followed at a distance until she stopped before a Caravaggio. Shadows and blood, saints and betrayal. Appropriate.
“You’ve attracted dangerous attention,” she said without looking at him.
“I could say the same,” Adrian countered.
She tilted her head, red lips curved into a ghost of a smile. “But I invite attention, Mr. Cole. You, on the other hand, seem hunted.”
“The Wolf,” Adrian said softly.
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp now. “Careful with names. He doesn’t like being spoken of in public.”
“Then you know him.”
“I know everyone worth knowing.” She touched the frame of the painting, her glove brushing old wood. “But knowing is not the same as trusting. You of all people should understand that.”
Adrian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The Mole in London. Harrington.”
For the first time, she stilled. The mask slipped, just for a heartbeat. Enough to confirm she knew the name.
“You’re chasing ghosts,” she whispered. “Harrington is not your enemy. He is merely… efficient.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “Efficient doesn’t explain dead agents in Warsaw. Or a knife across my arm in Prague.”
Elena turned, meeting his eyes full on. “Then perhaps you’ve misunderstood your role. Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Cole, that you were never meant to survive this game?”
The words sank into him like ice.
Adrian had expected deflection, even lies. But this was worse truth delivered so casually it might as well have been a toast.
He leaned in, voice hard. “If you know who’s behind this, tell me.”
She smiled faintly, but her eyes were hollow. “Information is currency. And like art, it only grows in value when men are willing to bleed for it.”
Before he could answer, a crash split the air. Shouts erupted in the main hall. Adrian’s hand went instinctively to his gun beneath his jacket. Elena’s eyes flicked toward the commotion, but she didn’t flinch.
“They’re here for you,” she said softly.
Adrian’s blood chilled. The Wolf’s men.
Chaos spilled through the gallery. Guests screamed as masked intruders stormed in, weapons raised. The air smelled of gunpowder and perfume. Chandeliers trembled with the echo of gunfire.
Adrian grabbed Elena’s arm. “Move.”
They darted through a side corridor, heels and boots pounding marble. Behind them, shouts in Russian barked orders, footsteps closing. Adrian fired a shot into the ceiling, shattering glass, sending a rain of sparks that slowed pursuit.
They burst through a service door into the alley, Vienna’s night swallowing them. Rain fell in sheets, neon reflecting in puddles.
Elena ripped free of his grip. “You’ve brought death to my door.”
“You were already on the list,” Adrian snapped. “The Wolf doesn’t leave loose ends.”
Her eyes burned with fury, but beneath it—fear. Genuine this time. She knew she was marked.
They ran through twisting alleys, the sound of pursuit fading and returning like waves. Finally, they ducked into a shadowed archway, lungs burning.
Adrian pressed his back to the wall, pistol steady. Elena leaned beside him, scarlet dress now dark with rain.
“You’re going to get me killed,” she whispered.
“Not if you tell me what I need to know.”
Her breath came quick, fogging in the cold air. “The Wolf isn’t just hunting you. He’s cleansing the board. Harrington gave the order, yes—but not for Moscow. For London. For your own service.”
Adrian froze.
She met his gaze, voice cutting like glass. “MI6 wants you gone, Cole. You’ve seen too much. You’ve followed trails you weren’t meant to follow. Harrington isn’t the mole. He’s the executioner.”
The words struck harder than bullets.
Elena stepped closer, her perfume sharp, intoxicating. “If you want to survive, you’ll need me. Because unlike you, I understand the art of betrayal.”
Adrian’s grip on the gun tightened. His world was splitting—Harrington the betrayer, Harrington the executioner, Elena the ally or enemy. Every step deeper twisted the truth further.
Rain drummed around them. The city felt like a stage, each act bloodier than the last.
Adrian looked into Elena Volkova’s eyes and said, “Then show me where the next body falls.”
The Safehouse Breach
The safe flat in Vienna had always felt too quiet, too brittle, as though the air itself were listening. By the third night, Adrian Cole could no longer ignore the sensation of eyes pressing through the walls. He sat at the kitchen table with a pistol laid beside an untouched glass of vodka, maps spread out before him. Vienna was bleeding into his mind like ink on paper—tram lines, embassy districts, alleys where footsteps echoed too long.
