The night air sliced like a blade, thick with fog and secrets.
Elena Voss pressed her back against the rusted metal door of the safehouse, her pulse syncing with the rhythmic drip from the cracked gutter above. Rain slicked her leather gloves as she adjusted her grip on the silenced Glock. Somewhere inside, Damien Rook—the ghost of her nightmares—was alive and breathing.
Six years ago, her brother was murdered in Berlin. A red locket clutched in his fist. No prints. No cameras. No witnesses. Just whispers.
And one name that echoed from every intelligence agency wall like a curse: Rook.
She pushed the door open silently.
The scent of old cigarettes, gun oil, and betrayal welcomed her. The room beyond was dimly lit—an overhead bulb swinging lazily like a noose. Crates of weapons and forged passports were strewn across the concrete floor. Intel was right. He was here.
But so was the trap.
A whisper of movement. Too smooth for a rookie.
She ducked just as a throwing knife embedded itself in the pillar where her skull had been. Rolling, she fired twice. Missed.
"You're slower than I remember," a voice teased from the shadows.
That voice.
Damien Rook stepped into the light. Tousled hair. A scar on his jaw she didn't recall. Still wearing that insufferable smirk. Still dangerous enough to make her heart skip—whether from hate or something darker, she refused to say.
"Rook," she spat. "You're under arrest."
He raised an eyebrow. "You always start foreplay with handcuffs?"
Elena fired. He was gone. Movement blurred behind a stack of crates—then a crash of glass.
She chased him up the narrow stairwell, boots pounding. Her mind raced: why now? Why return to Istanbul where he'd burned half the MI6 intel six months ago?
On the rooftop, wind whipped around them. Neon lights from the Bosphorus glinted off his knife as he spun, not to kill—but to disarm. The gun flew from her hand, skittering off the ledge.
"You came alone," he said. "Bad move."
"I don't need backup to take out garbage."
Damien lunged. Their bodies collided. She slammed an elbow into his ribs; he twisted, locking her wrist. They fell to the gravel in a breathless heap.
Too close.
She stared into his eyes—gray like a storm. A memory flickered. Her brother's locket. The same one Rook wore now, hanging from his neck like a cruel joke.
"You son of a—"
"You think you know everything," he growled, pinning her arms. "But you don't know the truth."
"Then talk."
He hesitated. "Not here. They're listening."
A shot rang out—this one not hers.
Splinters exploded from the rooftop wall inches from his head.
Sniper.
Both dove behind the chimney stack.
"Who's after you?" she hissed.
"Same people who killed your brother."
Her world tilted.
"What?"
He threw a burner phone toward her. "Track this. You'll find your answers."
More bullets. The rooftop exploded in a spray of concrete.
"No more games!" she shouted.
But he was already gone—vanished into the night like a ghost.
She stared at the locket he left behind. Identical to her brother's. Blood still fresh on the chain.
Nothing made sense.
And yet, her gut screamed the truth: she'd spent six years chasing the wrong enemy.
And maybe, just maybe… he was the only one who could help her uncover the truth.
But trusting Damien Rook would be like dancing barefoot through landmines.
She pocketed the phone.
Cliffhanger or not, she was going to war.
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