Karim Haddad sat in his study, nursing a glass of aged single malt Scotch. The room was soundproofed, a sanctuary of mahogany and leather high above the chaos of the city.
On the wall, a large monitor displayed the news feed. REPORTER'S APARTMENT RAIDED BY UNKNOWN ASSAILANTS - POLICE INVESTIGATING.
Karim took a sip, the smoky liquid burning his throat. He was not a man who easily lost his temper. He was a man who solved problems. But this... this was an annoyance that was rapidly becoming a threat.
"They got away?" he asked the room.
Standing in the shadows was a man who made the air around him feel cold. He was tall, pale, and bald, with eyes the color of ice. He wore a suit that cost more than most people earned in a year.
Vargo.
"He is... slippery," Vargo said in a voice that was devoid of accent or emotion. "He moves like nothing I've ever tracked. Not military. Not street. Something else. He killed the team at the warehouse in under fifteen seconds. He neutralized the entry team at the journalist's apartment."
"He is a butcher," Karim said, staring at the fire. "Just like us, Vargo. But he has no leash. That makes him dangerous."
"He has a code," Vargo corrected. "He is following a list. He is not killing randomly. He is dismantling your infrastructure piece by piece."
Karim slammed his glass down. "Then we replace the infrastructure! I have a million men in this city who would kill for a fraction of what I pay you."
"But you don't have a million men who can stop him," Vargo said calmly. "He knows the city. He grew up here. He is fighting on home turf."
Karim turned to look at Vargo. "I hired you to clean up my mess twelve years ago. You cut the boy's throat. You failed to finish the job."
Vargo didn't flinch. "I was told to make an example. I did. The fact that he survived was... a statistical anomaly. One that I intend to correct."
"Do it," Karim said, his voice low. "I don't care about the police. I don't care about the reporter. Find him. Bring him to the port. I want to look him in the eye when I put a bullet in his brain."
Vargo nodded. "It will be difficult. He has the ledger."
"Which is why we need to smoke him out," Karim said. He walked to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a photo. It was a picture of a young man, sitting on a beach, smiling.
It was Youssef. Adam's brother. Alive.
Karim smiled, a cruel, twisting of his lips. "The boy thinks his brother is dead. He thinks he is fighting for ghosts. What if we showed him the truth? That his brother didn't just survive... that he joined us?"
Vargo raised an eyebrow. "Psychological warfare. Effective."
"Broadcast it," Karim said. "Leak it to the dark web. Show him that Youssef is my right-hand man. Let him see that the blood he is avenging belongs to a traitor."
Adam was back in the derelict Riad, sitting in the dark. He was stitching a wound in his arm with a needle and thread, the alcohol stinging as he cleaned it.
His laptop was open, the screen glowing.
A notification popped up. A new file uploaded to a secure server he monitored. An encrypted file tagged with the symbol of the Wolf—a howling silhouette.
Adam frowned. He typed in the decryption key he had stolen from the Chinese hackers years ago.
The file opened.
It was a video. High definition. Recent.
It showed a luxurious office. Karim Haddad was sitting there, laughing. And sitting next to him, pouring a drink, was a man Adam would have recognized anywhere.
Youssef.
He was older. His face was harder, his eyes colder. But it was him. He wore a tailored suit. He looked... happy.
Adam froze. The needle pierced his skin, drawing blood, but he didn't feel it.
He turned up the volume.
"Twelve years," Karim said on the video, his voice clear. "And look at us, Youssef. Partners."
Youssef smiled. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We built an empire, Karim. The past is dead. Let it rot."
The video ended.
Adam sat back, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The silence of the room was screaming at him.
His brother was alive.
His brother was working with the man who killed their parents.
Flashback: The Night of the Murder. Year 0.Adam is hiding under the table. He sees the boots. He sees Youssef step forward. "Take the money!" Youssef screams. But then, Adam sees something he had blocked out for twelve years. He sees Youssef look at the leader. He sees Youssef nod. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Then Youssef launches himself at the gunman... but he misses. On purpose.
The memory slammed into Adam like a freight train.
Youssef hadn't fought back. He had staged it.
The realization broke something inside Adam. He had spent twelve years in hell, training, suffering, bleeding, to avenge a family that included a traitor.
He looked at the screen. The video offered a location. The Royal Atlas Hotel.
Adam stood up. He grabbed his gear. He didn't bother bandaging the stitch on his arm properly. He didn't bother hiding the laptop.
The tears didn't come. He was beyond tears.
He checked his guns. He checked his knives.
If Youssef was alive, then everything Adam had done—the killing, the pain—it was all based on a lie.
But the rage? The rage was real.
He walked out into the Tangier night. He wasn't going there to save his brother.
He was going to finish what he started in that kitchen.
He was going to kill them both.