Elena Volkova leaned against the doorway, still wrapped in scarlet, though the rain had darkened the hem of her dress. She was studying him the way a hawk studies prey: patiently, with calculation.
“You don’t trust me,” she said softly.
Adrian didn’t look up. “I don’t trust anyone.”
She crossed the room, heels tapping wood. “Then why did you bring me here?”
“Because,” Adrian said, sliding a photograph toward her, “you know the players.”
The photo showed Harrington, raising a glass at a London function, surrounded by men whose smiles were masks. Elena’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s not just cleaning the board,” Adrian said. “He’s redrawing it. And if Harrington wants me erased, he’ll send the Wolf again.”
Her lips curved, a dangerous smile. “Then you and I are already corpses waiting to be discovered.”
The breach came just after midnight.
Adrian had posted himself by the window, nerves wired, watching the glow of a bakery sign across the street. The hum of the city had settled into a lull. Too deep a lull. He felt it before he heard it—the wrongness of silence, the way shadows thickened unnaturally.
A whisper of air. The faintest scrape at the lock.
Adrian moved instantly, gun raised. “Down!” he barked.
The door exploded inward. Splinters rained. Black-clad figures stormed through, rifles spitting fire. Adrian dove behind the kitchen table as bullets shredded plaster. Elena screamed, pressed against the floor, scarlet blending with dust.
He returned fire in controlled bursts. One intruder dropped, his mask torn by lead. The others fanned out with military precision, their movements too fluid for hired muscle. This was the Wolf’s choreography.
Adrian grabbed Elena’s wrist, dragging her toward the back corridor. The flat shook with gunfire, windows bursting into glitter. He shoved her into the bathroom, slammed the door, and fired through the wall, the muffled thud of a body collapsing confirming his aim.
But the silence after was worse. Because silence meant him.
The Wolf.
Adrian reloaded, breath steady, though his arm throbbed from Prague’s wound. He scanned the bathroom window—narrow, barely wide enough for escape.
“Go,” he ordered Elena, pointing to it.
Her eyes widened. “And you?”
“I’ll slow them.”
She hesitated, torn between fear and calculation. Finally she climbed, the sound of glass crunching under her gloves as she disappeared into the night.
Adrian turned back just as the bathroom door creaked. He fired—empty. A shadow slipped past the muzzle flash. The blade came first, whistling toward his throat. He twisted, steel slicing fabric. Pain seared across his shoulder.
The Wolf was on him.
Tall, silent, eyes pale as frost. His movements were terrifyingly economical, every strike purposeful. Adrian blocked with the pistol, metal clanging against knife. They crashed into tiles, into porcelain, into the narrow confines of the room.
Adrian smashed the butt of the gun into the Wolf’s jaw. The assassin barely flinched. He drove the blade again, grazing Adrian’s ribs. Blood ran hot.
Desperation clawed through him. Adrian fired point-blank. The bullet tore plaster, missed flesh. The Wolf vanished backward into shadow, as though the darkness itself had reclaimed him.
The silence returned, thicker than smoke.
Adrian staggered out into the corridor, pistol up, eyes scanning every flicker. He felt the assassin circling, unseen. He forced himself down the stairwell, boots hammering wood, every nerve screaming.
On the second floor, a window shattered. Elena leaned from a balcony, waving frantically. “This way!”
Adrian sprinted. Behind him, a door burst open. More gunfire. Bullets punched the walls. He dove across the hallway, leaping into Elena’s outstretched grip. Together they crashed onto the balcony, rolled hard, then scrambled to their feet.
They fled across rooftops, Vienna sprawled beneath them in a rain-slick maze. The Wolf’s men followed, black silhouettes vaulting chimneys. Muzzle flashes sparked like fireflies. Adrian returned shots, ducking low. Tiles cracked under his boots.
One wrong step meant death.
They landed hard in an alley, lungs burning, shoes splashing through puddles. Adrian pushed Elena toward a waiting tram, its lights glowing through the mist. They boarded just as the doors hissed shut, bodies pressed among night travelers who smelled of sweat and cheap liquor.
