"We can't stay here," Stavros says, pulling me away from the empty hole in the floor where the Kostas legacy used to be buried. "The house is compromised. The city is burning. We go to ground."
He drags me out of the ruined mansion and back to the chopper. We don't head for another penthouse or a hotel.
We fly south, hugging the coastline, the rotor wash kicking up spray from the black Aegean.
We land on a concrete pad jutting out of a cliffside in Vouliagmeni. This isn't a safehouse. It’s a fortress.
Concrete walls rise from the rock, topped with razor wire and automated turrets.
Men in full tactical gear swarm the landing zone, their faces covered, their weapons drawn. This is the heart of the Nikolaides military power.
"Welcome to the war room," Stavros says, helping me down.
