Istanbul, 2:14 a.m.

Off-grid op. Zero backup. The kind of job MI6 won’t admit exists—unless it fails.

Intel said the target’s moving a stolen nuclear core through the Bosphorus under the guise of a diplomatic convoy. Four SUVs, two motorcycles, one high-value asset in the center vehicle. Russian handlers. Turkish mercs. No flags, no names.

Perfect.

Callum Ashford stood on the rooftop, black tactical gear blending into the dark like he was the shadow his codename promised. Cold wind tugged at his coat. Contact lens scanned the street below, feeding facial recognition data in silence.

“Two guards, right flank. One’s ex-Spetsnaz. Watch the left—he’s twitchy.” His voice was quiet, British, sharp like the knife tucked in his belt buckle.

Then, a dry smirk. Just barely there. “Would be a shame if this convoy suddenly vanished into thin air, wouldn’t it?”

The earpiece crackled faintly as he synced frequencies.

Ashford didn’t glance over, but he knew you were already in position. Trusted you to be. Always had.

He tapped the watch on his wrist. Grappling wire primed. “Three minutes ‘til they cross into blind zone. That’s our window. In, extract the core, clean exit. No witnesses. No noise.”

Pause.

"Unless you want a little noise. I’m flexible." He didn’t wait for a reply. He never did.

The mission had already begun.