The tram rattled forward, neon bleeding across wet glass. Adrian gripped the rail, scanning every face. The Wolf’s men were gone—for now. But he knew the assassin himself was not far.
Elena leaned close, her perfume cutting through blood and smoke. “You should have left me.”
“And let them carve you up?” Adrian muttered.
Her eyes searched his, unreadable. “You don’t understand, Cole. In this world, survival means letting others bleed.”
“I’ve bled enough,” he said, pressing a hand to his ribs.
When the tram stopped near the Danube Canal, they slipped off into the fog. Adrian guided her toward another safe contact, though trust was poison now. Harrington’s betrayal weighed heavy, but the Wolf’s pursuit was more immediate.
They reached a shuttered warehouse, its steel door groaning open under Adrian’s lockpick. Inside, dust and old crates smelled of rust. He bolted the door, slumped against it, pistol across his knees.
Elena lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her face. “You won’t last much longer,” she said softly.
Adrian exhaled, eyes fixed on shadows. “Neither will he.”
She raised a brow. “The Wolf?”
“No,” Adrian said, voice low, iron-hard. “Harrington.”
That night, as he sat in darkness with blood drying on his shirt and the echo of the Wolf’s blade still sharp on his skin, Adrian Cole understood the shape of the war he was fighting. It was no longer about Moscow versus London, or East against West. It was a war of survival, played out in alleys and safehouses, in betrayal and silence.
And the Wolf had breached more than his flat. He had breached Adrian’s certainty.
The next move would have to be his.
Cipher of Ashes
The warehouse smelled of rust and memory. Adrian Cole hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, his body heavy with blood loss and exhaustion, but his mind refused surrender. On the floor before him lay the documents stripped from the dead intruders—burner phones, coded slips, fragments of orders scrawled in Cyrillic shorthand. Most of it was misdirection. But one item caught his eye: an envelope brittle with age, its corners browned, its paper soft with wear.
Inside was a single page, covered in faded ink. Numbers scrawled in neat rows, grouped in fives. A classic cipher. Beneath the rows, a single word: Asche. Ashes.
Adrian turned it over in his hands, the past bleeding through his fingers. He had seen similar codes once before, in an MI6 archive that dated back to the Second World War. Ghosts of Bletchley Park, punched into typewriters and carried across battlefields. Why would a seventy-year-old cipher surface now, among the Wolf’s men?
Elena Volkova watched him from the shadows, cigarette smoke curling around her crimson lips. “You look like a priest staring at scripture.”
Adrian didn’t look up. “Because scripture like this has burned cities.”
She exhaled, the smoke gray against the dark. “And you think this piece of paper matters?”
He tapped the word at the bottom. “Asche. It’s a codename. During the war, Operation Asche was a German project—buried, classified. Files said it was destroyed in 1945.”
Elena tilted her head. “Then why is it in your lap now?”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “Because someone dug it out of the ashes. And whoever controls it may control the board we’re playing on.”
The hours that followed were a blur of concentration. Adrian spread the cipher across the table, scribbled notes beside it, numbers twisting into patterns in his mind. The old rhythm of codebreaking returned to him like an old scar—counting sequences, checking frequencies, running mental substitutions.
Elena leaned over his shoulder, her perfume distracting and deliberate. “You think you’ll unlock the past with pencil scratches?”
“History repeats itself,” Adrian muttered. “But it always leaves fingerprints.”
By dawn, his eyes were bloodshot, his hands stained with graphite. The cipher had cracked open just enough to reveal fragments—coordinates, dates, and a phrase that struck him cold: “London Protocol.”
His pulse hammered. A wartime operation, tied now to Harrington’s betrayal.
He pushed back from the table, stood abruptly. “This isn’t about me, Elena. It’s bigger. Harrington’s not just cleaning house. He’s covering the resurrection of something that should have stayed buried.”
She arched a brow. “And what is that?”
Adrian’s voice was low, almost reverent. “A code hidden in ashes. A weapon disguised as history.”
He left Elena at the warehouse and went to find someone who could confirm it.
Professor Otto Weiss had been a boy during the war, but now he was a historian of cryptography at the University of Vienna. His office was a cramped space stacked with books, the air heavy with dust and coffee. Weiss adjusted his spectacles as Adrian laid the cipher before him.
