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The Story

They’ve set a trap…

Assassin Xavier Saint is still on the run after being the fall guy for a murder he didn’t commit. He needs to bring down an entire network of assassins to not only prove his innocence, but also to protect his family.

What Saint thought would bring him closer to destroying the assassins’ network might now blow up in his face. To make matters worse, someone out of the shadows has come back for revenge.

Saint is ambushed…

How will Saint get out alive and complete the near-impossible task he promised to finish?

ASSASSIN’S AMBUSH

SAINT ASSASSIN SERIES

BOOK FOUR

ETHAN JONES

Chapter One

Southern Outskirts

Bratislava, Slovakia

Assassin Xavier Saint tightened his fingers around his pistol’s grip and crouched next to the SUV’s hood. He aimed his Sig Sauer 9mm pistol at one of the two assassins sprinting behind a middle-aged man. The target was struggling to stay ahead of them.

Saint knew the assassins. They were two members of his team, but they had deserted him at the most crucial moment during their mission. Moreover, the two men worked for one of the most feared assassin’s dispatchers of all time. And that man had Saint squarely in his sights. He had made a clear threat against Saint’s life. “The next time one of my assassins sees you, you will not see them. But you will feel the pain they’ll cause you. And then you’ll die.” That’s what the dispatcher had said in a chilling, bone-rattling tone.

And Saint knew the assassins’ target as well. His name was Alexander Evanoff, and he was a former high-ranking officer of Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or the SVR, which was Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service. Saint had heard rumors that Evanoff was seen in Bratislava. According to unconfirmed reports, Evanoff had brought with him a considerable amount of Uranium-235 stolen from a nuclear plant in Ukraine. The Russian was still looking for a buyer on the black market, who could turn the uranium into a nuclear weapon.

Earlier that day, Evanoff’s phone signal had been triangulated to a safehouse in the southern outskirts of the city. That safehouse was a couple of blocks away, in a decrepit gray apartment block from Soviet times. Now Evanoff was running in that direction.

I can’t let them kill or capture Evanoff. And I also can’t let Evanoff get away.

Saint nodded to himself and closed one eye. He aligned his Sig sights on the back of the second assassin. He was the closest to Saint and, from what he knew from the past, the leader of the two. Saint tapped the trigger and sent a bullet into the assassin’s left lower back.

The man plunged face-first onto the asphalt street. His submachine gun fell out of his hands. The assassin tried to retrieve it, but his motions to reach for it were very slow.

Saint’s intention wasn’t to kill the man. If that were his objective, Saint would have opted for a headshot. He wanted to know the reasons why the assassins had been sent after Evanoff.

The first assassin spun around. He glanced quickly at his downed teammate, then his gaze went to Saint. The assassin stared at Saint’s pistol and seemed to make some quick calculations. The assassin’s submachine gun wasn’t aimed at Saint. It would take him just a split second to fire again and plant a bullet into the assassin’s head.

He made the right decision.

He began to lower his gun and nodded at Saint. “Okay, Saint. You win. I’m putting my gun down now.”

The assassin stretched on the asphalt let out a loud, painful groan.

“Drop it!” Saint shouted and climbed to his feet.

The assassin hesitated for an instant.

Saint kept his pistol trained at the man’s head. “I won’t ask again…” he shouted.

The assassin cursed out loudly and tossed the weapon. It dropped onto the asphalt with a distinct metal-on-concrete thud.

Saint kept his pistol aimed at the assassin’s head. “Okay, now drop to your knees. And lock your hands behind your head.”

The assassin did as he was told. He must have realized that his reluctance would only ensure the inevitable.

Next, Saint glanced at the downed assassin. He seemed to be reaching for something around his back. Saint swiftly aimed his pistol at the assassin. “Get your hand out of there. Out, or the next bullet goes through your head.”

The assassin needed no further warning. He stretched out his arms and lay back.

Saint then looked at Evanoff. The man was hobbling slightly. Earlier, as he had attempted to escape the assassins, Evanoff had jumped and slid over the hood of one of the parked cars on the side of the road. He must have sprained an ankle or at least landed badly. “Evanoff, hey, Evanoff.” Saint called to the former SVR operative. “Stop, stop. Now!”

Evanoff tried to redouble his speed.

Saint shook his head and aimed his pistol at the Russian. Then he moved his hand slightly to the left and fired a round.

The bullet must have zipped extremely close to Evanoff’s head because the man froze. He didn’t put his arms up; he didn’t turn his head. He just stopped and stood there, as if he had turned into a slab of ice.

Saint’s eyes flitted between the two assassins and Evanoff. Saint wasn’t sure if the assassins were disarmed. He’d search them, but first, he wanted to make sure Evanoff didn’t disappear. “Evanoff!” Saint shouted at him. “Turn around, slowly. Keep your arms away from your body and walk toward me. Come on. Do it.”

Evanoff followed Saint’s order. He turned around and began to limp slowly and hesitantly.

Saint drew in a deep breath. He studied the faces of the two assassins. Their eyes were focused on him, and they seemed extremely alert. They’ll seize the moment if I’m not paying attention. That’s not going to happen.

He took a few steps to his right, positioning himself in such a way that he could see all three of them at the same time. He kept Evanoff in his field of view and advanced toward the assassin sprawled onto the street.

Loud shouts and screeching tires came from behind him. Saint wanted to look over his shoulder, but he worried the two assassins or Evanoff would make a move at that same exact moment. He bit his lip and hoped none of those shouts would turn into gunfire.

He hurried his pace as he became more aware of the bulletproof vest he was wearing. Almost instinctively, he ran his left hand over his chest. If someone opens fire, the vest should protect me. Unless they’re firing armor-piercing rounds.

Saint shrugged, then shook his head, trying not to think of that possibility. He reached the first assassin, who was still lying on his stomach. A stain of blood had formed where Saint’s bullet had struck him, a couple of inches above his waist. “Don’t move. Stay still. Very still,” Saint ordered him.

The assassin groaned but didn’t say or do anything.

Saint looked at the other assassin. He was down on his knees, and his hands were still around his head. Saint couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that the assassin’s hands were firmly clasped, but it would have to do. I hope I won’t have to find out.

Saint kept his pistol trained on the second assassin as he crouched down. He began to pat down the injured assassin without really looking at what he was doing, allowing his trained left hand to do its job. He found a Glock 45 tucked at the small of the assassin’s back. That’s what he was trying to retrieve.

Saint placed the pistol inside his waistband, then continued to pat down the lead assassin. Once Saint was convinced that the assassin was unarmed, he got up to his feet. “Stay there, and no stupid moves.”

The assassin groaned again and nodded his large head.

Evanoff was now about eight feet away from Saint, who just got up. He motioned for Evanoff to stop and stay where he was. As he did so, Saint glanced over his shoulder. A couple of old men stood about thirty yards away, watching the scene. None of them carried a weapon, at least, none that Saint could see. And they didn’t seem eager to intervene. Good, he thought. Mind your own business.

He strained his ears but heard no sirens. He nodded to himself, then ran his left hand through his blond hair that came down to the nape of his neck. Then he scratched the left side of his thick beard. He slid his aviator sunglasses with progressive lenses up to the top of his head. The abnormal curvature of his cornea from a slight astigmatism affected his vision at any distance. If he had any other job, he’d manage okay, even without glasses. But he needed to focus and couldn’t afford eye strain and blurry objects when a precise shot made all the difference between success and failure; between life and death.

Saint sprinted past Evanoff toward the second assassin and patted him down as well. He found another Glock 45 pistol and took it. Then he warned the assassin to stay as he was.

When Saint returned to Evanoff, the Russian gave him an impatient look. Evanoff was unshaved, and his full beard had more speckles of gray than black. His receding white hair made him look older than his age of fifty-five years. He jutted out his chest and inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. He tipped his head toward Saint. “Saint, what’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded of Saint in heavily accented English.

“We have some unfinished business, Evanoff,” Saint replied in a calm tone.

Evanoff’s lips pressed tight into a grimace. He gave Saint a frustrated shake of his head and said, “Can it wait? I was in the middle of something here…” He waved his hand toward the safehouse.

“Yes, in the middle of getting killed or worse.”

“What’s worse than dying?”

“You tell me. You used to work for the SVR.”

Evanoff smirked. He opened his mouth to reply to Saint but then shook his head. His mouth fell open, and he gave Saint a dazed look. Evanoff took a step back and began to raise his arms slowly.

Saint understood what was going on. He spun on his heels and aimed the pistol at two gunmen dressed in black suits. However, they had already trained their rifles on Saint’s head. One of the gunmen, the tallest of the two, whom Saint recognized, took a step forward. He grinned at Saint and said in a voice full of self-satisfaction, “Xavier Saint, you’re the last person I was expecting to see here. Now, put that gun away before you get hurt…”

Chapter Two

Southern Outskirts

Bratislava, Slovakia

Saint drew in a deep breath as a frown creased his forehead. His pistol was still aimed at the gunman. “Harold Long. What are you doing here?” he said in an annoyed tone that made it clear he wasn’t really looking for an answer.

“I was about to ask you the same question,” Long replied in a gruff tone. He kept his rifle trained on Saint’s head. The rifle’s metal butt was placed firmly against the crux of his shoulder. “The boss wants to talk to you, both of you.” He tipped his head toward Evanoff.

“Why? What does he want?”

Long shrugged. “Don’t know; don’t care. He asked for you; I’m taking you in.”

Saint looked quickly over his shoulder. Evanoff and the two assassins hadn’t made any moves. Saint kept them in his peripheral vision as he turned his head and said, “Can it wait? I’m quite busy here—”

Long shook his head. “Can’t wait. But they can come with us.” He cocked his head toward the other gunman and gestured for him to make a call.

The gunman nodded and lowered his rifle. He tapped his earpiece and whispered a few words Saint didn’t hear. Almost instantly, a black Toyota SUV shot out of an alley to their right. The driver stopped about ten feet behind the gunmen.

Long cocked his head toward the Toyota. “We’ve got to go.”

“Fine.” Saint lowered his Sig pistol and sighed. “But I’m keeping my guns.”

“Fine by me.” Long shrugged. “Help me cuff them.” He turned to his partner and said, “Get the trauma kit and patch him up. Don’t want him to bleed on the seat.”

Long tossed Saint a pair of zip ties. “I’ve got Evanoff.”

Evanoff shook his head and took a couple of steps back. “It’s a trap, Saint. An ambush. They’re going to kill us both.”

“Shut up,” Long shouted at Evanoff. “Nobody asked you.”

Saint twisted Evanoff’s arms behind his back. “Do you know what he wants?” he whispered into the Russian’s ear.

“Yes.” He nodded. “We had a deal that went bad.”

“And why are Neymar’s goons chasing you?”

“Who’s Neymar?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Never heard the name. Which means they’re here for you.”

“They were chasing you, not me.”

Evanoff shrugged. “Maybe they were coming after me so they could get to you.”

Saint thought a moment about that, but before he could reply, Long said, “Let’s go. We’re just two minutes out from the safehouse.” He pushed the assassin in front of him.

Saint marched Evanoff toward the SUV, while the driver and Long’s partner finished placing a strip of adhesive tape over large pads fastened to the wounded assassin’s back. He helped the assassin up, then ushered him to the Toyota and shoved him, along with the other assassin and Evanoff, in the third row of seats.

They backed into the same alley, then turned left. They came to an intersection, and the driver made a right turn, going in the opposite direction of Evanoff’s safehouse. Saint’s eyes turned into small slits. He peered at Long, sitting in the front passenger seat, as the man ran a hand through his curly, shoulder-length black hair. “Where is it?”

“I told you: two minutes out.”

“Yes, but in which direction?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, so we can be prepared.”

Long raised an eyebrow. “For what?” he asked in an incredulous tone.

“Another attack.” He motioned with his hand to the assassins in the third row of seats. “They know where we’re going.”

Long turned to his partner sitting behind the driver. “Get rid of their phones.”

“But we need to know who they are and what they want.”

“I know who they are,” Saint said. “I’ll explain that to your boss.”

Long’s partner shook his large, bald head, but did as he was told. He rummaged through the assassins’ pockets, found their phones, and tossed them out the window.

The driver rounded a couple of turns, then stopped in front of a decrepit Soviet-era, block-shaped building, which looked exactly like about a dozen or so in the area. A two-lane street led to the apartment complex entrance. The street was quiet. Not one soul walking or driving this late in the morning.

“We’re here.” Long cocked his head toward the entrance. “Second floor.”

They stepped out of the Toyota and climbed the broken, uneven stairs. The apartment hallway was dark and dingy. However, the apartment’s door was solid iron and painted black. Long knocked a code on the door, two quick knocks, followed by a pause, and a third knock.

The door opened immediately with a loud creak. A man wearing a brown button-down shirt and blue jeans appeared in the doorway holding a pistol muzzle down. “Hello, Saint,” he said in a warm but measured tone. “Come in.”

Saint recognized him as Robert “Robin” Smith. Robin was in his early fifties, with a receding hairline that he kept hidden underneath a flat, blue tweed cap he wore almost all the time. Ashen hair had grown longer around his temples and at the back of his thick neck. Dark circles had formed around his deep-set brown eyes.

He had been an assassin until he was shot in the thigh three years ago during a botched kill. He had reinvented himself mainly as a forger of passports and documents. Robin had a vast network of assets, connections, and sources, which he used to provide his clients various illicit goods and services.

Robin and Saint had long played a game of reciprocal favors for one another, but recently, he had double-crossed Saint. Twice. Saint had forgiven Robin the first time. However, Saint had no knowledge of Robin’s second betrayal, and Robin hoped he never would.

Saint held Robin’s gaze for a brief moment, then shook his head. “Did you have to drag me here at gunpoint?”

Robin lowered his black-framed glasses and glanced at Saint with a dull look in his eyes. He sighed and shook his head. “It had to be done that way. With Evanoff and the assassins in the picture… But come in, and we’ll have a chat. I’ll explain everything.”

Saint nodded. “Yes, you disappeared into thin air in—”

“We’ll talk about it in private. And I’ll answer all your questions.” Robin stepped to the side and gestured with his hand holding the pistol. “Get inside now.” His strong voice was almost an order.

Saint stepped inside the dim and narrow empty hall. The walls were painted a light blue, but there were no pictures hanging on the walls. The floor was greyish tiles that gave off a clinical, unwelcoming vibe.

The small living room had just a couple of beige armchairs, a glass-top coffee table, and two mismatched straight back chairs. A TV was hanging on the wall, between two small windows with iron bars. The entrance to the kitchen was to the left, behind a beige curtain.

Saint stood in the middle of the living room and looked at Robin, who limped in and gestured toward the armchair opposite the window. “Take a seat. They’ll be in the other room, so we can chat in private. Coffee?” He stepped closer to the kitchen.

“No. Just tell me why I’m here. And what happened that made you disappear…”

Robin pursed back his lips and shrugged at Saint. “Fine, let’s get down to business then.” He glanced at the hall. There was no one there, and no noises came from the other room. Still, Robin closed the door and sat in the other armchair across from Saint. “I’m sure you know about the shooting at my bakery in Germany.”

