[Ethan’s POV]

Sterling & Cross didn’t look like a bank. It looked like a modern art museum that had been converted into a fortress.

The lobby was a massive expanse of white marble and brushed steel. There were no teller windows, only sleek mahogany desks where ultra-wealthy clients met with private wealth managers.

I walked through the revolving glass doors, my hand resting casually inside my coat, gripping the handle of my Glock. Claire walked to my left, looking every bit the ruthless corporate lawyer in her tailored charcoal suit.

Heinrich Kessler walked between us. He was sweating through his bespoke collar, his face pale, but he kept his mouth shut. The ceramic push-dagger was pressed firmly against his ribs, hidden by the drape of my coat.

"Smile, Heinrich," Claire murmured, her voice perfectly pleasant. "You’re just bringing your legal counsel up to the boardroom."

Two of Isabella’s PMCs were stationed near the private elevators. They recognized Kessler instantly and stepped aside, though one of them eyed me suspiciously.

"Mr. Kessler," the guard said in German. "We weren’t informed you were bringing guests."

"My legal team," Kessler choked out, his voice trembling slightly. I pressed the tip of the dagger a fraction of an inch deeper into his side. Kessler swallowed hard and found his arrogant tone. "Do you question my authority, or do you want me to call Isabella and tell her you’re delaying the debt transfer?"

The guard stiffened, stepping back. "Apologies, sir. Go right ahead."

We reached the private elevator. Kessler placed his trembling hand flat against the black glass of the sub-dermal scanner. A green laser swept over his skin, reading the blood flow and the biometric signature.

The glass doors slid open with a soft chime.

We stepped inside, and Claire hit the button for the 40th floor—the executive boardroom.

The ride up was dead silent. When the doors opened, we stepped out into a plush, carpeted hallway lined with abstract paintings. I immediately shoved Kessler into a nearby supply closet, zip-tying him to a heavy metal shelving unit and gagging him with a roll of medical tape from my trauma kit.

"Stay put," I whispered to him.

I stepped back out into the hallway, drawing my Glock. Claire pulled her encrypted phone from her pocket, checking the time.

"11:54 AM," Claire whispered. "Nia’s cyber-attack hits in sixty seconds."

I crept down the hallway, peering around the corner toward the heavy, double oak doors of the executive boardroom.

My blood ran cold.

Varga was already there.

He was standing in the wide antechamber outside the boardroom doors, flanked by four heavily armed PMCs. Varga looked like a walking nightmare. The right side of his face was covered in angry, blistering red burns from the white phosphorus. His right arm was in a fresh, reinforced brace, but he held his suppressed SIG Sauer in his left hand with terrifying, rock-steady precision.

He was staring at the main elevator bank at the far end of the hall. He was waiting for Jake to step off.

"Five tangos," I whispered to Claire, stepping back around the corner. "Varga and four shooters. They’re blocking the boardroom doors. If Jake steps off that main elevator at noon, he’s walking into a firing squad."

"We have to clear the hallway," Claire said, her eyes wide.

"I have to clear the hallway," I corrected, checking my magazine. "You stay here. If I go down, you run."

"Ethan—"

"11:55," I said, cutting her off.

Suddenly, the recessed lighting in the hallway flickered and died, plunging the floor into emergency backup lighting.

Down the hall, the PMCs’ radios erupted into a deafening chorus of static and panicked shouting. Nia had struck. Half a mile away, Isabella Vane’s secure compound was currently experiencing a total, catastrophic digital meltdown.

"Comms are jammed!" one of the PMCs shouted, tapping his earpiece. "Command is reporting a massive firewall breach at the lake compound! They’re requesting immediate reinforcement!"

Varga didn’t even flinch. His dead eyes remained locked on the main elevator doors.

"Hold your positions," Varga ordered, his voice a raspy, damaged growl. "It’s a distraction. The ghost is coming here."

"Sir, the compound—"

"I said hold!" Varga roared, turning his burned face toward the PMC.

I didn’t give them time to argue. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

I stepped around the corner, raised my Glock, and fired three rapid shots.

I dropped the two PMCs on the left before they even realized they were under attack, putting a 9mm round through the unarmored gap in their necks.

"Contact rear!" the third PMC screamed, spinning around and raising his rifle.

I was already moving. I sprinted down the hallway, sliding across the plush carpet as a burst of automatic gunfire chewed the drywall to pieces right where my head had been.

I popped up behind a heavy marble decorative pillar, returning fire. I clipped the third PMC in the shoulder, spinning him around, and put a second round into his chest plate to knock the wind out of him.

Varga didn’t shoot wildly. He moved with terrifying, calculated precision. He stepped behind a heavy oak desk in the antechamber, resting his SIG Sauer on the wood, and fired two suppressed shots.

The first bullet shattered the edge of my marble pillar, sending stone shrapnel slicing into my cheek. The second bullet grazed my thigh, burning like a hot poker.

"Ethan!" Varga’s voice echoed down the hall, dripping with venom. "You should have stayed on the train!"

"You should have stayed a PI!" I shouted back, ejecting my half-empty magazine and slamming a fresh one home.

I checked my watch. 11:58 AM. Two minutes until Jake arrived. I had to get Varga away from those boardroom doors.

I grabbed a heavy bronze sculpture off a nearby pedestal and hurled it down the hallway. As the remaining PMC tracked the movement and fired at the sculpture, I broke from cover, sprinting diagonally across the hall.

I fired on the run, double-tapping the PMC in the chest and dropping him to the floor.

It was just me and Varga.

I dove behind a leather sofa just as Varga’s SIG Sauer spit three rounds into the upholstery, inches from my face.

"He ruined my life!" Varga roared, his cold composure finally cracking, replaced by raw, unadulterated hatred. "He took my agency! He took my reputation! I’m going to put a bullet in his brain, and then I’m going to burn his empire to the ground!"

"He’s not here for you, Varga!" I yelled, my chest heaving. "You’re just a roadblock!"

11:59 AM.

A soft ding echoed through the hallway.

The main elevator doors at the far end of the hall were opening.

Varga’s head snapped toward the sound. He abandoned my position, stepping out from behind the oak desk, raising his gun toward the opening elevator doors.

"No!" I roared.

I vaulted over the leather sofa, ignoring the screaming pain in my stitched shoulder and my bleeding thigh. I didn’t shoot. I tackled him.

I hit Varga at a full sprint, wrapping my arms around his waist and driving him away from the boardroom doors. We crashed through the heavy glass wall of an adjacent executive office, tumbling into a shower of shattered glass and splintered wood.

We hit the floor hard. Varga lost his gun in the fall, but he immediately drove his cast-covered arm into my ribs, cracking bone. I gasped, rolling off him, and scrambled to my feet.

Varga stood up, his burned face twisted into a mask of pure rage. He drew his serrated combat knife with his left hand.

Through the shattered glass wall, I could see the hallway.

The heavy oak doors of the executive boardroom were already swinging shut. I didn’t see who walked through them. I didn’t see a shadow, a coat, or a face. I just heard the heavy, undeniable clack of the internal deadbolt locking into place.

I checked my watch. Noon exactly. The Feral King was inside. I turned my attention back to the ex-FBI manhunter standing in front of me.

The path was clear. Now, I just had to survive. I drew my ceramic push-dagger, dropping into a fighting stance. "Just you and me, Varga," I spat, blood dripping from my chin. Varga didn’t say a word. He just lunged.