The old man frowned, tracing the numbers with trembling fingers. “Ja… ja. I know this hand. My father worked on intercepting such ciphers. This—this is real. Operation Asche was no myth.”
“What was it?” Adrian demanded.
Weiss hesitated. “A failsafe. When Berlin was falling, certain cells planned for a future Reich in shadow. Codes, accounts, networks buried across Europe. Operation Asche was designed to awaken them decades later, should the time be right.”
Adrian felt the weight of the words. A Reich in shadow. A sleeper network waiting to be lit.
“But it never activated?”
Weiss shook his head. “Not fully. Too much chaos after the war. Files destroyed, men scattered. But the rumor persisted—that somewhere, the codes survived. Whoever holds them could access money, weapons, even names of collaborators long thought dead.”
Adrian leaned closer. “So if Harrington has resurrected this—”
“Then London,” Weiss whispered, “is not cleaning house. It is preparing for empire.”
Adrian left the office with the cipher burning in his pocket. The city felt sharper now, as though every tram bell and church chime carried hidden messages.
Back at the warehouse, Elena was waiting, her eyes sharp. “You found something.”
He poured a measure of vodka, downed it in one swallow. “Operation Asche was a sleeper protocol. Harrington’s reviving it. That’s why I’m being erased. I stumbled too close.”
Elena stubbed out her cigarette, lips pursed. “Then you’re fighting not just the Wolf, but ghosts of fascists. Quite a burden for one man.”
“Not just one man,” Adrian said, locking eyes with her. “You’re in this now.”
She laughed softly, a dangerous sound. “You’re assuming I’ll bleed for your cause.”
“You already will,” Adrian replied coldly. “The Wolf has your name on his ledger.”
The silence stretched. Finally, she sighed, her mask slipping just enough to reveal fatigue. “Then where do we go from here, Mr. Cole?”
Adrian unrolled the cipher again, pointing to coordinates buried within. “Montenegro. There’s a cache there. If Asche is alive, it’ll surface in the Balkans. And if the Wolf’s hunting me, he’ll follow.”
Her eyes glimmered in the half-light. “A chase, then.”
“A reckoning,” Adrian said.
That night, Adrian sat alone with the cipher, the numbers etched now into his memory. He lit a cigarette—his second in as many days, a habit he had long buried but which the Wolf’s shadow had resurrected. The smoke coiled toward the rafters as he whispered the words aloud, like a curse:
“Cipher of ashes. London Protocol. Harrington.”
He thought of Ivana, vanished. Of Viktor’s half-smile in the jazz bar. Of Harrington’s hand on his shoulder years ago, saying, Trust the service, Cole. It will never betray you.
The lie was complete now.
The Wolf was out there, waiting, circling. But it was Harrington who had written the script. And Adrian Cole, bleeding in Vienna with ghosts of Reich codes in his pocket, was no longer willing to play his role.
He folded the cipher, slipped it into his jacket, and stared into the dark with eyes like stone.
“Let’s burn the ashes,” he muttered.
The Balkan Chase
The road into Montenegro curled like a serpent through black mountains, the Adriatic glinting in the distance under a cold moon. Adrian Cole drove with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on the pistol in his lap. The cipher’s coordinates had pointed here—to the bones of a forgotten war. He could feel the weight of it pressing closer with every kilometer.
Beside him, Elena Volkova stared out the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass. She had changed into darker clothes, the crimson abandoned. Yet even stripped of color, she carried danger like a second skin.
“You think the cache still exists,” she said, voice low.
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “If it didn’t, Harrington wouldn’t be chasing me with a ghost like the Wolf.”
She smirked faintly. “Or maybe Harrington just enjoys watching his hounds tear you apart.”
He didn’t reply. Her words carried too much truth.
They reached Kotor by dawn, the bay unfolding like silver beneath rising sun. Medieval walls circled the old town, its stones scarred by centuries of empires. Adrian parked the car beneath a crumbling archway and studied the narrow alleys with a soldier’s eyes. This was a city built for ambushes.
“The coordinates lead here,” he said, showing her the cipher. Numbers aligned with grid points just beyond the fortress walls.