Saint nodded. He had read the police reports about the gunfire exchange at The Gold Bakery in Munich. However, the police still didn’t have any leads. “Who was it?”

“Lootah’s lackeys.” Robin spat out his words, referring to Khalid Shaheen Lootah.

He had been one of the assassin’s liaisons organizing contract killings throughout the Middle East and beyond. Saint had eliminated him in a brutal takedown. He planned to do the same to the remaining five liaisons who had established the network of assassins targeting innocents for their own personal or business interests.

Robin continued, “They kidnapped me and wanted to put me into a trunk and take me to Montenegro, Budva. Can you imagine what they were looking for?” Robin said in a dry voice.

“Yes. But you didn’t give them any intel, did you?” Saint asked, accusation lacing his voice.

“Would they have done this to me if I had told them?” Robin replied in a tone of protest. He turned his head to the side and showed Saint the right side of his face. A long scar ran along his ear and went down to his throat, almost at his Adam’s apple. “Plus three broken ribs and the limp.” He dropped his eyes to his leg.

Saint wanted to say that considering his previous betrayal, it was reasonable for him to have doubts. And Robin’s wounds weren’t conclusive evidence. He could have gotten them in a number of ways. Moreover, the fact that Robin was tortured didn’t mean that he didn’t give up Saint or his secrets.

“Okay, so how did you escape?”

Robin’s lips curled into a gentle, almost wistful smile. “They beat me within an inch of my life but didn’t break me. I promised one of the guards—a young, naïve one—a million dollars to let me go.”

Saint whistled. “And he fell for it?”

Robin snorted. “Headfirst. I convinced him to cut off the zip ties and hand me a knife. I’d eliminate the other guard, to make my escape more credible.”

Saint frowned. “And you killed them both.”

Robin winked. “Great plan, right? They had it coming.” He winced and ran his hand over his chest. “The pain they caused me. Agonizing.” His eyes crinkled at the edges.

He was telling Saint only one part of the truth and not the good one. The escape details were accurate but what Robin was leaving out was the most damaging truth. He had betrayed Saint again.

Lootah’s henchmen had used “creative interrogation techniques,” forcing Robin to sing like a canary. He admitted to sending someone to the American Clinic in Budva to look for Saint’s friend. He also told the torturers that Saint was looking for a doctor in Budva, who had suddenly disappeared without a trace. Last, Robin had explained that he had provided Saint an Australian passport. Saint was planning to leave Europe, but Robin didn’t know the destination.

Saint shifted uncomfortably in his armchair and said, “Okay, so you escaped. Why didn’t you make contact?”

Robin didn’t answer right away. “I was on the run, Saint. I needed to lie low for a while, until things cooled off. I also didn’t know whom I could trust. I never learned how Lootah’s men found me,” he said in a tone full of regret.

Saint held Robin’s gaze for a long moment. He was saying all the right words, with the right emotion and was coming across as genuine. However, Saint had a nagging feeling at the pit of his stomach that something was going on. Something doesn’t feel right. Even if he’s not lying to me, he’s not telling me the whole truth.

“I was counting on you, Robin, to help me.”

“I know, Saint, and I’m sorry. But I couldn’t control what happened. And I had no way of helping you while I didn’t know whom I could trust.” His voice grew louder and insistent.

Saint nodded and waved a dismissive hand. There was no point in arguing about the past. Whatever happened, happened. He sighed and leaned forward. “Well, that brings us to now. Why did you come after me? And what are you doing in Bratislava?”

Robin’s thin lips formed a tiny smile. “I had a deal with our Russian friend, Mr. Evanoff.”

“A deal involving stolen Uranium-235?”

Robin spread out his arms. “Uh, stolen comes with so much unnecessary judgment. I prefer ‘strategically acquired.’”

Saint rolled his eyes. “Fine, so you want this nuclear material. Why?”

“I have a buyer.”

“Who?”

“No one you know.”

“Try me.”

Robin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter who the buyer is. What matters is that Evanoff broke off the deal.”

Saint peered deep into Robin’s eyes. “Is it because he learned of the buyer?”

“Could be. If that was the case, he didn’t say. The Russian wanted more money.”

“How much more?”

“Double the initial price. I refused, so he decided to disappear.”

“And you couldn’t let that happen?”

“Of course not. I have a reputation to maintain. Plus, I’ve already paid down a deposit.”

“I still don’t understand how I fit into this love/hate affair between the two of you.”

“I knew you had some unfinished business with Evanoff and that you were in town.”

“How did you learn that?”

“It’s my job to know.” Robin waved off a dismissive hand. “And I owed you one because I let you down. So I thought I’d catch Evanoff and hand him over to you, so that you can finish off whatever it is.”

Saint nodded. “It has to do with the uranium.”

“Really? Are you going to tell me it’s yours?”

“No, but it’s not yours either.”

“I’ve already paid for it, and Evanoff went back on his word.”

“Where is it now?”

“Not sure. That’s why we have Evanoff.” Robin cocked his head toward the door. “It’s time we ask him.”

“One more thing: Neymar’s men. Is it a coincidence they arrived at the scene at the right time, when Evanoff was trying to escape from you?”

Robin nodded slowly. Gabriel Neymar was the boss of the Latin American network of assassins and the next person on Saint’s list of liaisons to be eliminated. “You’re right, Saint. It’s not a coincidence. I know Neymar is still looking for you. And I know you can take care of yourself, but still, I wanted to help.”

“Because you’re a generous guy.”

Robin either didn’t notice Saint’s sarcasm or decided to let it slide. “Because we’re friends,” he said slowly in a measured tone. “I tricked them to go after Evanoff; told them he was working with you. If they found Evanoff, he’d lead them to you. I got them off your back, at least for a while. And they helped me, in a way, find and capture Evanoff.” His voice took a tone of self-satisfaction.

Saint nodded at Robin’s grinning face. He truly knew how to manipulate people and events to his advantage. “Makes sense,” Saint said quietly. “But I’m not sure the uranium is in Bratislava.”

“It doesn’t matter where it is. One way or another, he’ll tell us where it is. We’ll make him.” His voice turned cold, emotionless, and razor-sharp.

Chapter Three

Robin’s Safehouse

Southern Outskirts

Bratislava, Slovakia

“I don’t care where your intel came from,” Evanoff said in a huff. He glared at Robin, then turned to Saint. “You know I’m not stupid to bring the stash with me. And we hadn’t concluded the deal. We were still in nego—”

“You took my deposit, then you doubled the price.” Robin wagged a finger at Evanoff.

“Circumstances changed. I have to pay more to get the shipment across—”

“That’s your problem.” Robin cut him off.

Evanoff shook his head. “We can’t do business if you’re—”

“We’re no longer in business. Hand over the uranium, or your death will be extremely painful.”

“Woah, woah, woah, not so fast!” Saint said in a loud voice. “I want to hear his side of the story.” He eyed Evanoff, who was standing by the window, at roughly the same distance from Saint and Robin. “Why did you change your mind? You pocketed the money from Robin and promised him the material. What happened?”

Evanoff sighed and rubbed his chin. He tightened his jaw, then exhaled heavily. “We hadn’t agreed on a final price, although I did promise Mr. Smith that he’d be receiving the shipment barring any unforeseen circumstances. You must remember that?” Evanoff turned to Robin and took a step closer to him. “I can show you the messages we exchanged. I told you specifically about unforeseen—”

“Yes, yes, you did.” Robin cut him off with an impatient hand gesture for Evanoff to move along. “But doubling the price isn’t unforeseen. It’s greed.”

Evanoff opened his mouth, but Saint said, “You have another client, don’t you?”

The Russian didn’t reply right away. “I might. It’s still in the negotiating stage—”

“Russian snake.” Robin blurted out. “Everything is in negotiation with you.”

“The buyer,” Saint said in a firm voice. “Who is it?”

“I’ve promised not to tell.” Evanoff shook his head and looked down at the floor.

“Break that promise. Like you broke the promise to me,” Robin shouted.

“Who is it?” Saint asked again.

Evanoff hesitated another long moment. He furrowed his eyebrows, while his lips were pressed together in a tight line. He shifted his body weight from one leg to the other, before saying, “I’ll be in so much trouble if I tell you—”

“You’re already in so much trouble.” Saint jumped to his feet. “If you don’t tell us the truth, the whole truth, right now, then I’ll hand you over to Robin. He’ll pry the truth—and the nuclear material—out of you. You understand me?”

“I’ll do it with a lot of pleasure,” Robin said in a cutting voice and gave Evanoff an unblinking, piercing look.

Evanoff’s eyes flitted from Saint’s face to the floor to Robin’s face. He turned around and shook his head, while running both his hands through his hair. Then he cursed out loud and turned around. “Fine, fine, okay. They’ll kill me for this, especially if I don’t deliver them the uranium.”

“Who are they?” Saint asked.

Evanoff looked at Saint and said, “It’s the new government of Syria.”

“What? No way!” Robin said and stood up. He pointed at Evanoff with a stretched arm and shouted, “You’re lying, you scumbag!”

“Why would I do that?” Evanoff shrugged. “You asked for the truth; I’m telling you the truth.”

Robin stepped closer to Evanoff, but Saint got between them. “Calm down.” He put his right hand toward Robin, to stop him from getting any closer and turned to Evanoff. “We need to see the evidence, proof to back up your claim.”

“Of course. My phone has the exchange of messages. It’s clear, and it’s all there.”

“Why does the Syrian government want uranium?” Robin asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? To make a nuclear bomb,” Evanoff replied.

Robin gave Evanoff a sharp, predatory gaze. “I know that. What I’m asking is why now? They’re just getting back into the West’s good graces. Why would they jeopardize everything by wanting a nuclear bomb?”

Saint nodded. “Yes, and wait until Israel finds out about it.”

Evanoff sighed and leaned closer to Saint. “I inquired about it, and this is what I was told in plain terms: Two reasons. First, stronger deterrence. Second, better relationship with Iran.”

“Who’s your contact?”

“An advisor to the chief of the restructured GIS, the General Intelligence Service. Tarek al-Assad. No relation to the previous Syrian leader.”

Saint nodded. “Syria is a mess.”

“That’s an understatement,” Robin said.

Evanoff’s frown deepened. “We agree on something.”

After the fall of Bashar al-Assad, the interim government was composed of former terrorists claiming to be reformed. The first de facto Syrian leader, Ahmed Al-Sharaa—formerly known by his nom de guerre, Abu Mohammad al-Jolani—had been on the United States most wanted list for many years for terrorist activities. The US had placed a $10 million bounty on the leader but decided to remove it after al-Jolani’s climb to power.

At that time, US officials claimed that it was “incoherent” to negotiate with someone on a US wanted-terrorist list. Apparently, removing someone from the list automatically made them a potential partner for ensuring peace and stability in a country devastated by decades of a brutal dictatorial regime and civil war and unrest.

The current situation was slightly better. Syria had been carved up into areas of influence among its neighbors. Türkiye had increased its involvement in the Kurdish-dominated areas in northern Syria. The new General Intelligence Service chief had enjoyed a close relationship with Turkish government officials and their protection ever since he was a member of a designated terrorist group. Their year-long clandestine cooperation had now turned official.

On the other hand, Israel had decided to use brutal force. It had carried out a massive bombing campaign, targeting the Syrian’s army weapons warehouses and infrastructure. Then, Israeli troops had moved into the buffer zone separating Golan Heights occupied by Israel from the rest of Syria.

Quite often, Israeli drones attacked what were described as “legitimate targets,” including convoys of the new Syrian government and locally-appointed officials. Under the guise of protecting their country’s security interests, Israeli forces were trying to counterbalance Türkiye’s efforts, as well as renewed Iraqi and Iranian interests in the new Syria. Moreover, a number of militia groups were still active in some parts of Syria, adding to the overall chaos and unrest.

Saint gave Robin a thoughtful look, followed by a nod. “I can see why the Syrians would want a bomb. They may be years away from obtaining it, but the attempt shows they’re serious. It indicates their clear intention to their enemies, as well as potential black-market sellers.”

“Exactly.” Evanoff gestured with his hand. “They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. An offer I knew you couldn’t match.” He looked at Robin. “So I have to deliver the uranium. Otherwise, they’ll kill me.”

Robin shrugged and stepped closer to Evanoff before pointing an index finger at him. “If you don’t give me the uranium, you don’t have to worry about the Syrians. I will be the one killing you.”

Before Evanoff could say anything, Saint held his arm out, stopping Robin from coming any closer to Evanoff. “He heard you, loud and clear. Threatening him isn’t going to make him change his mind.”

“Well, then it’s time I stop talking and start acting,” Robin said with frustration. He furrowed his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes at Saint. Robin’s facial muscles were tight, and his nostrils flared subtly. “That will make you change your mind.” He tipped his head toward Evanoff.

The Russian’s eyes remained sharp and unwavering, locked in a fierce stare that clearly challenged Robin and his assertion. Evanoff’s thin lips were curled into a subtle smirk, as if he was about to say: Try me. Instead, Evanoff said, “Saint, before you make a decision, there’s one more thing you need to know. It has to do with Neymar and his two assassins, sent to eliminate you.”

Saint’s face twisted in surprise. He gave the Russian a wide-eyed look. Saint wasn’t expecting Evanoff to know about his unfinished business with Neymar. But it made sense, since the two hitmen had been going after Evanoff. “What do you know about that?”

Evanoff shrugged. “I’d rather we talk in private, without any threats or interference.” He cocked his head toward Robin.

“Absolutely not!” Robin shouted. “You can’t trust his lies, Saint. He’ll poison—”

Saint held out a hand. “What do I do when you’re not around?” he asked Robin in a sarcastic tone. “How do I survive when you’re not around to stop my mind from being poisoned?”

“This is a bad idea.” Robin shook his head, and his eyes lost their brightness. He blinked slowly and pressed his lips together.

“Why don’t you let me decide that? Give us a minute.” Saint cocked his head toward the door. “This shouldn’t take long.”

Robin opened his mouth and seemed he wanted to object to Saint’s request. But then he shrugged, shook his head again, and headed out of the room.

When he had closed the door behind him, Saint peered deep into Evanoff’s eyes and said, “All right. Now tell me everything.”

Evanoff took a couple of steps away from Saint and stood by the window. “Okay, let’s go back to Belarus. After what happened there, I was sure you’d be coming for me, or at least for the uranium. For ten million dollars, even the devil would put on a suit and take the job.”

“I’m not here for the money. I don’t want that nuclear material to fall into the wrong hands.”

Evanoff shrugged. “It’s the wrong hands if it’s not the hands I want to shake. “But I don’t discriminate when it comes to my clients.”

He waved his hand. “Let’s go back to my story. I knew you’d hear about me, so I started to actively look for you.”

“To kill me?”

“Of course not, Saint. It was to protect myself, to make sure I was one step ahead of danger. That’s how I learned about your problems with Neymar—”

Saint cut him off. “I have no problems with him; he has problems with me.”

“Still, I heard Neymar was trying to find you and eliminate you. I thought if I followed his assassins, sooner or later they’d lead me to you. And they did.”

