Nestled in a forested canyon outside of Asheville, North Carolina, the opulent safehouse was a sleek glass-walled building that resembled a spa retreat more than a tactical hiding place. The surrounding forest was painted in dazzling amber and crimson hues by autumn, which served as nature's disguise for their makeshift haven. The afternoon sun glinted off the modern architecture, casting geometric shadows across the polished concrete driveway as they pulled up in the nondescript sedan they'd switched to three state lines ago.
Regan had used this place years ago under a fabricated identity while working an infiltration op against a weapons broker with a taste for mountain views and vintage bourbon. The owner was a shell corporation buried under layers of financial obscurity—exactly the ki