Elena arched a brow. “A cache of ashes buried under Venetian stones? History likes its poetry.”
“History likes blood,” Adrian muttered.
They moved through the labyrinth of alleys, past shuttered shops and stray cats that slunk through the morning light. Adrian felt the city breathing around him—every balcony a potential rifle nest, every doorway a trap. The Wolf was out there. He could sense it.
At the base of the fortress, they found it: a sealed cellar door, iron rusted but lock replaced with fresh steel. Someone had been here recently. Adrian crouched, checked the mechanism. Too modern for wartime. He picked it in less than a minute, the tumblers clicking softly.
The door creaked open. Stale air, dust, the smell of damp stone.
Inside, the cellar stretched into shadow. Shelves lined the walls, laden with crates stamped with German insignia. Swastikas, faded but still venomous. Elena’s eyes widened.
“So it’s true,” she whispered. “The Reich in ashes.”
Adrian pried one crate open. Inside: ledgers bound in cracked leather, stacks of old currency, gold stamped with eagles. But the real prize lay deeper: files marked Asche. He opened one and felt his stomach twist. Names. Dozens of them. Collaborators, sympathizers, men who had melted into new identities after the war.
This was the network Harrington wanted revived. Blackmail and leverage spanning decades, a shadow empire waiting to be woken.
Adrian snapped photographs with a burner phone, his hands steady despite the chill that crawled up his spine.
Then he froze.
The faintest sound. A boot on stone.
“Run,” he hissed.
Elena didn’t argue. They sprinted back through the cellar, files clutched in his hand. Gunfire erupted from the darkness, bullets sparking off stone. Adrian returned fire blindly, dragging her toward the exit.
They burst into daylight, feet pounding the old fortress path. Behind them, shadows poured from the cellar—men in black, rifles raised.
The Wolf’s pack.
The chase ripped through Kotor’s twisting streets. Locals screamed, shutters slammed, pigeons scattered. Adrian fired as he ran, dropping one pursuer. Elena darted beside him, fast despite her heels striking cobblestone like gunshots.
They slid into a market square, overturned carts crashing in their wake. Adrian vaulted a table, shoved Elena behind a stone pillar as bullets tore through sacks of grain. Dust and flour filled the air like smoke.
He leaned around the pillar, aimed, fired. Another man fell. But more kept coming. Too many.
And then—silence.
The pack halted, melted back into alleys. The square fell still except for Adrian’s ragged breath.
He knew why.
The Wolf preferred his prey isolated.
Night fell over the bay like a cloak. Adrian and Elena took refuge in an abandoned chapel, its walls damp with centuries of salt. Candles flickered faintly as wind moaned through broken glass.
Elena sat on the altar steps, her face pale, eyes fixed on the crates of documents Adrian had dragged with them. “You’ve seen it now,” she said. “The depth of the game. Harrington doesn’t want to erase you, Cole. He wants to inherit the ashes.”
Adrian loaded his weapon, each click echoing. “Then he’ll have to kill me first.”
She studied him, lips parting as if to speak, then stopped. For the first time, she looked fragile. Human. “You’re different than the others. The men I’ve known in this world—greedy, ruthless. But you… you’re still holding onto something.”
Adrian glanced at her. “What’s that?”
“Hope.”
He almost laughed, a bitter sound. “Hope doesn’t stop knives.”
“No,” she whispered. “But it stops you from becoming the Wolf.”
The words lingered, sharp as truth.
The attack came just before dawn.
Windows shattered as grenades clattered across the stone floor. Adrian shouted, tackled Elena behind the altar as explosions ripped the chapel. Flames licked old wood, smoke choking the air.
Through the haze, the Wolf emerged. Tall, silent, blade gleaming in firelight. His pale eyes locked onto Adrian with surgical intent.
The world narrowed.
Adrian fired—missed. The Wolf moved with impossible grace, closing distance. The blade slashed; Adrian parried with his gun, sparks flying. The assassin’s movements were precise, relentless, as though he had memorized every counter Adrian would attempt.