Saint nodded slowly. He was tempted to tell the Russian what Robin had told him. It was an interesting turn of events, and both men’s stories made sense.

Evanoff continued, “So I found the hitmen, well, you could say they found me. They threatened to kill me if I didn’t get into the trunk of their car. I didn’t, so they came after me. I think you know the rest of the story.”

“Okay,” Saint said. “But I don’t see how this helps me make a decision about you, the uranium, and the Syrians?”

“Here’s how it could work, Saint: You’ll convince Robin to let me deliver the uranium to Damascus, and I’ll convince al-Assad to get rid of Neymar on your behalf.”

Saint’s mouth fell open. He gave Evanoff a dazed look and jerked his head back. “Really? You have that much clout with the intel chief?”

“My contact, the advisor, is al-Assad’s righthand man. If I can convince him, he’d be able to persuade al-Assad. Especially if we can deliver the uranium in the next twenty-four hours.”

Saint gave the Russian an intense look. His proposal sounded too good to be true. “How much of this is because you want to get me off your back?”

“All of it.” Evanoff smile. “This is about survival, Saint.”

“And this isn’t an ambush?”

“No, it’s a proposal. Barakat—that’s the advisor’s name, Nabil Barakat—he may not accept the deal. And of course, I’d have to drop the price.” He gave Saint a resigned look, lifting his eyebrows slightly. A mild concession shone brightly in his eyes. “Five million dollars, even ten, is a fair price to have my life back. Of course, you’ll help me with my Robin situation, and you and I will be even.”

Saint took a few moments to process Evanoff’s proposal. It wasn’t a bad deal, provided everything went according to plan.

He walked to the Russian and whispered to him, “There’s one problem though: Robin. He gains nothing from our deal.”

Evanoff nodded. “That’s when you come in. I’m sure you can convince him to take the deal.”

Saint cocked his head and frowned. “I wouldn’t be so sure about it. He’s dead set on having the uranium.”

“Maybe there’s something else he wants; something else he can agree to, a favor.”

Saint shook his head. “I’m tired of doing favors.”

“Better tired than dead, my friend.” Evanoff grinned.

“Aren’t you a genius.”

The Russian didn’t return the jab. He tipped his head toward the door and said, “Only one way to find out…”

Chapter Four

Robin’s Safehouse

Southern Outskirts

Bratislava, Slovakia

“In this scenario, everyone gets what they want, but me. I’m the only one that ends up empty-handed.” Robin didn’t hide the frustration in his voice as he dropped heavily into the armchair. His narrowed eyes flitted between Saint’s and Evanoff’s face. The Russian was sitting on the straight back chair closest to the door, while Saint was standing by the TV.

Saint said, “True. You wouldn’t get the uranium, but—”

Robin interrupted him with a quick flick of his wrist. “This isn’t about a package, Saint. it’s about my person, my reputation. If word starts to get out that I can’t deliver on my promises, I’m finished. You know without a good reputation in our business—in any business for that matter—we’re nothing.”

“I understand, Robin—”

“No you don’t, otherwise you wouldn’t take his side.”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m looking out for my own interest. Evanoff’s proposal is the solution to my Neymar situation.” He motioned with his hand toward the door. “His assassins are always breathing down my neck. Next time, I may not be as lucky. That’s why I don’t want to gamble on a ‘next time’.”

“You don’t have to. I can arrange for Neymar to be dealt with.”

Saint shook his head. “We both know you don’t have the resources or the connections to make that happen. If you did, you’d have done so.”

Robin cursed under his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, then gripped the back of his neck.

“It’s true,” Saint said. “You may not like it, but that’s the reality. And it’s true Evanoff doesn’t have the manpower either. That’s why I must rely on someone else who can make this happen.”

“And you think you can trust the Syrian snakes?”

“I’m willing to talk to them and see what they say. But in order to do that, I need your consent.”

“My consent to be played for a fool.”

“You’re exaggerating. You can spin this situation to your favor. You’re still being offered a great deal. I’m going to Syria one way or the other. If they agree to help me, I can do something for you while I’m going there or when I’m in Damascus. Maybe there’s someone or something that needs to go down there. Or I can bring someone or something out. Or…” His voice trailed off as he didn’t want to complete the thought.

“Or?” Robin locked eyes with Saint.

“Or I can eliminate someone in Syria,” Saint said, immediately regretting his offer.

Robin’s eyes sparked with a mix of intrigue and suspicion. “Now that’s something I can work with, if that’s a real offer.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because there’s not much time to arrange things. But give me a few hours to ask around and see if I can find something.”

Saint nodded and looked at Evanoff. “What’s our timeline?”

“They wanted it yesterday, but a day or two wouldn’t be a dealbreaker. Especially now that we’re offering different terms.”

“If they don’t agree, this isn’t happening. And Robin, you’ll get the shipment.” Saint looked at Evanoff. “That’s part of this deal.”

Evanoff nodded, then his lips formed a small smile. “The Syrians will accept. I’m convinced about it,” he said in a strong, confident voice.

“You've done business with them before, haven’t you?” Robin asked.

Evanoff smirked. “I’m not one to… what’s the expression… yes, tell about kiss.”

“You mean ‘kiss and tell?’”

“Yes.”

“Well, one doesn’t start with a ten-million deal.”

“Twenty, thank you very much.”

Robin let out a small gasp. “You weren’t joking when you said they were paying you double.”

“I don’t joke when twenty million dollars are at stake.”

Robin exhaled sharply. “So, now I have to figure out what I want…”

“Within reason,” Saint said in a cold tone. “Remember this is Syria; we’re limited in terms of time and manpower. It’s just the two of us.”

Robin leaned in. “You have the support of the entire Syrian intel agency—”

“If they choose to be involved. However, if your task involves something that is against their interest, they won’t help. Instead, they’ll try to stop us.”

Robin leaned in slightly, his gaze sharpening as a slow, knowing grin tugged at the corner of his lips. He pressed his fingertips together, forming a deliberate steeple, a gesture of calculation rather than patience. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous mischief, a spark of something unspoken—something lethal. “I have an idea, but let me check with a couple of people. I should have an answer for you by tomorrow morning.”

Saint didn’t like Robin’s silky tone, measured and laced with quiet greed. But he had to accept the fact that this might be the cost of doing business. If I can make this work, that means I won’t owe Evanoff or Robin anything. And I would have dealt with Neymar once and for all. He nodded at Robin, then motioned toward Evanoff. “Well, then we have a deal. Evanoff will be in my custody until I hear from you.”

The Russian began to shake his head. “If I can be trusted as a partner in this deal—”

“No!” Saint and Robin shouted at the same time.

Robin said to Saint, “He should stay here.”

“It’s better if he comes with me.”

“Do you not trust me?” Robin asked in a gruff tone as if Saint’s words had caused him insult.

Saint waved his hand toward the Russian. “I don’t trust him. He may say or do something to provoke you into… let’s say… doing something we all will regret.”

Evanoff’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not a two-year old so don’t treat me like one.”

“And I’m not easily provoked into overreacting.”

Saint sighed. “The recent events have proven both of you wrong. But think about it: You’re at odds on this deal and would rather not work with one another. Frankly, I need to make sure you don’t kill each other.”

Robin’s lips pressed tight into a grimace. “Well, that’s good to know.”

“I guess we need to thank you, then?” Evanoff asked.

Saint shrugged and stood up. “If you think it’s necessary. Let’s go now. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Robin gave Saint a frustrated shake of the head, but stood up nonetheless. “What are you going to do with Neymar’s men?”

Saint thought a brief moment about his reply. He had thought about interrogating them to check if their story matched what Robin had told him. But he wouldn’t lie about something so obvious that would take only a few seconds to check. I still need to find out the entire truth about Robin’s involvement in this affair.

“I don’t see the point in talking to them and wasting my time. I know they’re here to kill me. And soon, I’ll get rid of Neymar.”

“We can’t let them go.”

“Can you handle them? Or is it better if Evanoff takes care of them?”

Robin shook his head. “No, of course, I can ‘handle’ them,” he said in a prideful tone. “I don’t need his help.”

“Good, then. Call me as soon as you can.”

“Absolutely.”

Saint nodded at Robin, then looked at Evanoff. “Let’s go.”

The Russian’s face turned tight and dark. He shook his head but couldn’t do much else.

“I’ll talk to you soon.” Saint shook hands with Robin, who just nodded.

“Where are we going?” Evanoff asked as they walked through the apartment complex’s hallway. One of Robin’s guards kept watch, standing by the apartment’s door.

Saint didn’t answer. He didn’t want the guard to overhear. He waited until they were outside the building, then looked at Evanoff, who was a couple of feet behind him. “My hotel is a five-minute drive away. We’ll go get the SUV. Where’s the uranium?”

Evanoff grinned. “In a safe place.”

“When do you need to get it?”

“When we hear from your friend.”

“Huh.” Friend, Saint thought. Friends don’t drag friends at gunpoint. “Anything you need to do right away? Arrangements for Syria?”

Evanoff shook his head. “I’m waiting for a call.” He tapped his chest, where his phone was in his left-side pocket.

“That thing has a tracker?”

“No.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

“Still, I want to check.”

“Do you not trust me?”

“This isn’t about trust; it’s about survival. My survival. If someone is coming after you, that means they’re also coming after me.”

“Nobody is coming after me.”

“Really? And what about Robin?”

Evanoff shrugged. “I handled it, didn’t I?”

Saint shook his head. “It isn’t handled yet. And depending on what he says, we may not have a deal.” He gestured for Evanoff to walk in front of him.

The Russian reluctantly began to lead the way through a narrow back alley.

I’ve got to check his phone, Saint thought. Make sure it’s clean. He might have a tracking device just to make sure his cronies know where he is at all times. His head swung around as he covered all angles and corners. Nothing suspicious but after what had taken place in the last few minutes, he knew anything could happen…

Chapter Five

Southern Outskirts

Bratislava, Slovakia

Saint’s rental SUV Škoda Kamiq was still at the location where he had parked it. There were no signs of the police or anyone else roaming around. Still, Saint waited for a couple of minutes and searched the area, to be a hundred percent sure before they got into the vehicle.

He drove slowly through the neighborhood, looking over his shoulder and in the rearview mirror for anyone following them. It didn’t happen, but it was always a possibility. Saint took the scenic route, and they arrived at his hotel twenty minutes later.

He hadn’t planned for a guest, so he was forced to book another room, a suite this time. “This comes out of your pocket. I’m sure you can afford it,” he whispered to Evanoff and slid a fake ID across the counter with the name Mitch Allon.

Once they got to their room, Saint asked for Evanoff’s number, then demanded his phone. Of course, the Russian objected to the demand. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. We have a deal. Why would I put that at risk?”

“Freedom. I’m sure you want to do things your way.”

“I already got what I want.”

“Maybe, but still I’m taking no chances.”

Once he had turned off the Russian’s phone, Saint escorted him to the bedroom. “Don’t try anything,” he told Evanoff.

“Like what? Escape out of a seventh-floor window?”

“Just don’t make me regret it.” Saint looked around the bedroom and checked the window. No ledges outside. Evanoff would have to turn into a bird and fly out of the bedroom.

“And what am I supposed to do here?” He crossed his arms stiffly over his chest.

“Read these.” Saint handed him a couple of newspapers he had grabbed from a stand by the reception. “There should be a Bible in the drawer.”

“I’m not a religious guy. You know, with what I do and all.”

“Never too late to start.”

Evanoff cocked his head. “Are you telling me you’re a believer?”

Saint nodded. “Some days more than others.”

“And how do you justify killing for a living?”

“I don’t. I only kill bad people, who deserved it. I ask for forgiveness.”

“And is it working?”

Saint shrugged. “Sometimes. Or you can watch TV, if today’s not a good day to seek God.”

Out in the living room, Saint pulled his laptop out of his go-bag and set up on the small desk in the corner across the window. He moved the furniture around so that he could see the bedroom door and the suite door at the same time. He didn’t expect Evanoff to attempt an escape, or his goons to try to free him, but Saint had to be prepared. He had been trained for such occasions. More importantly, he had been trained to kill.

First, Saint had graduated from the Canadian Forces School of Military Intelligence at the top of his class. He had received advanced training in weapons handling, field craft, and insertion and exfiltration tactics and strategies. Then, he had spent four years serving as an intelligence operator with the Canadian Army Intelligence Regiment. His job had consisted of assignments to some of the most volatile corners of the globe. He was often dispatched to develop and handle sources, secure sensitive intelligence, and assess and neutralize threats to his country. In short, Saint had been a spy with a license to kill.

Then had come Afghanistan and his fall from grace. Saint had been forced to leave the army with an honorable discharge. However, his bosses had made it clear that his days in the service were over. No one liked a “rogue operative,” as they had nicknamed him. It was one of the mildest terms they had used. His file included several warnings, where Saint had been called “rebellious; having continuous problems with authority and trouble in following clear and direct orders.” I’m not following orders that violate my conscience or simple human decency. We’re not in this country to become butchers; otherwise, we’re no better than our enemy. His bosses weren’t impressed, and just like that, he was out.

Shortly after the abrupt interruption of his military career, Saint had toyed with the idea of becoming a private military contractor. A mercenary’s pay was great, and the risk level was acceptable. But he had grown disillusioned with large corporations and organizations. He didn’t want to be tied down to an agency or even a boss. If there was a way that I could work for myself. Accept only those assignments I want, the ones I care about. Like a private detective, something like that, but different.

With money getting tight, initially, he had been forced to work low-level security jobs. He had graduated to protecting B-level celebrities, wasting his skills on socialites that offered nothing beneficial to society and treated him like an inconvenience. Then, he met a mysterious man who had offered him an assignment, which had completely changed the rest of his life.

Saint made coffee and thought about the last few words he had exchanged with Evanoff. Saint’s conscience was seared, as if with a hot iron, but once in a while, he realized it wasn’t the greatest of life and career choices. At times, he felt pangs of guilt about dispatching human beings, but shrugged them away with the rationalization that the end justified the means.

When he accepted a contract, Saint always did his due diligence. He made sure the target had done what he was being accused of and was, as far as Saint could tell, guilty. Of course, in his line of work, certainty was a fluid concept, but he did as much as he could. Saint even spent money to obtain intelligence or testimony about the target. He only accepted those contracts where he was convinced that the target was really a bad man who deserved to die.

But who am I to decide that? Why am I playing God? It’s true that these people have done horrible things and will do much more unless stopped. But what if they decide to change their ways? Even if they didn’t, why am I the executioner?

He shrugged as he glanced at the gurgling coffeemaker. He set his mouth in a firm line and shook his head. I’ve got to stop doing this and get out while I can. But not until I’ve taken down everyone in the assassins’ network. That’s the only way to ensure there will be no more threats to me or my family.

Saint smiled as he thought of Sarah, his four-year-old daughter. He saw her dimpled face, fair skin, and freckles, just like her mother, in his mind’s eye. Yes, I’ve got to do it for her. I don’t want Sarah growing up to be the daughter of a killer.

The coffee machine’s gurgling changed, indicating his coffee was ready. He filled a cup and returned to his desk. He entered the password in his laptop, then looked at the screen as the it came alive. What do I need to do first? Yes, let’s deal with Evanoff’s phone.

