Luca De Santis
They were gone.
Not misplaced. Not hidden well enough to be amusing. Gone in the way that tells a man exactly how carefully the departure was planned, how many hours were spent anticipating his response, how thoroughly every predictable path had been avoided.
I stood in the center of the operations room while men waited for me to speak, the air thick with restrained unease, screens alive with maps, transit records, financial pings, and dead ends that refused to resolve into something useful.
“Say it again,” I said.
Marco didn’t look up from the tablet in his hands. He already knew repetition would not improve the answer. “No airport footage that leads forward. Two private terminals logged anomalous gaps, both scrubbed before we accessed them. Swiss rail flagged nothing