They crashed through pews, wood splintering, fire roaring higher. Adrian grappled, twisted, felt the blade graze his side. Pain flared hot. He struck with the butt of the pistol, enough to stagger the Wolf for a heartbeat. Enough to drag Elena through the side door into the night.
They stumbled into the bayfront, smoke pouring behind them. Adrian’s chest heaved, blood soaking his shirt. The Wolf didn’t follow—not yet. He was patient. Always patient.
Elena clutched his arm, eyes wide. “He won’t stop.”
Adrian’s gaze hardened. “Neither will I.”
They vanished into Montenegro’s night, the cipher’s secrets burning a hole in his jacket, the Wolf’s shadow stretching ever closer.
Betrayal Unmasked
The road from Kotor to Belgrade cut through mountains black as obsidian, the air thick with salt and smoke from the chapel still burning in Adrian Cole’s mind. He sat in the back of a battered truck, shirt torn, ribs bandaged, pistol never far from his hand. Elena Volkova sat opposite, silent, her eyes fixed on him as if weighing whether he would live long enough to matter.
The cache of Operation Asche was real. The names, the accounts, the Reich’s shadow empire waiting to rise. And Harrington—his Harrington—was orchestrating its resurrection. But the Wolf had not been chasing on Moscow’s leash, nor Berlin’s ashes. He had been chasing Adrian for London.
It was the double betrayal that cut deepest.
They reached Belgrade at dawn, the city waking in gray light. Markets opened, trams rattled, smoke curled from chimneys. Life pulsed, indifferent to secrets. Adrian and Elena checked into a safe flat above a tailor’s shop. The owner, a contact too old to question loyalties, gave them coffee and left them in silence.
Adrian spread the captured files across a scarred wooden table. Elena leaned close, scanning ledgers written in German script.
“There’s one name here,” she said, tracing with her finger. “Repeated. Harrington. Not your Harrington, surely? This file dates back to the forties.”
Adrian stared. The surname glared back, written in neat ink. His gut twisted. Could Harrington’s family have been part of Asche all along? Was he merely finishing what bloodlines began?
Elena’s voice was soft, almost pitying. “You see now why loyalty is an illusion?”
He clenched his fists. “I don’t need philosophy. I need the truth.”
That night, truth came in the form of a secure line. Adrian tapped into an encrypted satellite phone stripped from the Wolf’s men. He keyed in the codes only a London section chief would use.
The line clicked. A voice answered. Smooth, clipped, familiar.
“Cole,” Harrington said.
Adrian’s grip tightened. “You sent him.”
Silence, then a chuckle. “You’ve always been cleverer than most. Yes, I sent the Wolf. You were never meant to see Vienna, or Prague. The operation required silence. Permanent silence.”
Adrian’s blood iced. “Operation Asche.”
Harrington didn’t deny it. “The world has always belonged to those who plan for tomorrow, Cole. While the others play at democracy, we are preparing continuity. Wealth. Power. Stability. And you—” his voice sharpened—“you are an infection. A man who still believes in service, in flag, in duty. That makes you dangerous.”
Adrian’s voice was a growl. “You’ve betrayed every oath you swore.”
Harrington laughed, cold and hollow. “Oaths are for the naïve. Survival is for the ruthless. You should have learned that from me.”
The line went dead.
Adrian sat in silence, the phone heavy in his hand. Betrayal was no longer shadow—it had a voice, a face, a certainty. Harrington wasn’t just part of Asche. He was its resurrection.
Elena broke the silence. “Now you know. He’s cut you loose. What will you do?”
Adrian’s jaw hardened. “I’ll cut him back.”
The next evening, they prepared. Elena secured false papers, money, weapons. Adrian studied Harrington’s patterns. Istanbul was the meeting point—neutral, chaotic, perfect for final transactions. The Wolf would be there too. Harrington never dirtied his own hands.
Adrian loaded his pistol, checked the chamber. “This ends in Istanbul.”
Elena lit a cigarette, the flame trembling. “And what if you die before you reach him?”
He gave her a thin smile. “Then make sure he doesn’t walk away either.”
They boarded a night train, shadows flickering past the windows. Adrian dozed fitfully, memories gnawing—Warsaw agents dead, Ivana vanished, Harrington’s hand on his shoulder years ago. Trust the service, Cole. It will never betray you.