He scrolled through his phone’s log and found the number of Anastasia Turgeneva. She was a Russian hacker he had found on the dark web. Saint had used her a dozen or so times, and she had never disappointed him. The hacker was expensive, but very discreet, professional, and amazing. There was almost no network she couldn’t penetrate and no information she couldn’t find.

First, Saint activated his virtual private network, which masked his phone signal. He was using a brand-new phone he had purchased shortly after his arrival in Slovakia. The global roaming card was purchased in Austria. The line was as secure as Saint could make it.

Once the signal was masked, Saint dialed Turgeneva’s number. “Mr. Saint, it’s been a while,” she replied in English in her digitally manipulated voice. “How are you doing?” He still detected her soft accent, especially in how she pronounced the “w.”

“Things are okay. How about yourself?”

“Business is slow, so you called at a good time. What do you need today?”

“I have a couple of phone numbers. I need to know if one of them is currently being traced.”

“Okay, what is the number?”

Saint looked at the bedroom door and listened. A faint noise came, followed by what sounded like background music. He’s watching TV. He nodded and whispered the number to Turgeneva. “I also have the phone with me.” He looked at the phone sitting on the table, next to his coffee cup.

“Well, that makes it easy. Can you access it?”

“No, well, I could, but that would tip my hand.” He didn’t want to explain to Evanoff what he was doing and how. The Russian was already extremely suspicious.

“Okay. Can you glance at the home screen?”

“No, it’s locked. I need the PIN.”

“Is it unusually hot?”

Saint touched the phone. “No. And it’s turned off.”

“Turn it on and see if it gets hot. If it does, that could be a sign it’s transmitting data in the background.”

“Okay.” Saint held the power button, and the phone began to turn on.

“If you can’t detect anything unusual, remove the SIM card and see if there’s any change. Some spyware communicates through the SIM card.”

“I’ll do that.” He reached into his go-bag for a small metal pin. The phone was still turning on. “It’s taking a while.”

“There might be an update coming up. Worry about it only if it takes a few minutes and nothing happens.”

“Okay. Anything else I can do?”

“No, not unless you access it. Let me see what I can find at this end, and I’ll let you know, okay.”

“Good. And access his phone while you’re at it now that I’ve turned it on. I want to know especially about a deal with Syrian government officials,” he whispered as he looked at the bedroom door.

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Yes. Here’s the other phone number.” Saint gave her Robin’s phone number. “Hack into it, and get me a history of recent calls, emails, texts, everything. Go back a few weeks.”

“I can do that. A zero-click attack will work.”

Saint nodded. He was familiar with such attacks that didn’t require the victim to do anything. If Robin was a member in any chat groups that used text messages, like WhatsApp, it would be very easy to target him. Turgeneva would send a file, like a malicious PDF, masked like a harmless file, a schedule or an announcement. Robin’s phone would be infected instantaneously, and the installed spyware would leave little trace on his phone. Unless he or someone skilled was looking for it, Robin would be in the dark about the spyware and the fact that Saint would have complete access to all Robin’s communications.

If that didn’t work, Turgeneva might just give Robin a call. As long as he answered it—and most people would answer a call, even if they didn’t recognize the caller—that would be sufficient to trigger a hacking attack and plant a tracking device in Robin’s phone.

“Give me an hour or so,” the hacker said. “I should have something by then for sure.”

Saint nodded. “The phone is updating.”

“Getting hot?”

“No.”

“Well, if you notice something strange, call me. Or even better, talk to the owner and gain access.”

Saint nodded. “I might have to, if everything else fails.”

“Anything else?”

“That should be it for now. Call me as soon as you have something.”

“Certainly. Goodbye, Mr. Saint.”

“Have a good day, Ms. Turgeneva.”

Saint sighed and nursed his coffee. He waited until Evanoff’s phone had finished updating, then removed it’s SIM card. No changes to the phone, at least, none that he could see. He shrugged. Most likely, there’s no tracker. Otherwise, his goons would have been bursting through that door by now.

He took his Sig pistol out of the go-bag, stood up, and walked slowly to the apartment’s door. He listened for a long moment, then looked through the peephole. Nothing.

He returned to his table and thought about his next steps. He had to wait for an answer from Robin and also Turgeneva. Saint hated waiting and relying on others. But he couldn’t do much about it.

He thought again about his daughter Sarah and decided he wanted to talk to her. He reached for his phone and dialed her mother, Hannah Parsons, who had once been his girlfriend. Recently, they had rekindled their love, and Saint had promised to himself to be the greatest dad for his little girl. Time to make good on that promise, Saint.

Hannah didn’t answer, so he left a message, asking her to give him a call when she got a chance. “Nothing urgent, so take your time. I may be gone for a little while, a few days, so I may or may not answer. But please give our little girl a hug from me.”

He wondered if Hannah was in Graz, Austria, where she lived with their daughter, or if she had been dispatched into a mission abroad. Hannah worked as an Interpol agent. The last time Saint had met her had been in Egypt. She could be anywhere in the world, but she wouldn’t leave without telling me, would she?

He shrugged and decided to return to the operation he was about to start. He expected Robin would accept Saint’s proposal. Why did I offer that? he thought and shook his head with regret. Because it’s the only way I can get rid of Neymar and keep my family safe. But who would be the target?

He accessed a couple of files he kept on Robin and on Luthando Dlamini. Dlamini was the South African boss responsible for running assassinations across Africa. He was a crucial part of the assassin’s network Saint had discovered and had vowed to eliminate. Three bosses had been “liquidated,” and Dlamini was high on Saint’s list of the other four.

Is Robin somehow connected to him? If Robin wants someone eliminated in Syria, Dlamini will have to know about it. No high-profile target is killed anywhere in Africa without that brutal beast giving the nod of approval.

Saint shrugged. Once Turgeneva has gained access to Robin’s phone, I’ll have my answer. Either way, Dlamini is going down. And if Robin is somehow involved with that monster, Robin’s next.

Chapter Six

The Next Morning

Bratislava Palace Hotel

Bratislava, Slovakia

Robin’s call came at about six thirty. Saint had been up for over an hour and was scanning through Robin’s emails and text messages. As expected, Turgeneva had been successful in hacking his phone. “It was much more difficult than what I had imagined,” she confessed to Saint. “And I have to be careful, since he has a lot of software installed, which can detect me at any time and lock me out.”

Robin had told Saint the truth about his escape and what had happened afterwards. And there seemed to be no ties between Robin and the South African. Although Saint had only touched the surface of the megabytes of material the hacker had put on a secure server. Dlamini’s name would have come up, or one of his aliases. But there’s nothing. Of course, that didn’t mean Robin wasn’t caught up with someone who was working for the South African.

Saint let the phone ring a couple more times as he finished highlighting a couple of things on the document on the screen, then said, “Good morning, Robin.”

“Yes, Saint, how are you?” Robin asked cheerfully.

“Haven’t had my second cup of coffee yet, so ask me again in ten minutes.”

“Well, I’ve got something that will make your day better. I’ve got a deal for you.”

Saint frowned, although he had expected it. “Why do I have a feeling this will actually make my day worse, much worse?”

“Uh, because it could. I’ll be frank with you, Saint: Things will get worse before they get better. But they’ll get much better once Neymar is eliminated.”

Saint nodded. “Who is he?”

“His name is Omar Darwish.”

Darwish? His name didn’t ring a bell. Saint had read as much as he could find on the internet and the dark web about the Syrian intelligence agency, it’s personnel, and, specifically, Evanoff’s contact. However, Saint didn’t think he had ever seen Darwish’s name. “What does he do?”

“He’s a high government official.”

“How high?”

Robin hesitated for a moment. “Quite high.”

Saint’s frown grew deeper. “Just tell me, Robin.”

“He’s the upcoming interior minister.”

“What?” Saint’s mouth dropped slightly while his eyes widened instantly. He was blindsided by the bad news and shook his head in disbelief. He stared at the phone, but his gaze was unfocused. His shoulders stiffened. “Why not the president as well, since I’m there anyway?”

“It’s not that bad—”

“Not that bad? Really, Robin?”

“You’ll have a team, Saint. And Darwish isn’t a minister yet, so his security isn’t tight. Yet. So we have a short timeframe to act, and we have to act now!”

“Who is ‘we?’ Who wants Darwish dead?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.” Robin’s voice turned firm and cold.

“What can you tell me, then?” He raked one hand through his hair.

“I can tell you that he was a terrorist, as were many current and former government ministers and advisors. He deserves to die, Saint, for many, many crimes against innocent Syrians and westerners. I’ll send you his complete file so you can make an informed decision.”

Saint drew in a deep breath. “You mentioned a team…”

“Yes, I’ll handpick my best men and provide safe infil and exfil, transportation, and weapons.”

Saint nodded. That’s good news, if I can trust them. “How does it need to be done?”

“It’s up to you. Considering the location, a car bomb would be fine. A drone attack. Whatever works.”

“And when?”

“Again up to you, but the sooner, the better. Darwish is expected to be appointed minister next week. So you have three days.”

“Seventy-two hours? That’s not enough time.” Saint’s voice was tight.

“It’s all you’ve got. Once he becomes minister, he’ll be untouchable.”

“I’m not a magician, Robin, or a miracle-worker. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill target. Does the client know what they’re asking?”

“Yes, and they know who they’re asking it from: the absolute best.”

Saint snorted. “Flattery isn’t going to work. I actually don’t think this is going to work.”

“You’ll have to make it work, Saint. This is the deal.”

“And what do you get as part of this deal?”

“I give up more than I get. I lose the uranium, remember? And my reputation has taken a hit.”

I’m sure you’ll be just fine. “I was asking about this particular deal, the assassination…”

“A favor. For a friend.”

“Some important friend.”

“You can say that.”

“What else do I need to know?”

“Everything will be in the file. Potential team members, infil and exfil locations, the works. And if I get any new intel, I’ll update you.”

“Where’s the target currently?”

“Outskirts of Damascus, but he could become mobile at any time.”

“Anyone have eyes on him?”

“Yes, but not at all times. Like I said, all details are in the file.”

Saint sighed. “All right. Send it over, and I’ll review it. I’ll call you in the next hour or so if I decide to accept it.”

“It’s a great deal, Saint, and I know—”

“Great deal for whom?”

“Both of us.”

“Uh, I don’t know about that. I’m the one risking my life.”

“Think about it for a while. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. I’ll send the file right away.”

Saint ended the call and reached for his coffee cup. He found it empty, so he decided to make another pot. He had just gotten up, when Evanoff stepped out of the bedroom and gave Saint a curious look. “You look like crap.”

“Good morning to you too,” Saint replied gruffly.

The Russian looked worn down after his bad night’s sleep. His puffy eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and his face was drawn. His hair was tousled, sticking up in odd directions. Evanoff’s shoulder sagged under the weight of fatigue. “Did you sleep at all? You have this exhausted look, and you look as pale as a ghost…”

“I couldn’t sleep. Someone snoring kept waking me up.”

Evanoff shrugged. “You could have shut my door.”

Saint had left it open so he could keep an eye on the Russian. He couldn’t trust him, even though he had vowed more than once that he wasn’t going to try to escape. At least, his phone wasn’t being traced. Turgeneva had confirmed that much to Saint after she had hacked into the Russian’s phone. And she had sent him a treasure trove of Evanoff’s documents, emails, texts, audio recordings, and images. He was telling the truth about his deal with the Syrians. “I’m going to make coffee.” He walked to the small kitchen corner. “Want some?”

“Sure.” The Russian said and disappeared into the bathroom.

Saint started the coffeemaker and checked his phone. Robin still hadn’t sent the file. Am I making a fatal mistake here? He thought. How am I supposed to execute this political assassination? And who’s pulling the strings here?

He felt his chest tightening. I’m stepping into a trap, an ambush disguised as an opportunity. He shook his head and flexed his fingers repeatedly. Darwish’s elimination could ignite a political powder keg with devastating consequences. And not just for Syria, but for the entire region. I need to know what they might be. And more importantly, have at least two clear, reliable exits.

Evanoff came out of the washroom. “Did we hear from our friend, Robin?”

Saint nodded. “Yes, he’s offering us a deal.”

“By the tone of your voice and the look on your face, I can tell it’s bad news.”

Saint looked at the coffeemaker and took his cup. “Your coffee is next.”

“Will you tell me what he wants?” Evanoff folded his arms across his chest. His shirt was wrinkled as he had slept in it. He had tried to fix his hair while in the washroom, but he still looked disheveled.

“No.”

“Why not? I can help.”

“I don’t want you to know.”

Evanoff’s face tightened as if he had been insulted. He clenched his jaw for a moment, then said, “If we’re working together, we need to start trusting each other. You’ve got to tell me everything about—”

“No, I don’t.” Saint cut him off with a hand gesture. “I’ll tell you only what you need to know, and this, this you don’t need to know.” He replied in a gruff tone.

“This isn’t just about your life. Whoever Robin wants you to kill down there is a threat to me as well.”

Saint shrugged. “You can choose to go to Damascus on your own. That was your initial plan after all.”

Evanoff smirked. “That was before Robin and you came on the scene. Now, things are different. On that topic, I need my phone.”

Why? There’s nothing new, Saint almost said. Turgeneva had paired his phone with Evanoff’s, so Saint would receive in real-time any and all of the Russian’s communications. During the night, there had been a handful of text messages and a couple of emails, but nothing that really mattered or that was related to Saint’s situation.

One thing that was still unclear was the uranium’s location. A few of the text communications were in Russian, others in Arabic. Saint had used an artificial intelligence translator, but still hadn’t figured out where Evanoff had stashed the eleven-pound cache of Uranium-235. At least three text messages said it was somewhere “near, or “within reach,” but Saint wasn’t certain what that meant.

“Why? What has changed?” Saint feigned curiosity and cocked his head toward the coffee table. “Your phone’s there. I’ll get it.” He didn’t want Evanoff to catch a glimpse of what was displayed on his laptop’s screen.

“I don’t know; that’s why I want to check.”

“Here you go.” Saint handed Evanoff his phone. “And your coffee should be ready,” he added over the coffeemaker’s sputtering indicating the end of the brewing cycle. “Now, where’s the nuclear material?”

Evanoff didn’t look at Saint, but entered his passcode and began to tap the screen. “It’s close by.”

“What does that mean? Where exactly? How close?”

“Close enough. We’ll have it ready when we leave. Which is… when, by the way?”

Saint sipped his coffee and cocked his head toward a cup at the other end of the small counter. “That’s yours. And I don’t know yet when or if we’re leaving.”

Evanoff’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “No?”

“I told you I haven’t decided yet.”

“I can help you if you tell me what Robin wants…”

“I don’t want your help.”

Evanoff shrugged. He typed something quickly on his phone, then reached for his coffee.

Saint stepped closer to the coffee table and picked up his phone. He entered his PIN and glanced at the screen. It showed a copy of Evanoff’s phone. He had opened his WhatsApp and had sent a quick message in Russian. Saint copied the message and pasted it on the AI translator. The Russian had typed: Don’t know yet when we’re leaving. I hope soon. Be ready.

