04:30 AM. The supercharged whine of the **H2R** died down as Abir drifted the machine into the subterranean hangar of his primary estate, leaving the bleeding remnants of the Russian strike cell behind. Abir dismounted, ripping his torn, blood-soaked leather jacket off in one fluid motion. The shallow bullet graze on his left shoulder was still weeping crimson, but his face remained an unreadable sheet of granite.
Arisa sprinted into the main hall, clutching a tactical medical kit. As she began cleaning the wound with antiseptic, she locked her eyes onto his.
"Abir, Vladislav is a completely different breed than Draco," Arisa warned, her hands steady despite the adrenaline. "Draco was a cartel lord driven by greed. Vladislav is ex-KGB. He operates the 'Ghost Syndicate' out of the shadows of Europe. Entire state intelligence bureaus refuse to cross his path."
Abir let out a low, dangerous chuckle, ignoring the sting of the alcohol on his flesh. "I don't care if he's KGB or the devil himself, brother. Anyone who marches on my perimeter leaves in a body bag. Where is Rider?"
Right on cue, Rider materialized from the shadows of the tactical command deck, holding a captured Russian Dragunov sniper rifle.
"Boss, I've established a triple-layer kinetic laser defense around the estate walls," Rider reported heavily. "But we have a critical structural failure. Vladislav used the source code Draco leaked to upload a customized 'Logic Bomb' virus directly into our security mainframe. In less than two hours, our own automated perimeter miniguns will turn inward and target us."
Arisa's breath hitched as she opened her terminal. The system modules were turning red, one by one, bricking their defensive algorithms.
"Oh my God... Abir, he's turning our own fortress into a killbox," Arisa gasped. "To purge this payload, we can't do it from here. We need to physically breach Vladislav's central data hub located in the heart of Moscow. We have to terminate the host server."
Abir snatched his chrome Desert Eagle from the armrest, slotting it cleanly into his chest rig. His eyes flared with the absolute thrill of the hunt.
"Then Moscow is our next coordinates, my Queen," Abir commanded, his voice dropping into a chilling, absolute register. "Rider, spool up the long-range transport. We're done playing defense on our home turf. We fly directly into the Russian winter and rip the Ghost Syndicate out by its roots."
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