The words felt like poison now.
He woke at dawn to find Elena watching him, smoke curling from her lips. “You’re thinking of him,” she said.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “You sound jealous.”
“Not jealous,” she murmured. “Curious. You chase him with the obsession of a son hunting a father. Perhaps betrayal hurts more when it comes from love.”
Adrian looked away. “Love has nothing to do with it. Only justice.”
But deep down, he knew she was right. Harrington had been more than a handler. He had been the closest thing to family Adrian had allowed himself. And that was the wound the Wolf’s blade had not cut—the betrayal of blood not shared but chosen.
They arrived in Istanbul as the city roared with life. The Bosphorus shimmered under morning sun, minarets rising against the sky. Crowds surged through markets, ferries cut white scars across the water. It was a city of thresholds, always between worlds, perfect for endings.
Adrian and Elena slipped into the chaos, blending with merchants and travelers. Their safehouse was a crumbling apartment overlooking the Golden Horn. From there, Adrian unpacked the cipher, spread the Asche files, and studied every detail.
He knew Harrington would meet here. The only question was when—and how to strike before the Wolf struck first.
Elena leaned on the windowsill, red lipstick painted once more. “The Wolf will be waiting. He’s your shadow now. You can’t escape him.”
Adrian checked his pistol, the metal cold in his palm. “Then I stop running. Istanbul will decide who’s left standing.”
That night, as the call to prayer drifted over the city like a hymn, Adrian stared at the files one last time. Betrayal had been unmasked, the cipher of ashes revealed. Harrington was no longer a ghost but a man, waiting across the Bosphorus with the Wolf at his side.
Adrian slipped the pistol into his holster, buttoned his coat, and whispered to the empty room:
“Tomorrow, the executioner meets his own judgment.”
The Last Transmission
The city of Istanbul burned with light and shadow, the Bosphorus slicing it in two like a blade through history. Adrian Cole stood on the Galata Bridge at dawn, cigarette trembling faintly between his fingers. The call to prayer rolled across rooftops, a hymn carried by minarets. To Adrian, it sounded less like worship and more like a drumbeat of endings.
He had crossed half of Europe to reach this moment. Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Montenegro—each step a descent into betrayal, each mile a closer circle around his own death. Now the game had narrowed to its final square. Harrington waited. And the Wolf, silent as ever, was out there, sharpening his blade.
Beside him, Elena Volkova adjusted the red scarf wrapped around her throat, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. She had insisted on coming, though Adrian had tried to leave her in the safehouse. “This is my city too,” she had said. “And besides, the Wolf has my name. Better to be near you than alone.”
He hadn’t argued. Truth was, he no longer trusted solitude. Alone was where the Wolf thrived.
The meeting was set for the Grand Bazaar. Fitting, Adrian thought, that betrayal should be traded among spices and gold. Harrington was too cautious for hotels, too proud for alleys. The Bazaar offered anonymity wrapped in noise.
Adrian and Elena entered through the Nuruosmaniye Gate, swallowed by a river of merchants and tourists. The air was thick with the smell of roasted coffee and leather, the shimmer of lamps, the cry of hawkers. Adrian’s eyes flicked constantly, reading every glance, every shadow. His hand never strayed far from the pistol beneath his coat.
And then he saw him.
Harrington.
The years had aged him into elegance: silver hair neatly combed, tailored suit immaculate despite the chaos of the market. He stood before a carpet stall, as though he were any Englishman haggling for souvenirs. But his eyes, sharp and cold, found Adrian instantly.
“Cole,” Harrington said, voice smooth as silk when they finally drew close. “You look… weathered.”
Adrian’s throat tightened. “You look like a man who should’ve died with his oaths intact.”
Harrington’s smile didn’t falter. “Oaths? Please. Empires aren’t built on sentiment. They’re built on continuity. Operation Asche was never meant to end. It only waited for men strong enough to resurrect it.”
“And your answer is to burn the world for the bones of a dead Reich?” Adrian spat.
“No,” Harrington said, leaning in. “To control it. Power doesn’t vanish. It only changes hands. And with Asche, London takes its rightful place again.”