We’re ready. Where are you?

Saint stood up straighter. He had told Evanoff their location had to remain secret. You can’t tell your minions. The Russian had agreed. “Everything okay?” Saint’s gaze bore into the Russian.

“Yes, why?”

“You look anxious.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

We’re… we’re close. I will give you the exact location, if it becomes necessary, Evanoff typed back his reply.

Saint nodded to himself. Evanoff’s walking a tightrope. I’ve got to keep an eye on him, though, make sure he doesn’t tell them.

Okay, Boss, someone named Pavel responded to Evanoff.

The Russian put the phone away, picked up his cup, and walked to Saint, who was sitting at the coffee table. “Now what?” he asked as he sat heavily on the beige armchair across from Saint.

“Now, I’ve got to think. And I need some peace and quiet to do that.”

“I can leave, if you prefer.” The Russian grinned.

“No, but sit there and be quiet. Or watch TV. But leave the phone here.”

“You still don’t trust me?”

Saint gave Evanoff a look of surprise. “I thought we have already established that. We’re stuck working together, but we don’t trust each other. We don’t even have to like each other, as long as we can make it work.”

Evanoff nodded. “That’s all I want: for this deal to work.”

“Then stop bugging me with nonsense talk about trust. All we need to do is make sure we get in safely, deliver the nuclear material, and get out of there all in one piece.”

The Russian shrugged. “You need to get some sleep. It will help your mood.”

“My mood is fine.” Saint’s voice rose up in anger.

“I can surely see that,” Evanoff replied calmly.

Saint drew in a deep breath and shook his head. The Russian was getting on his nerves. Saint flared his nostrils and opened his mouth, but then decided it was a waste of time. Instead, he looked at his laptop and checked his email. Nothing. No new message from Robin. Where is that file?

He checked his phone, but there were no text messages there either.

Saint twisted his lips slightly, then took a sip from his coffee. He allowed for a few seconds to pass, while ignoring Evanoff’s piercing look, then said, “Have you made flight arrangements?”

“Not yet. Once I know you’re on board with this.”

“How were you planning to get in?”

Evanoff hesitated for a moment. He said nothing but gave Saint a blank look of indifference.

“It will help me make a decision,” Saint said impatiently.

“Syrian government jet. They have diplomatic protection, so it should be easy.”

“And why aren’t they just taking the nuclear material from here in Bratislava? Or in a neighboring country, Poland or Hungary?”

Evanoff nodded. “I suggested that, but this is how they want it done.”

“Did it ever occur to you that this may be a trap? That you’re never leaving Syria alive?”

“Of course.” The Russian didn’t even flinch. “This isn’t the first deal I’ve concluded with hostile clients.”

“And you’re still going through with it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me why.” Saint looked very attentively at Evanoff.

“Because I’m worth more to them alive rather than dead. You can’t make a bomb with only the shipment I’m sending them. They’ll need at least 50 kg for a crude bomb, more if you don’t know what you’re doing. Plus, my uranium is enriched to 80 percent. Almost ready for a bomb, but not quite there. The Syrians need to enrich it to about 90 percent, before they can actually use it.”

Saint nodded. “You’ve promised them more, then…”

“You’ve got it. More uranium and the technology. This isn’t about just a one-time deal. It’s about a long-term relationship. So the Syrians have no reason to kill me.”

“But they have no reason to spare me.”

Evanoff nodded. “You may be right. That’s why we need to work together. I know you hate the T-word, but we must trust each other. Otherwise, one of us may not make it out of Syria alive.” The Russian’s eyes flickered with an evil look.

Saint nodded again. “If I suspect you’re betraying me, I’m going to kill you,” he said matter-of-factly in an emotionless voice.

Evanoff’s jaws tightened. “I’m not going to betray you, Saint. But I make no promises about the Syrians. They’re beyond paranoid.”

“Well, it’s in your own best interest to convince them we’re partners. Otherwise, Robin is coming after you. And whatever future deals you’re planning with your Syrian friends, you’re not going to live long enough to enjoy them.”

Evanoff nodded. “Exactly my point. We both need one another to survive. It is better if we work together rather than undermining each other.”

“We are doing that,” Saint said in a calm voice. “But you will have to tell me everything that’s going on.”

“And will you do the same?” The Russian asked dubiously.

Saint didn’t reply right away. He sipped his coffee, then leaned forward and pointed an index finger at Evanoff. “You need me for your deal to happen. I don’t need you for mine.”

“That might be true,” Evanoff conceded. “But whatever it is you’re doing for Robin, your chances of survival will improve if we work together.”

Saint shook his head. Not only could he not trust Evanoff as far as he could throw him, but the identity of Saint’s target was very problematic. He was an upcoming minister in the government of Syria, the same government purchasing the uranium cache from Evanoff. If I tell him, it’s not going to end well for me. “I’ll take my chances,” he said slowly in a firm tone. “But I expect you to hide nothing from me.”

Evanoff shrugged and put down his coffee mug on the table. “It’s a one-sided deal, Saint. And it’s not going to work.”

Saint’s jaw was set tight as he bit back sharp words he knew wouldn’t change a thing. His eyes burned with frustration and disappointment. He sighed and decided not to press this matter any further. The Russian was dead set against divulging any information. It doesn’t matter that much because I have full access to your phone.

He exhaled through his nose—long, slow, controlled, the sound of someone forcing themselves to accept what they can’t change. Saint returned to his laptop as he thought again about the target of his upcoming assassination. As much as he didn’t like it, he knew he had no choice but to accept Robin’s offer.

Saint checked his email and saw the file from Robin. He downloaded it and immersed himself in reviewing every single detail. The Russian sat across from him, frowning and checking the news on his phone. Saint ignored him and spent the next hour analyzing the assignment, weighing the pros and the cons of the proposed assassination.

Finally, he nodded to himself and a smile stretched across his face. He had made a decision, and he was comfortable with it. I will get this done, for me and my family. He reached for his phone and dialed Robin’s number.

Chapter Seven

Robin’s Safehouse

Southern Outskirts

Bratislava, Slovakia

“Yes. He completely fell for it.” Robin smiled in self-satisfaction and pumped his fist in a victory gesture. “Saint accepted the deal,” he said as he leaned closer to the phone he had set on the coffee table.

“When is he leaving?” asked the CIA operative at the other end of the line.

“ASAP. He’s going with the Russian, and they’re delivering the nuclear material.”

“We can’t let that happen.”

“I know, I know,” Robin said in an annoyed voice. He paced around the small room. “You don’t have to remind me. But that’s going to be difficult, almost impossible. Saint and Evanoff are going to be together at all times.”

“Well, we’ve got to separate them—”

“That’s not going to happen. Saint doesn’t trust the Russian; Saint doesn’t trust anyone. He’s not going to let Evanoff out of his sight.”

“That shipment can’t make it to Syria.”

Robin drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “We’ve gone over this once, Calder. In order for this deal to work, Saint has to go to Damascus. He’s not going if Evanoff is dead and if the shipment is gone. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“The part where you don’t follow orders.”

“I am following orders, but those that make sense.” Robin’s voice rose with anger. He threw up his hands and shook his head. “I did what I was told and convinced Saint to accept the assignment, your assignment.”

“Don’t make it sound like you did us a favor.”

“But I did do you a favor. If it were up to me, I would have taken the uranium.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Calder’s voice rang firm and with conviction. “You would still have the Saint problem. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy the money you’d be making from this deal.”

Robin cursed Calder under his breath. Every muscle in Robin’s face was tight with restrained fury. His narrow eyes burned with intensity as he stared at the phone. He didn’t want to admit it, but the CIA operative was right. Robin had asked for their help in dealing with Saint. However, for that deal to work, Robin should have convinced Saint to stop the Syrians from receiving the uranium. Robin knew Saint would never agree to that, so he had reached another deal on his own terms. “Listen, Calder,” Robin said after letting out a deep sigh of exhaustion. “We know exactly where Saint and the nuclear material are going. I told you: I planted tracking devices on both Saint and the Russian. There’s nothing to worry about.”

It was a lie, but Calder had no way of knowing that.

“Saint and Evanoff aren’t stupid. If they clue in to the trackers, we’ll lose the uranium. That won’t be good enough for my boss. And if that happens, our deal is off.”

The harsh furrow across Robin’s forehead deepened. He clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscles along the sides of his face twitched. “So what do you want me to do now?”

“What you should have done all along. Make sure you retrieve the uranium before it leaves Slovakia.”

“That would certainly cause Saint to change his mind.”

“Not necessarily. He may become more determined to find out who’s putting him in their sights,” Calder said convincingly. “We’ve reviewed his file: Saint responds well to pressure. If the Russian dies or the uranium disappears, Saint will have no less reason to handle his assignment properly.”

Robin pondered Calder’s suggestion. “Is this man, the target, worth your hassle?”

“Of course, he is. I gave you the reason. Isn’t it clear?”

Robin shrugged. He didn’t believe Calder’s explanation, but he couldn’t tell that to the CIA operative. “Okay. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Smart decision. If everything goes according to plan, the initial plan, Saint will be furious. He’ll go down to Syria never to come out again. So that will be the end of your worries. But in the unlikely scenario that Saint somehow pulls off a miracle, your deal with him is still good.”

Robin flinched. He didn’t like the latter scenario. If Saint was still alive, there was a chance that he’d learn about Robin’s betrayal. Robin shook his head. That can’t happen. “But if Saint is killed in Syria before he has handled the assignment—”

“That’s not your problem. We have a contingency plan in place, in case Saint fails to do his job.”

Robin wondered what that was and if Calder was telling the truth. He thought about pressing him for an answer but knew Calder wouldn’t tell him. “Okay. I’ll find the best moment to strike, then I’ll inform you of the result.”

“Very well, then. That’s all. And for your own sake, get it right this time.” Calder ended the call without another word.

Robin sneered and tightened his grip around the phone. What a self-important snob! He shook his head. This might blow up in my face, but I’ve got to try. Before they leave Slovakia—somewhere they’d least expect it, like the airport. If nothing else, I want to show Calder I gave it my best shot. He smirked. “Best” might be an exaggeration. Let’s just say I tried.

Five Hours Later

Bratislava Airport

Bratislava, Slovakia

Saint paced nervously outside the private jet terminal, then glanced at his phone. He shook his head, then turned to Evanoff, who was standing next to him. “Where is he?” he asked, referring to Barakat, the advisor to the chief of the Syrian intelligence services. “He’s thirty minutes late. What’s the hold-up?”

Evanoff gave him a sideways glance. “Do you want me to call him and complain? Teach him a lesson about being on time?”

Saint shrugged. He stepped closer to Evanoff and whispered, “I don’t like delays, especially without telling us. Delays almost always mean problems.”

“Relax. It’s all good, and there will be no problems.” Evanoff said and cocked his head toward a group of four Syrian diplomats sitting inside the terminal’s lounge. They were all dressed in dark suits with crisp white shirts but no ties. They had completed all the customs’ paperwork, which had gone without a hitch.

The container filled with the Uranium-235 was now in one of three silver, hardshell, titanium suitcases set next to Evanoff. They had been tagged as diplomatic pouches carrying official documents, and articles belonging to the Government of Syria. Slovakia and Syria were both signatory members of the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations. In agreement with this convention, the suitcases were excluded from any and all physical or electronic searches. An Embraer Legacy 600 jet belonging to the Syrian Arab Republic was sitting on the nearest apron, about eighty yards away. Two bodyguards dressed in gray suits were standing next to the lowered airstair. The pilots and the flight attendants were ready, and the plane had been cleared for take-off. The only person still missing was Barakat and his two bodyguards.

Evanoff then gestured toward the plane. “We’re ready. He should be here soon. And once he is, we’ll be airborne in minutes.”

Saint nodded, but his frown remained. He still didn’t like it, but he couldn’t do much about it. He ran his hand over his waistband holster. His Sig Sauer pistol was there, along with two extra magazines in the holster’s pouch. I hope I don’t have to use it, at least not here.

Evanoff had convinced Barakat to help Saint with his Neymar situation. At first, Barakat had been dismissive, then had changed his tune, claiming it would be impossible to use the Syrian intelligence agency to fight Saint’s “private war,” as he had called it. But the Russian was relentless and, eventually, Barakat had agreed to a deal.

He had promised to persuade his direct boss, al-Assad. True to his word, Barakat had called back about an hour later, confirming al-Assad was on board. Saint had some difficulty believing how quickly this deal had come together but had kept his doubts to himself. I just need to make sure I’m not stabbed in the back.

Saint thought about the team Robin had assembled for the assassination in Syria. There were three guys Saint had never met. However, he had heard of them, their reputation preceding them. And Robin had nothing but the most flattering words to describe them. “You’re very lucky to have them working with you, Saint,” he had said more than once.

Saint had shrugged. Robin was biased, but it was in his best interest for Saint’s mission to be accomplished. True, Saint’s life was on the line, but Robin wouldn’t set him up and send him into an ambush. Or would he?

The location of the exfiltration wasn’t the greatest. It was in the lawless lands near the border with Iraq. I can make it work, he had told himself. Once we’ve taken care of the target and have reached that location, we’re home free.

He kept pacing back and forth for another ten minutes, then two of the Syrians stepped out of the terminal. “Boss is coming,” said one of them, a bushy-mustached man in broken English. “We ready now.”

He cocked his head to the left just as a silver BMW SUV zipped through the open gate and headed toward the airplane. Evanoff walked over to the suitcases and picked the one carrying the uranium. The two Syrians took the others.

Saint had taken just a couple of steps, when a second SUV raced behind the BMW. Before he or anyone else could do anything, a man slid his body halfway through the front passenger window. He aimed his rifle at the BMW and opened up with a long volley.

The deafening gunfire burst echoed across the apron. Bullets shredded the vehicle’s rear windshield. Shards of glass sprayed in all directions. The BMW swerved violently, its tires screeching against the tarmac as the driver struggled to maintain control.

“Down, down, down!” Saint shouted as he dropped to the ground. He drew his Sig Sauer and aimed it at the second SUV as he crawled toward a red fire hydrant a couple of steps away. Before he could return fire, another volley tore through the air.

A second shooter was firing from the SUV’s rear window at the group of Syrians, Evanoff, and Saint. Bullets struck the two Syrians and zipped over Saint’s head. Other rounds ricocheted off the ground.

One of the Syrians by the plane ducked behind the airstair. The other one pulled out his pistol and began to fire at the attackers. A couple of his rounds thumped against the SUV’s grille; two more shattered the windshield.

The SUV’s driver turned his attention to the guards by the airplane. A quick volley spat from inside the SUV. Two rounds struck the bodyguard in the chest, and he crumpled back. The other bodyguard was still concealed behind the airstair.

Saint aimed his pistol at the SUV. He fired a quick burst. He missed the gunman, but the bullets hit the SUV’s door. The gunman stopped his volley and retreated inside the SUV.

Two other Syrians burst out of the terminal and fired their pistols at the SUV. Their shots were hurried and off the mark. The gunman reappeared, along with a second shooter who also aimed a rifle at the terminal’s door.

