The temporary command center was a repurposed storage hangar in an isolated corner of the military airstrip outside Rhodes. It was quiet now, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the generators and the constant crackle of the encrypted radio lines. The execution of the mole had been necessary, efficient, and utterly devoid of satisfaction. There was no joy in petty vengeance when the main target was still breathing.
I sat at a cold metal table, tracing the flight path of the final assault team—the one I would join in less than an hour. The knowledge that Damon was panicking, that he was moving Isabella to the helicopter pad, was a cruel form of adrenaline. It meant the end was near, but it also meant the danger to her was maximal. Every second stretched like a wire about to snap.
A soft kno