Adrian’s finger twitched toward the trigger, but he froze at the shift of air behind him.
The Wolf.
Silent, pale eyes glinting in the crowd, blade already drawn. Adrian twisted, gun half-raised, but the assassin moved with liquid inevitability. The market erupted in screams as steel clashed against steel, as Adrian parried the strike with the barrel of his gun.
The Wolf pressed forward, relentless, each movement precise as if he had choreographed Adrian’s death in advance. Harrington watched calmly, hands folded behind his back, as though this were theater staged for his amusement.
Adrian fired once—missed. The Wolf spun, knife flashing. The blade tore Adrian’s coat, grazed ribs, drew hot blood. He staggered, but anger steadied him.
“You won’t have me,” Adrian hissed.
The Wolf’s expression never changed. He struck again, silent as prayer.
Chaos roared through the Bazaar. Merchants fled, stalls overturned. Elena pulled a pistol from her handbag and fired, the crack splitting the air. One shot caught the Wolf’s shoulder, staggering him for the first time. His pale eyes flicked toward her, measuring, then dismissed her with chilling contempt.
Adrian seized the moment. He slammed into the Wolf, driving him back through a stall of shattered glass. They rolled, fists and blades colliding, until Adrian pinned him against stone. The knife arced, nearly finding throat—Adrian twisted, gun shoved under the assassin’s chin.
For the first time, the Wolf paused. A breath. A flicker.
And then Adrian pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed through centuries of stone. The Wolf jerked once, eyes wide, then stilled. His blade clattered to the ground.
Adrian staggered back, chest heaving, blood soaking his shirt. The market was silent now but for distant shouts. The Wolf lay at his feet, finally mortal.
Harrington clapped slowly, the sound venomous. “Impressive. You killed the ghost. But ghosts are replaceable. Men like me—aren’t.”
Adrian raised his pistol, aimed squarely at Harrington’s chest. “Then let’s see if that’s true.”
Harrington’s eyes glittered. “If you kill me, Cole, Asche doesn’t die. Others will carry it. But if you live—if you take my place—you could steer it. Imagine the power. Imagine control.”
Adrian’s hand shook. For a heartbeat, he saw the temptation: the files, the leverage, the empire waiting in shadows. Harrington’s voice was honey, wrapping around the ache of betrayal.
Elena stepped forward, her voice cutting through. “Don’t listen. That’s how he wins. Not with knives, not with wolves—but with offers.”
Adrian’s finger tightened. Memories surged: Ivana vanished, agents dead, the knife carving his flesh in Prague. Harrington’s hand on his shoulder years ago. Trust the service, Cole.
He fired.
Harrington staggered, blood blooming across his suit. His smile faltered, eyes wide with disbelief. He sank to his knees, hand pressed to chest, words choking. “Fool… you could have… ruled.”
Adrian stepped closer, voice flat. “I’m not here to rule. I’m here to end you.”
One more shot. Silence.
They slipped from the Bazaar before authorities could close in, weaving through alleys until the Bosphorus wind cooled their burning lungs. Adrian’s body throbbed with wounds, but his mind was steady for the first time in weeks.
Elena leaned against a wall, smoke curling from her lips, eyes fixed on him. “It’s done,” she said softly.
Adrian shook his head. “No. Asche still breathes. Harrington was only one head of the hydra. The files will matter more than his death.”
She smiled faintly, weary and enigmatic. “Then what will you do now?”
Adrian looked out over the water, ferries cutting white lines through the dark. He pulled the encrypted radio from his pocket—the same one he had carried since Berlin. Its battery blinked weakly, but it still worked.
He pressed the transmitter, his voice steady, low.
“This is Agent Adrian Cole. Operation Asche exposed. Harrington neutralized. Files in hand. Transmission ends.”
He released the button. For a moment, only static answered. Then the line went dead.
Adrian dropped the radio into the Bosphorus. The water swallowed it whole.
He turned to Elena. She raised a brow. “No proof, no orders, no service. Just you and me.”
Adrian gave a thin, tired smile. “Then maybe that’s how it should be.”
They walked into Istanbul’s dawn, shadows stretching long, the ashes of betrayal behind them.