Both attackers laid a heavy curtain of automatic gunfire. Their bullets cut through the Syrians and shattered the terminal’s glass door. Two rounds struck their side of the fire hydrants, lifting sparks inches away from Saint’s head.

He flattened himself to the ground, then dashed toward the back of a black car parked a few feet away. He made it as bullets pounded the front and the side of the car.

A moment later, he peeked over the car’s hood, assessing the battlefield. Two gunmen from the SUV were firing at the BMW. One of the gunmen had stepped out of the SUV and was standing behind the door. His bullets pounded the side of the BMW and shattered one of the rear windows.

Saint squeezed the trigger. His shot struck the attacker standing by the door in the shoulder. He spun around before collapsing against the SUV, and the rifle fell out of his hands.

Loud shouts came in what Saint assumed was Arabic, the language spoken in Syria. He looked from around the back of the car at the BMW. Movement from the BMW caught his attention. Barakat was still inside the SUV, ducking down in the backseat. The driver had been hit, slumped lifelessly against the wheel. I’ve got to get him out of there. He’s a sitting duck.

Saint raced toward the BMW as bullets cracked overhead. He couldn’t tell who was shooting at whom. He just hoped no one was taking shots at him.

Ten seconds later, he reached the BMW’s door and yanked it open. “Go, go, go!” he shouted at Barakat. Saint grabbed the Syrian’s arm and hauled him out just as a fresh round of bullets ripped into the BMW’s body.

Barakat and Saint dove to the ground. The volley continued for another few seconds. When it stopped, Saint stood up and looked at the SUV through the BMW’s shattered windows. He took a deep breath, steadied his aim, and fired three shots straight into the vehicle’s fuel tank.

The effect was immediate. Flames licked out from beneath the chassis, followed by a deep, gut-wrenching boom that rocked the entire apron. The explosion sent a fiery shockwave outward, flipping the SUV onto its side and engulfing the remaining two attackers in a ball of fire. Smoke and heat blasted through the air, momentarily disorienting everyone on the tarmac.

“Get to the plane! Go, go! Now!” Saint shoved Barakat toward the plane. Alarms blared across the terminal as he turned his attention to the burning SUV. He didn’t expect anyone had survived the explosion, but he needed to be absolutely sure. And let’s make sure there’s not another attack.

One of the Syrians was firing at the SUV from inside the terminal. Evanoff was stretched across the tarmac. He was hiding behind the bullet-riddled suitcases and the bodies of the two Syrians. The Russian glanced at Saint, who climbed carefully to his feet. “You okay?” Saint shouted at Evanoff.

The Russian nodded, but lay on the tarmac. “I’m fine.”

“Who were they?”

“How would I know?”

The Syrian stepped through broken glass and ran toward his compatriots. He dropped down and began to check on them. No one fired at him.

Saint lowered his pistol and advanced toward Evanoff. The Russian had gotten up and had taken one of the Syrian’s pistols. He pointed it at the SUV, expecting one of the shooters to pop up at any moment.

No one did.

Saint glanced at Evanoff, then his eyes went to the suitcase carrying the uranium. “Is it safe?”

The Russian nodded. “Not sure how that happened, but they missed it.”

Saint studied the downed Syrians. Pools of blood were forming around their heads and chests. If they weren’t already dead, they would be in a matter of seconds.

The Syrian shook his head as he stood up. “They’re dead,” he said in a dry voice.

“Check the SUV.” Saint told him, while he looked around, covering all angles, searching for anything suspicious.

The Syrian nodded. He kept his submachine gun aimed at the SUV as he ran toward it.

He stepped closer to Evanoff and said, “We’ve got to go before that plane takes off without us.”

“They won’t.”

“I saw Barakat get in.”

“Who were the shooters?”

Saint shrugged. “They could be here for you—”

“Or for you.”

“Or they came for the Syrians—”

His words were cut off by a quick burst of gunfire. The Syrian’s bullets struck whoever was still alive in the SUV. A long, angry volley, in all likelihood payback for the killing of his comrades.

Saint shook his head. “Now, we’ll never know.”

The gray-suited bodyguard who had been standing near the aircraft waved his arms at Saint and Evanoff. He gestured for them to come to the plane, then shouted, “Come on. Hurry! We’ve got to go!”

“Let’s go,” Evanoff said to Saint and began to limp as fast as he could toward the plane. “Before security stops us…”

“Move it, move, faster.” The Syrian who had emptied his magazine at the SUV stepped closer to them.

“Who were they?” Saint asked.

“It doesn’t matter now. They’re all dead.”

Saint sighed. They were halfway to the airplane. Sirens echoed from across the tarmac. He glanced to his right and saw a couple of security sedans speed toward the airplane. Maybe we can still get out of here before they arrive.

Ten seconds later, Saint began to climb the airstair. He looked one last time over his shoulder, then rushed up the last three stairs. As soon as he stepped foot inside the jet, Barakat pressed a pistol against Saint’s forehead.

Chapter Eight

Two Days Earlier

Berlin, Germany

“I’m not sure I’m the right person for this assignment.” Hannah Parsons shrugged and ran her hand through her short, pixie-cut raven hair. She glanced across the glass-top office desk at her boss, Ludwig Richter. He was her direct supervisor at the International Criminal Police Organization, better known as Interpol. The agency handled international crimes in all its 196 member countries, crimes ranging from terrorism to organized crime.

Richter was in his early fifties, with a head full of hair, which he dyed black regularly. He was always clean-shaven, and most of the time wore different shades of gray suits. Today was no exception. On her part, Hannah was dressed in a white blouse and a dark blue jacket that matched her skirt.

Recently, a case involving the upcoming Interior Minister of Syria Omar Darwish had been brought to their attention. The information had come from an unidentified source, at least that’s what Parsons had been told. After Interpol had verified the information, they had concluded that Darwish had allegedly committed war crimes under Bashar al-Assad, the former dictator of Syria, who had ruled the country with an iron fist for twenty-four years. As per Interpol’s international treaty, the agency had issued a Red Notice. That was a request to the Syrian law enforcement authorities—but also to all such agencies worldwide—to arrest and then extradite Darwish.

As expected, Syrian officials had denied all charges, claiming they were politically motivated. They had refused to cooperate with Interpol’s liaisons and provide any technical support or operational assistance even as much as to open an investigation or make Darwish available for questioning. Therefore, Richter had been left without any other choice but to dispatch a team of Interpol agents led by Hannah to secure Darwish’s capture and extraction.

“Considering what happened in my last operation, plus the internal investigation…” Hannah’s voice trailed off, and she shook her head. Her fingers drummed quietly along the edge of the desk, the weight of her last mission still bearing in her mind.

Richter drew in a deep breath. “We both agree that your methods may be unconventional and unethical—if I may add—but I can’t deny that they’re effective.” His voice was clipped and direct. “And, as we discussed when you were reinstated in the agency, you will have to follow the rules.”

Hannah shifted uncomfortably in the beige leather seat. “Sir, the Syrians have told us in no uncertain terms that they are not going to cooperate. I’m not sure I’ll even be allowed to set foot in Syria.” She eyed her boss carefully.

Richter nodded. “I understand your concern. However, the agency is determined to go ahead with this mission. There will be no breaking of the rules, of course, not even bending them. But there will be a measured and reasonable response to the Syrian actions or reactions.” He lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and gave Hannah a knowing look.

She nodded slowly, but a small frown creased her forehead. Her hands fidgeted for a moment as she processed her boss’s cryptic message. She wanted to ask for clarification but realized he had been vague on purpose. Hannah could interpret the words “measured” and “reasonable” to fit her specific situation. “Yes, if Darwish accepts our invitation for an interview, or, even better, voluntarily surrenders, that will cause no problem.”

Richter smiled at her and nodded slowly. “This is your shot at redemption, Parsons. We need Darwish in cuffs, not a body bag. And yes, there will be no international incidents or diplomatic crises. However, we can’t stop a free man from making his own choices.” His voice carried a hint of mischief that didn’t go unnoticed by Hannah.

She clenched her jaw and nodded. She thought there was a measured threat in his voice but couldn’t be sure. Hannah drew in an uneasy breath, then said, “Okay, how will this play out in real life?” she asked as she squinted at her boss. “I’ll fly down to Damascus with Armin Schäfer. We’ll try to make contact with Darwish and convince him to come with us.”

“Correct.” Richter nodded. He slid his swivel chair back, then stood up. He walked to a row of brown metal file cabinets to the left of his desk. He unlocked one of them and pulled out a thin green folder. When he returned to his seat, he slid the folder to Hannah. “This is everything we have on Darwish. His location, friends, enemies. Intercept him before he becomes minister. Once that happens, he’ll have greater protection and a higher profile. So make use of whatever you need, and make sure you get this done right.”

“I will do so, sir.” Hannah took the folder but didn’t open it.

“Okay, Parsons. I hope you understand the parameters of this operation. It goes without saying that it is extremely sensitive, but I’ll say it so that we’re on the same page.” Richter’s face turned serious, and his voice took on a grave tone. “Things can’t go sideways here. If they do, you’re putting the agency in a difficult position.”

Hannah flinched, then tilted her head from side to side, as if weighing her choices. “What are you telling me, boss?” She tightened her grip on the mission dossier.

Richter sighed. “I’m not saying that you’re on your own and out of luck when all hell breaks loose. But it will take time and tough negotiations to get you back.” He pushed back his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “My suggestion, for all it’s worth, is not to get caught.”

“Good suggestion,” Hannah said. “Any other great words of advice?”

Richter sighed and shook his head. “I don’t want it to go that way, Parsons. But it could. And I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. I care about you, and that’s why I’m giving you a choice: If you don’t want this assignment, the time to say ‘no’ is right now.”

Hannah shrugged. “If it’s not me, it will be someone else. Plus, if what we know turns out to be true, that monster has to be punished for everything he has done to little children.” She shook her head as the smiling face of Sarah popped into her mind. “I… I couldn’t live with myself if I turned this down.”

Richter tipped his head toward the folder. “If you see things are getting out of hand, pull the plug. You and Schäfer are more important than the mission. He had already agreed, by the way. Once I told him, you’ll be the lead, he said ‘yes’ on the spot.”

A small smile curled her lips. Schäfer was skilled in high-risk extraditions that Interpol routinely labeled as “lost causes.” He was a cunning strategist, a master of deception, and was willing to do almost anything to capture the fugitives. Schäfer operated in the legal and moral gray zones, taking advantage of any existing diplomatic loopholes, and, when necessary, even creating new ones to fit his objective.

Just three months ago, Schäfer had single-handedly extracted a Russian army colonel from Moscow right under the nose of his four bodyguards and the FSB, the country’s internal intelligence agency. The colonel was wanted for alleged war crimes committed in Ukraine and was now awaiting trial. “I’d never want someone else watching my back,” she said truthfully in a strong, confident voice. Well, maybe Saint, but he has a different way of doing business. What’s he up to? I haven’t talked to him in a couple of days…

“Anything else, Parsons?” Richter asked in an impatient voice as he spread out his hands, palms up.

“No, I think I got it. I’ll meet with Schäfer, and we’ll head out ASAP.”

“Perfect. Keep me posted.”

“Certainly, boss. And I won’t disappoint you.”

Richter flashed her a genuine smile. “I have no doubts, Parsons. You’re the best agent I’ve ever worked with—perhaps the best in the entire agency. And I’m not just saying it.” He gave her an intense look of admiration.

“Thanks, boss. That means a lot.”

“Any time. Let me know how it goes.”

Hannah stood up. You want this done, Richter; I’ll get it done. I’ll redeem myself and then there will be nothing hanging over my hand. And Darwish, he’ll pay for all the evil things he has done…

Chapter Nine

Aboard the Embraer Legacy 600

Bratislava Airport

Bratislava, Slovakia

“Who exactly are you? And what are you doing on my plane?” Barakat barked at Saint in English with a heavy accent.

“It’s okay; he’s okay; he’s with me,” Evanoff shouted at the Syrian.

Two other gunmen had pointed their pistols at Saint, who barely flinched. This wasn’t the first, the second, or even the third time a gun had been pressed against his head. He wasn’t worried or even concerned. Usually people who used weapons in this way didn’t fully comprehend the pistol’s purpose. Saint wanted to say, This is what I get for saving your life, but he knew it wouldn’t help. Instead, he said, “You saw what happened out there.” He cocked his head slowly to his right. “You are still alive, in part, because of me.”

“It’s true. He saved your life, our lives.” Evanoff jumped in, pointing at the Syrians. “Put down those guns.”

Barakat nodded slowly, but didn’t lower his pistol. “Who are you?” he asked again. His voice remained sharp, but seemed to have lost some of its initial gruffness.

“My name is Xavier Saint. I work with him.” He gestured slowly toward Evanoff. “We’re… partners.”

“Partners?” Barakat squinted at Saint and tilted his head while mentally weighing the evidence. His lips were pressed flat as he glanced curiously at the Russian, then back at Saint. “He said you’re someone needing a favor, not a gun-blazing partner…”

“I guess I’m both because of the circumstances. I couldn’t let them kill you.” He wanted to add, Because we have a deal, but he thought better of it.

Barakat’s small gray eyes narrowed. The wrinkles on his broad, sweaty forehead multiplied, and his eyes flitted to Evanoff. “You never mentioned a ‘partner.’ You said you work alone.”

“I do work alone,” Evanoff replied without missing a beat. “Most of the time. But this job is difficult, as you can see.” He motioned with his hand. “Aren’t you glad I brought him along?”

“You also brought them, the killers.” Barakat cocked his head toward the window facing the terminal as the plane began to move. One of the gray-suited bodyguards, who was wounded and bleeding out of his left leg, had closed the door.

Saint glanced out the window. Four blue-uniformed police officers had stepped out of the sedans. Two of them were advancing with their pistols drawn toward the SUV. The other two were running toward the terminal.

The Russian shrugged. “We don’t know they’re here for me.” He opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything else.

Saint nodded but also held his tongue. The shooters had attacked Barakat’s vehicle. It was obvious who their target was.

Barakat nodded slowly and pulled back his pistol. The menacing look remained on his face as he growled a couple of orders to the gunmen in Arabic. They both lowered their pistols and stepped away from Saint.

He dropped onto the nearest beige leather seat as the aircraft changed direction. They were now on the runway and would be airborne in seconds. The control tower did not revoke the airplane’s takeoff clearance, and the police didn’t try to stop them.

Barakat sat heavily in the seat across from Evanoff, to Saint’s left side, and returned his pistol to his waistband holster. “If those dogs are here for me, they must know about our deal,” he said in a low voice.

“What if this is unrelated to us?” Evanoff asked and raised his eyebrows.

Barakat shook his head. “I doubt it. Too much of a coincidence. But I will find out who organized this, and I will kill them with my own hands.” He tightened his fists, then made a hand gesture as if slicing someone’s throat.

Saint nodded. “And we’ll do all we can to find out what exactly happened here.”

The Syrian nodded. “We have to. This can’t happen again. Next time, we may not be so lucky.”

