Leila Rahmani's apartment was in a modern building on the Route de Malabata, overlooking the dark expanse of the Atlantic. It was small, cluttered with stacks of newspapers, books, and empty coffee mugs—a testament to her obsession.
She paced the living room floor, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at her phone. No signal. They had cut her line.
"Think, Leila, think," she whispered to herself.
The video she had uploaded was gone. Scrubbed from the internet within minutes of posting. But she had sent copies to three international news agencies and the New York Times. It was out there, somewhere, bouncing through the ether.
A knock at the door made her jump.
It wasn't a polite knock. It was three sharp raps. Rat-a-tat-tat.
She grabbed the heavy brass flashlight from her desk and moved to the door. "Who is it?"
"Room service," a voice rasped.
It wasn't a voice she recognized. It was dry, damaged.
She peered through the peephole. It was him. The man from the villa. Adam El Kader. He looked worse than he had in the video—bruises forming on his jaw, a cut above his eyebrow. He was soaking wet from the rain.
She unlocked the door and let him in.
He moved past her quickly, scanning the room, checking the bathroom, the bedroom. Satisfied they were alone, he locked the door and jammed a chair under the handle.
He turned to face her. Up close, the scar on his neck was even more horrifying—a jagged rope of tissue that pulled the skin tight.
"You're bleeding," Leila said, her voice shaking.
Adam touched his eyebrow and looked at the blood on his fingers. He shrugged. He walked to her desk and began typing on her laptop.
Did you send the files?
"Yes," Leila said, putting the flashlight down. "They scrubbed the local upload, but the international ones are pending. Adam... what happened to you? We thought you were dead. My father... he said you washed up on the shore and disappeared."
Adam stopped typing. He looked at her. His eyes were incredibly sad, filled with a depth of pain that made her want to look away.
He wrote: I had to die to become what I needed to be.
"I don't understand," Leila said. "You killed Moustapha. Hamid. You terrorized the Iron Ring. You're not just a vigilante, Adam. You're a one-man army."
Adam typed again: They are names on a list. The list is long.
He pulled the black ledger from his jacket and placed it on the table. The leather was worn, the gold lettering faded.
"This is it?" Leila asked, her journalist instinct overriding her fear. "The proof?"
Open it, he typed.
She did. She flipped through the pages. Her eyes widened. "My God. This isn't just bribes. This is shipping manifests. Dates. Times. Drug routes. And... look at this entry. 'Project Silent Night.' That was the night your family died."
Adam pointed to a name next to the entry. Vargo.
"Vargo?" Leila read. "Who is that?"
The man Karim hires when he needs people to disappear. The man who cut my throat.
Suddenly, the lights in the apartment flickered. Then, they died completely. Darkness swallowed the room.
Adam moved instantly. He grabbed Leila's arm and pulled her down to the floor behind the sofa.
"Wha—"
"Shh," Adam mouthed, putting a finger to his lips.
Flashback: Shanghai, Year 11.The safehouse is dark. Adam is meditating. His mentor, 'Viper', is typing on a terminal. "Power cuts are the oldest trick in the book," Viper says. "It disorients. It separates the wolves from the sheep. When the lights go out, don't panic. Panic makes noise. Listen to the hum of the city. The refrigerator, the neighbors, the traffic outside. Map the room in your mind." Adam sits in the dark. He hears a floorboard creak in the hallway. He knows exactly where the intruder is.
Adam closed his eyes in the darkness of Leila's living room. He listened.
The elevator at the end of the hall had dinged softly. Heavy footsteps were walking down the carpeted corridor. Four men. Professional tread. They were stopping at her door.
They weren't using a battering ram. They were using a silent electronic lock pick.
Adam nudged Leila. He pointed to the bedroom window. They were on the fourth floor. Too high to jump. But there was a balcony.
Go to the balcony, he wrote on her arm with his finger.
She shook her head. "No, I'm not leaving you."
GO.
The lock on the door clicked. The handle turned slowly.
Adam pulled the gun he had taken from the warehouse. He checked the safety.
As the door pushed open, the silhouette of a tactical light cut through the darkness.
Adam fired.
The sound was deafening in the small apartment. The muzzle flash illuminated the room like a strobe light. The first man in the door took a round to the chest and fell backward.
"Contact! Rear balcony!" someone shouted in Darija.
Adam grabbed Leila and shoved her toward the kitchen. "Stay low!" he whispered, his voice a harsh, rasping croak that sounded like sandpaper on stone. It was the first time he had spoken in twelve years, and it hurt like hell.
Two flashbang grenades rolled into the room.
Adam didn't look away. He knew what was coming. He buried his face in the crook of his arm.
BOOM.
The explosion of light and sound was disorienting, even with his preparation. His ears rang like church bells. He blinked, seeing spots.
Three men stormed the room, guns raised.
Adam didn't shoot. He was out of position. He grabbed the heavy oak coffee table and flipped it over, using it as mobile cover. Bullets chewed up the wood, splinters flying like shrapnel.
He needed to move. He was cornered.
He looked at the kitchen. Leila was gone.
Good.
He looked at the balcony doors. Glass shattered as bullets riddled them.
Adam holstered the gun. He couldn't win a firefight against three automatic weapons.
He took a deep breath. He sprinted toward the balcony, diving through the shattered glass just as a hail of bullets tore up the space where he had been standing.
He hit the wet concrete of the balcony and rolled. He didn't stop. He vaulted over the railing.
Flashback: The Cliffs of Railay, Thailand. Year 2.Adam stands on the edge of a limestone cliff, fifty feet above the turquoise water. "Fear is the mind-killer," his instructor says. "Commit." Adam jumps. The freefall feels like an eternity. He hits the water, plunging deep, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He surfaces, gasping, alive.
Adam fell. He grabbed the balcony railing of the apartment below—a penthouse suite. His arms jarred painfully, nearly tearing from their sockets. He swung, crashing through the glass window of the suite below.
He landed in a heap on a Persian rug. A wealthy couple screamed, clutching their robes.
Adam scrambled up, ignoring them. He ran to the front door of this apartment, unlocked it, and burst into the hallway.
He heard the men kicking in Leila's door above him.
He took the stairs. Down. Fast.
He emerged onto the street level, merging with the shadows of the parking garage. He looked up. He saw flashes of gunfire in Leila's window.
He had failed to protect her safe space. But she was resourceful. She had to be.
He checked the gun. One round left in the chamber. No reload.
He holstered it and began to run into the night, toward the Old City. He needed a new plan. The brute force approach had brought the heat down too fast.
He needed to become a ghost again.
And he needed to find out who "Vargo" really was. The butcher who held the knife.