The safehouse in Berlin was cold and silent.
Knox sat at the kitchen table, the encrypted laptop glowing before him. The screen displayed a series of financial records, each one meticulously documented, each one leading deeper into the labyrinth of Marcus Webb's network. He'd been following the paper trail for weeks, tracing the flow of money through shell companies and offshore accounts.
There's a pattern here. A hidden structure beneath the chaos.
He studied the records, his eyes scanning for inconsistencies, for anomalies. The money moved in predictable cycles—in from legitimate businesses, out to black-market accounts, then back again through layers of obfuscation.
It's elegant. Whoever designed this knew exactly what they were doing.
Knox leaned back in his chair, his mind racing