Evanoff nodded at the Syrian. “We’ll find them, and we’ll make sure it never happens again,” he said in a strong voice.

“Now, is this stuff safe?” Barakat looked at the suitcase by Evanoff’s feet.

“A hundred percent safe. Nothing happened to it.”

Barakat snapped his fingers, then called one of his cronies. He responded respectfully and took the suitcase from Evanoff. The Russian reluctantly let it go.

Barakat had noticed Evanoff’s hesitation. “Relax, it’s not going anywhere. And you’ll get paid, once our scientists have confirmed the uranium is all good and pure.”

A small frown curled up the Russian’s lips. “It’s all good and pure. Your experts confirmed it before we got here. Two hours ago. And your guards were with me and the suitcase at all times. There was no switch.”

Barakat shrugged as the aircraft lifted off. “Too many liars and crooks in our business.” He spread out his hands and pursed his lips. “That’s why I don’t trust many people. And I don’t trust you, either of you.” He aimed his index finger at Evanoff first, then at Saint.

Saint nodded. “Understandable. But hopefully, it will change, once we’re in Damascus, and you’ll see we’re the real deal. And there’s more, much more where that came from. The ‘stuff.’”

Barakat grinned. “I hope so. Otherwise, if there’s any problem with the uranium—bad quality, impurity, whatever it is—there will be many problems for you. Bad problems.”

“Makes sense,” Saint said. “And I agree. If one of us tries to cheat the other, there should—and there will—be severe consequences.” He moved his hand slowly toward the Russian, then the Syrian.

The implication was clear, but Barakat chose to ignore it. He reached for his phone from his inside jacket pocket and glanced at the screen. “I need to deal with this.” He pointed his left hand at the phone. “Relax, enjoy some food and drinks. We’re partners, remember?” He smirked and stood up. “Then I want you to tell me more about the favor we’re doing for you.”

Saint didn’t like Barakat’s ice-cold tone of voice or the way he said the word “favor.” Still, he nodded at the Syrian and said, “Thank you.”

As Barakat turned around, Saint glanced at Evanoff, who shook his head and cursed under his breath. When Barakat was beyond earshot, Evanoff leaned closer to Saint and said, “Who do you think they were? The attackers?”

“Who else besides you and me knew about our rendezvous?”

“Barakat and his goons.”

Saint shook his head. “I don’t think he’d stage an attack against himself. Too much to lose, and nothing to gain.”

“So that leaves just you and me, then?”

“Yes. So, who could betray you?”

Evanoff shrugged, but his eyebrows drew together. He opened his mouth to speak, then paused to collect his thoughts. He shook his head, then blinked rapidly. “It could be only a couple of people who work for me. The men who brought the uranium. But I trust them with my life. I can’t believe they’d betray me. If they wanted to do anything, they could have stolen the uranium…”

Saint shook his head. “In that case, you’d have gone after them. They would have never been able to enjoy that money.”

“I will have to check,” Evanoff said thoughtfully. “What about you?”

“Nobody knew I’d be here, not now. But if someone was sent… well, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Evanoff nodded. “So we have no idea who it is?”

“No, but we’ll find out.”

“And until we do so, you know what that means, right?”

Saint nodded bitterly. “It will happen again.”

Chapter Ten

Four Hours Later

Damascus International Airport

Syria

A four-vehicle convoy and a team of about twenty bodyguards were waiting for Barakat’s arrival on the tarmac. They secured him into the black Mercedes-Benz SUV—the second vehicle—then loaded Saint and Evanoff into the third vehicle, an Audi sedan. They drove the short distance to the private jet terminal and were escorted to a small room. “Wait here until our scientists are finished with all the tests,” Barakat had told them. “If everything is good, you’ll be free to go in no time.”

He hadn’t mentioned what might happen if there was a problem with the uranium. Saint didn’t expect it, but in his business, anything could happen. He doubted Evanoff would mess with the Syrians, but if someone was trying to set the Russian up, that would be the best way to do it.

Before leaving them in the custody of ten guards armed to their teeth, Barakat confirmed the favor the Syrian intelligence agency would be doing for Saint. “You showed some courage back there,” Barakat had admitted in a rare moment of complete honesty. “I wish my men were like that, dashing through danger to save my skin.” He had sighed. “So, consider that favor done.” And they had shaken hands.

Saint had no illusions that Barakat would very easily change his mind if the uranium shipment was less than satisfactory. So he and Evanoff nervously paced around the room for the next hour. Saint’s greatest concern was if Barakat attempted to trick them; claiming the uranium was bad when the opposite was true. “What evidence do we have to the contrary?” he had asked Evanoff. The Russian had shaken his head.

Thankfully, the Syrians were not in the mood to play games. The results came in, and they were positive. The uranium’s quality was delightful. “Now we need the rest, forty kg. More if you can find it,” Barakat told Evanoff on the phone. “The money is being transferred as we speak.”

Ten minutes later, Saint and Evanoff were free to go. They were offered a ride to anywhere in Damascus. Evanoff decided to head to the Beit Al Wali Hotel to enjoy a delicious meal and then a night out.

Saint had other plans.

He said goodbye to Evanoff and declined the free ride offer. Instead, he hopped into the back of a battered Toyota taxi and headed to Al Yarmouk neighborhood. It was in the southern part of the city, where Saint was going to meet up with his team.

He explained to the taxi driver, who spoke broken English, that he needed a cheap phone and a SIM card. In about five minutes, the driver stopped at a convenience store on the side of the road. The store clerk spoke even less English than the driver. Saint pretended not to understand the word “passport,” regardless of how many times the clerk and the cabbie repeated it. Instead, Saint showed them a US hundred-dollar bill and patiently kept repeating “phone and SIM card.”

Eventually, they relented and sold him a cheap phone. It was a Nokia model, tiny and delightfully simple. It had a sturdy plastic shell and a monochrome screen, which showed the text slightly pixilated. The phone looked like it had been produced a few years ago. It also didn’t look new, and he knew he overpaid for it. But Saint couldn’t care less. Money well spent for anonymity and discretion, as this was going to be his burner phone.

Once the phone was ready, he took a few steps away from the store and called one of the teammates. “I’ll be at the café in thirty minutes, at the earliest,” he informed them. “Gather the team.”

“We’ll be there,” the Syrian replied.

Thirty-five minutes later, Saint was dropped off a couple of blocks south of Damascus Café, which was a little more than a hole in the wall. However, it perfectly fit the purpose of his meeting. It was a safe location, according to Robin’s file. The Syrian in Saint’s team had used the café more than once as a safehouse or for important meetings like this one.

Saint ran reconnaissance as he entered the narrow, crooked streets. Garbage littered the area, and a couple of scraggly dogs were looking for scraps among the piles of trash overflowing from a couple of bins. The rotting smell was overpowering, especially since the day had turned sunny and warm.

However, a street vendor sitting behind a grill cart didn’t seem to mind the stench. He called out at Saint, waving his hands as he pointed at the sausages and meatballs lined up at the top of the cart. The outside of the cart was covered in dried grease, black grime, and soot, but Saint still stopped. He showed the vendor—a toothless wrinkled old man who looked like he had already turned one hundred years—a five US dollar bill and handed it to him. The man hesitated for a moment, seemingly making some mental calculations. Then, he picked up with his dirty hand two sausages and two meatballs and put them into a small paper bag.

Saint smiled at the man, then whistled at the dogs. One of them—the larger of the two, who resembled a golden Labrador—cocked his head and gave Saint a curious look. The other dog—a black-and-white, which Saint thought had to have some Border Collie genes in him—wagged his tail and tiptoed toward Saint. As soon as he showed them the sausages, both dogs ran toward him as if he were their best friend. He dropped them and the meatballs at his feet, and the dogs devoured them as they barely hit the ground. They licked their lips and eagerly looked at him for more. The smaller dog, who seemed to be the older, let out a small bark, which Saint interpreted as “thank you and more, please.” Maybe when I come out.

Seeing nothing suspicious, Saint rounded the corner and approached the café. The narrow, crooked road was a tight corridor of cracked asphalt. Faded, sun-bleached walls of one- and two-story cinderblock houses enclosed the path. The scent of dust mingled with the faint aroma of grilled meats wafting from the café. Close to the entrance, a weathered blue van with chipped paint and rusted panel was parked at an awkward angle. Its windshield was streaked with grime.

Saint checked the van, but there was no one inside or around it. A small fruit stand was about ten yards away, leaning slightly to one side. Its wooden crates were brimming with pomegranates, oranges, bananas, and apples. The vendor’s faded canvas awning flapped weakly in the warm breeze. Two old men dressed in grubby clothes were standing in front of the stand, cigarettes dangling from their lips.

He moved the colorful beaded curtain to one side and entered inside the café. It had only four small, wooden tables and mismatched plastic chairs. Once upon a time, the chairs had been white, but now they were dirty gray. The floor was concrete, dirty, and grimy. The walls were bare, except for a couple of portraits of a handsome young man in an olive drab military uniform. A family member? Saint wondered.

His three teammates were sitting around the table closest to the back entrance. They sprang to their feet as Saint made his way to them. “I’m Kamal Abbas,” said the youngest of them, a short, stocky man in his early thirties with a full beard. He was dressed in camouflage pants and a navy-blue shirt that read Palm Angels on the front in large, white, curving letters. “Welcome to Damascus.”

Saint shook Abbas’s hand. He had been a former army captain in the Syrian Army until he had decided to do something more profitable, according to the file Saint had received. He looked at a tall, skinny man standing to Abbas’s right dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt. The blond hair and fair complexion excluded any possibility he was a Syrian. “Name’s Griffin O’Rourke.” He offered Saint his hand.

Former Irish defense forces turned mercenary. Saint nodded. He had heard about O’Rourke and his exploits during the war in Ukraine.

The last man was completely bald, with the beginning of a spare tire belly. He was wearing a blue polo shirt, a flak vest, and khaki pants. “And I’m Matteo Corsini. I’ve heard a lot about you, Saint.”

“Good things?” Saint asked as they shook hands.

Corsini shook his head. “All bad.” He grinned.

Saint couldn’t tell if Corsini was joking or telling the truth. Saint smiled politely and said, “Let’s sit down and get started.”

“Oh, no, let’s get you some food and something to drink,” Abbas said in an almost offended tone. “We’ll discuss business, but we’ll make better decisions with full stomachs.”

Saint nodded. “Good point. What’s good here?”

“Do you like Syrian food?”

“Not sure. Haven’t tried it yet.”

“What? Ever?” Abbas’s big brown eyes doubled in size.

“Sorry.”

Abbas made a tsk-tsk-tsk noise and looked at Corsini. “It’s one of those bad things you’ve heard about him.”

“Exactly,” Corsini said.

“Well, I’ll get you—and us as well—some of the best Syrian dishes. To die for. And drinks.” He called out in a loud voice in Syrian. Almost instantaneously, a skinny, curly-headed boy who couldn’t have been older than ten, eleven at most, came running from the back entrance. He was wearing short blue jeans and a white muscle shirt with a large Nike logo on the front, its loose armholes exposing his twig-thin arms, but was barefoot. Abbas placed the order with him, and the boy ran back the same way he’d come.

“Okay, so tell us about this job.” Abbas turned his chair so he could be facing Saint. “Robin gave us the big picture, but no specific details.”

Saint nodded. He liked Abbas already. A no nonsense guy and not one to waste time with useless chit-chat. “Sure.” He tried to get comfortable in the plastic chair, but it wasn’t possible. “Our target is Darwish, the soon-to-be interior minister. He’s in Damascus right now. We need to hit him before his appointment ceremony.”

Abbas nodded at Saint. “We have the ceremony’s location. The Presidential Palace. The security in that place would be impossible to penetrate.”

“Right. So that excludes that place. Let’s move backward.” He gestured with his hand. “We don’t know Darwish’s plan for the day of inauguration. It’s safe to assume he’ll get ready to look his best. He might have a couple of meetings with government officials in the morning or over lunch. We don’t have that intel.”

Abbas said, “We’ll find out. I have a couple of people for that.”

“Good. Still, it might be difficult for us to execute our hit that day since he’ll be with other VIPs. Too many bodyguards and security personnel.”

Corsini nodded and so did O’Rourke.

“However, according to the intel we got so far, Darwish has a woman he likes to visit on Thursdays. Unless something happens, he’ll be at her apartment tomorrow evening.”

“So, we’ll hit him there?” asked O’Rourke.

Saint shook his head. “Darwish travels everywhere with at least four guards. They’ll be posted outside the building, a newish complex. Too many people, witnesses, plus his woman. Too many variables we can’t control.”

“So, on the way to her apartment, then?” Abbas suggested.

Saint nodded. “Correct. He usually travels in two vehicles. We have all that intel in a file Robin sent me. I’ll give a copy to Abbas, and he can send it to you.” Saint cocked his head to Abbas, then gestured at the rest of them.

Corsini said, “Are those vehicles bulletproof?”

“They are, so we’ll need armor-piercing rounds.”

O’Rourke smiled. “That’s not a problem.”

Corsini gave Saint a thoughtful look. “We’ll need speed and flexibility. Small, but powerful motorcycles.” His voice took on a thicker accent as it rose with excitement.

Saint smiled. “Exactly what I was thinking. Today is almost spent, but we’ll still do some recon. We’ll check out the area around her apartment, entrances, exits, movements, and people’s habits tonight and tomorrow. If we find out that’s not going to work, we’ll have to look at something tomorrow.” He looked at Abbas. “Activate your contacts to find us Darwish’s schedule, where he’ll be, with whom, how long, and so on.”

O’Rourke said, “I agree that hitting him while in transport is our best bet. Once we have his schedule, we’ll have a better idea.”

Saint opened his mouth, but just then, a woman walked through the back door. She was carrying a large tray that had five, no, six dishes. Abbas smiled and said, “I’ve got us a bit of the best dishes. Kibbeh maklieh, that’s this,” he pointed at the dish the woman placed in front of him, before he slid it toward Saint. “It’s ground lamb, bulgur wheat, and spices.”

“It’s amazing,” Corsini said. “You’ll see.”

Saint glanced at the golden, crispy shells and felt as hungry as a wolf. The woman placed the other plates on the table, and they all began to dig in. Soon enough, Saint had tasted all of Syria’s most famous dishes. He loved kibbeh, as well as mahshi, which was stuffed zucchini and eggplant. He didn’t care much about the shawarma, because the bread was tough, and the garlic sauce was overpowering.

The team talked about the logistics of their upcoming operation as they enjoyed their food. The more they discussed the details, the more a plan began to take shape. And Saint began to feel more and more confident that with a great amount of fortune, he would be able to pull this off… But, as the expression went, fortune favored the prepared…

Chapter Eleven

Damascus, Syria

Saint’s team had carried out reconnaissance of the prominent Mezzeh neighborhood, west of the city center, where Darwish’s girlfriend lived. The luxurious area was a blend of modern infrastructure and traditional Syrian charm. Large villas with stone façades and enclosed courtyards alternated with high-rise modern apartment buildings. As Saint had said, there was a lot of foot traffic. Plus, the area was teeming with security guards posted outside government offices and embassies spread around the area.

The team had agreed to hit Darwish during his drive just before he entered Mezzeh. They identified a couple of areas where traffic coming from Fayez Mansour Street, also known as Mezzeh Highway, bottlenecked as it entered the neighborhood. Those were the best areas for a successful strike. Depending on the direction of Darwish’s arrival, the team also identified a few entrance and exit points.

Saint returned to his hotel after midnight. He thought about calling Hannah but didn’t want to wake her. It was well into Sarah’s bedtime, and as much as he wanted to talk to his little girl, the last thing he wanted was to interrupt her sleep. He wasn’t that tired, but he knew it was going to be a long day. So he set his alarm clock for 05:00 and forced himself to get some shut-eye.

* * *

Saint had a great, uninterrupted four-and-a-half-hour sleep, with which he was pleasantly surprised. He checked his phone and accessed Evanoff’s most recent communications. The Russian was planning to spend the day in Damascus as he needed to discuss the second shipment with Barakat. They were still in the negotiating stage, but from their conversations, it appeared Evanoff would commit to securing the rest of the uranium, sufficient for the Syrians to have a try at making an atomic bomb. Saint wasn’t sure if Evanoff could deliver on his promise. However, considering he had been able to obtain the first shipment, the likelihood of him providing the rest wasn’t too far-fetched.

Then he switched to checking Robin’s communications. There wasn’t anything that pertained to Saint’s operation in Syria. He wondered if Robin was really quiet about the assassination, or whether his system had disabled Turgeneva’s malware. She had warned Saint that it was a possibility, and that she would re-try if that happened. Or he could be using another burner phone, Saint shrugged. That’s what I’m doing.

He checked his burner phone, but there were no updates from any of his team members, so he decided to hit the gym for a workout. The small gym on the lower floor was nothing special, but it was clean, and upbeat music blasted from wall-mounted speakers. Saint liked that he was the only one there.

Cardio machines were in one corner, and that’s where he started with a fast-paced 15-minute run. Then he moved to the free weights area and spent the next twenty minutes with push-ups, goblet squats, overhead presses, and renegade rows. He finished with sets of pull-ups, hanging leg raises, and explosive muscle-ups.

While stretching on the yoga mats and foam rollers, Saint felt more relaxed and eager to face the day. He showered and enjoyed a delicious local breakfast: a large Arabic omelet with whisked eggs, loaded with white goat cheese, fresh herbs, and seasonings; hot, freshly made flatbread and a spread of dips that ranged from hummus to olives and everything in between.

At 07:00 sharp, he stepped out of the hotel. The air was moist and thick with dust, and the day was promising to turn hot. The sidewalk was full of people hurrying to work, skirting vendors who were setting up their stalls. A bus and a couple of vans, filled with people squeezed together like sardines, drove by.

He flagged a taxi and headed to meet his team. They were going to surveil the area around Darwish’s house and see if they could identify an even better location than in the Mezzeh neighborhood. Abbas still hadn’t sent Darwish’s schedule. “A glitch, but it will be resolved soon,” he had promised.

Not soon enough. Saint had decided he couldn’t wait and took matters into his own hands.

The taxi driver was a young man, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties at the most. He drove by gripping the wheel with just one hand with practiced indifference. The taxi was dirty and smelled like garlic. He drove first through the Al Mahdi Bin Barakeh Street, the main artery going through the city from the northeast to northwest. Then, he switched to a couple of backstreets as they drew near Sibky Park.

Saint glanced through the dust-covered window. He didn’t mind the detour. They were still going toward the meeting place. He was following their route on a map on his phone. It was the right direction, albeit they seemed to be taking the scenic route.

When they came to an intersection, the driver turned left instead of right. Saint studied the map and realized they were going toward what looked like a dead end. Even if it wasn’t, the meeting place was in the opposite direction. The taxi’s tires bumped over potholes. He leaned forward and said to the driver, “Turn around! You’re going the wrong way.”

The young man shook his curly head. “No, sir. Way good. You map wrong,” he replied in a firm voice in broken English.

“Go back! Now!” Saint’s voice grew stronger and louder as he gestured with his hand. His body tensed because he didn’t like the sudden change in scenery. Now they were driving past two-story houses and worn apartment buildings, their facades crumbling and shop signs faded by the sun. The street had gotten narrower, with people squeezing past on the foot-wide broken sidewalk. “Go back! Back!”

“What problem?” The driver slowed down and turned to face Saint.

“The problem is you’re not listening to me. I said to go back.” He turned his head and looked over his shoulder.

Too late.

A small gray sedan had come to a stop behind them.

Saint looked at the driver, just as he opened the door and sprang outside.

Saint knew what was happening. Ambush!

He pulled out his Sig pistol as a rusted blue van reversed sharply from the right side. It came to a stop across the street, blocking the taxi’s path.

Two men in dark clothing spilled out of the gray sedan. They didn’t brandish any weapons, but he couldn’t be sure they didn’t have them tucked inside their jackets or waistband holsters. He thought about shooting them in the face, right then and there. What if these are Barakat’s men? But why would they try to approach me this way? He shook his head. No, this has to do with Darwish. And it’s not good.

He didn’t even think of shouting at them to stop. He knew words weren’t going to make them change their minds. But actions would.

He aimed his pistol at the nearest man and fired a round through the rear windshield. The bullet struck the man in the thigh, where Saint had intended. He didn’t want to kill them for two reasons: He couldn’t question the dead, and there was still a flimsy chance they were somehow connected to Barakat.

The wounded man dropped onto the cracked asphalt. His partner produced a pistol out of his jacket. Expecting the gesture, Saint fired at the man’s forearm. The bullet struck a couple of inches above the elbow. The gunman dropped his pistol and ran back toward the sedan.

Saint turned his attention toward the blue van. No one had stepped out of it, but there had to be at least one man inside. Since they hadn’t opened fire, he concluded they wanted him alive. Right, but why?

He threw open the door and knelt next to it. He noticed movement inside the van, then two men stepped out. They had pistols, but they were holding them muzzle down.

Saint shrugged. Even if they don’t want to kill me, I have no intention of being caught alive. And if wounding them doesn’t stop them, well…

He looked over his shoulder. The gunman wounded in the thigh was still stretched there, trying to stop the blood flow. The other gunman had disappeared. Where did he go?

When Saint returned his gaze to the pair by the van, one of them raised his pistol. Saint fired a couple of quick rounds, hitting the man in the arm. The gun fell out of his hand, and the man crumpled against the van.

“Saint, drop it!” A loud woman’s voice came from the left.

Saint glanced in the direction of the voice. A woman dressed in a black jacket and black tactical pants was standing at the rooftop of the nearest two-story house. A submachine gun was leveled at him. Her short, raven-black hair clung to her forehead, and her expression was carved from stone.

He froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. One of the gunmen by the van had also pointed his pistol at Saint. When he spun his head to his right, he saw the gunman, who had disappeared behind the sedan, standing on the other side of the vehicle. He, too, had a pistol aimed at Saint’s head.

Chapter Twelve

Somewhere in Damascus

Syria

Saint thought he detected a faint accent in her voice, but he couldn’t be certain. She didn’t look Syrian. Who is she? What does she want?

“Saint, I will say this one more time.” The woman waved her weapon. “Put your pistol down.”

Saint’s eyes turned into narrow slits. That’s a Russian accent; I’m sure of that. A frown darkened his face. Russians in Syria were never a good sign. Does she work with Evanoff? For Evanoff? “What do you want?” he asked as he locked eyes with her.

“I told you what I want. Do it, then we’ll go talk,” she ordered.

Her voice was low, clear, and edged with authority.

The area around him was unnervingly silent. Saint’s pistol felt heavier than usual in his hand. He looked at the gunman by the van, then Saint’s eyes flitted to the gunman near the sedan. Their guns were aimed at him. Clearly, they don’t want me dead. Not now, anyway. But what do they want from me? Will they drag me somewhere to execute me there?

He shook his head—and with it, the thought of doom. He nodded slowly and heaved a deep sigh. There was no way out but to surrender. And fight another time, hopefully. Still, he wanted to make sure this was the right thing. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, his voice steady.

“No,” the woman replied. “But we know who you are. And we need you.”

“Need me? For what?”

“I will tell you in a moment. Now, get in the car.” She cocked her head at the sedan. “Before the GIS gets here.”

He shifted his stance slightly, but his muscles were still tense. His gut was telling him he was making a mistake, but he didn’t really have any other choice. The weight of uncertainty pressed down on him. He drew in a slow breath. My mission is Darwish, not dying in a dirty street in Damascus.

He shook his head and lowered his pistol to his side. A moment later, he dropped it against the cracked asphalt.

“Good. Now step away from it, and walk to the car. Keep your hands up.”

“I’ll need that gun again.”

“Yes, someone will pick it up.”

The gunman near the sedan kept his pistol pointed at Saint. He was holding it with his left hand, while blood was dripping from the wound on his right arm. The other gunman struggled to climb to his feet, then limped to the rear passenger side door before he slid into the seat.

“Get in,” the gunman holding the pistol ordered Saint.

Saint was a couple of steps away from the car when the woman stepped onto the street. She hurried toward the sedan and gestured to the gunman to get in and start driving. “Front seat, Saint.” She pointed with her submachine gun.

“Who are you?” Saint demanded in a firm voice.

“Let’s get out of here.”

She slipped inside the sedan, sitting behind Saint.

The driver started the car and threw it into reverse. He steered with precision and turned the wheel sharply. The mirrors missed the coarse walls by inches as he backed into a narrow side alley. Then the driver straightened the wheel, shifted to drive, and yanked the wheel. He turned the tight corner as he punched the gas.

Saint turned around. “It’s time we talk.” He looked at the woman intensely. “Who are you?”

The woman shook her head. “Saint, always impatient. My name is Ekaterina Antonova. You can call me Katia. I work for the Russian SVR. We are the foreign intelligence agency of Russia. Are you familiar with my agency?” Her stern voice had a clear note of pride mixed with subtle menace.

Her words hit him like a gunshot at close range. His breath stalled for half a second, his pulse spiking before his mind could catch up. The SVR. He had expected Syrians, maybe security hired by Evanoff. But the SVR? Unless she’s not telling me the truth. But why would someone lie, claiming to be the notorious SVR in a place like Syria?

His fingers twitched slightly, the only outward sign of the shock flooding his system. Years of training kept his face still, but inside, his thoughts reeled. His stomach tightened, instincts screaming at him to recalibrate, to think fast.

He forced his expression to remain neutral, but his mind raced through every possible reason why Russian intelligence would be here, why they would be after him. And more importantly—what they wanted.

Saint blinked once, slow and deliberate. Stay in control, he told himself. Evanoff used to work for the SVR. Are they, his partners? “Of course,” Saint said in a low voice. “But what do you want with me?”

Katia held Saint’s gaze for a brief moment, then said, “We’ll work together, Saint, in your operation.”

“My operation?”

Katia frowned. “Saint, you don’t know me, so I’m letting you get away with it this time. But only this time.” Her voice turned razor-sharp, and her accent became more pronounced. “Don’t think of me as stupid and don’t treat me like I am. We know you’re here to assassinate Darwish.”

Saint’s face tightened as if he had just been struck. His brows shot up, creasing his forehead with deep lines of disbelief. His jaw tensed, lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words came as he remembered her warning.

Katia grinned. “Yes, Omar Darwish, the soon-to-be minister of interior. I know you came here with the clear objective of eliminating him.”

Saint shrugged. He really didn’t know what to say. “I… I’m surprised.”

“Don’t be. We’re SVR. We know everything.” A smug, self-satisfied expression stretched across her oval-shaped, freckled face.

“That’s a slight exaggeration,” Saint said wryly.

“Maybe, but, in this case, we know more than you do, Saint. We know who’s the client—not the one who sent you—but the one who wants Darwish dead.”

Saint flinched. “Really? And who might that be?”

“I’ll tell you when we get to our safehouse. It’s not far from here. A fifteen-minute drive. So relax for a while. Nothing will happen to you, as long as you cooperate.” Her voice took on a playful tone.

“What does that mean, ‘cooperate?’”

“You’ll see.”

“And if I don’t cooperate?”

“You’ll see that as well.”

Saint sat back and wondered about Katia’s words and the sudden change in the course of events. The SVR knows about Robin and the client who hired Robin. How is that possible? And who is that client? A dark thought crossed his mind, and his face twisted in shock. Could it be that the client is the SVR? He shook his head. If that was the case, why are Katia and her goons here?

Saint shrugged. And how did they find me? Do they know about my team? Have they tried to intercept them? His frown grew deeper. He wanted to turn around and ask the SVR operative, but he doubted she’d tell him. I’m sure she’ll say “Wait until the safehouse.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The blue van was following them about twenty yards behind. He drew in a deep breath and thought of his next steps. Escaping would be difficult, and it wouldn’t help him get closer to the truth. As much as he didn’t like it, he’d have to sit tight for the next few minutes.

They drove through a maze of backstreets and narrow alleys until they came to a row of two-story apartment buildings. Their once-white façades now were stained with streaks of grime and dust. Chipped plaster revealed patches of exposed brick, and rusted satellite dishes clung precariously to the rooftops. Electrical wires sagged between buildings, crisscrossing overhead in a tangled mess.

“We’re there. Second floor. At the corner.” Katia tipped her head.

The apartment looked like the others. One of its windows was covered with mismatched blue curtains. The balcony was empty. New metal door. New windows. The glass is probably bulletproof.

They stopped as close as possible to the side entrance, and then Katia led Saint up the crumbling stairs. The gunmen who were in the van came right behind him. Let’s see what they want, he thought and nodded to himself. But whatever it is, it’s not going to be easy or simple to give to them…

Chapter Thirteen

SVR Safehouse

Southern Damascus

Syria

The dimly lit living room was small but clean. Saint sat on one of the threadbare couches, his fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic cup of black coffee. Katia and her partner Artem Varenkov had refused to give any details until they had a cup of coffee. They had offered him food as well, but Saint had politely refused. “I lost my appetite,” he had said. “Something about your people pointing pistols at me from all sides.”

Katia had shrugged. “You wounded my team members,” she had said in a cold tone. “You’re lucky nothing happened to you.”

Saint had shaken his head. “They came at me with guns drawn. What did you expect me to do?”

“We expected you to cooperate, which you will. Now sit there and enjoy your coffee.”

Saint’s eyes studied Varenkov’s face. It was etched with faint lines. His skin was pale, almost sallow in the room’s stark white light, and stretched taut over his high, angular cheekbones. He was in his early forties, but his bald head made him look older. He acted deferentially toward Katia, and it was clear she was the one giving orders.

Varenkov was dressed in a brown leather jacket, a black shirt, and brown jeans. His eyes—cold, pale gray, were deep-set beneath a bony brow. The Russian gave Saint a perpetually intense scrutinizing expression. Everything about his face spoke of a man who was hard, unyielding—built for survival. Varenkov didn’t just look dangerous. He was dangerous.

Saint took a couple of sips. His mind was wrestling with the weight of his predicament. He still had no idea what the Russians wanted from him or whether he could give it to them. He glanced around the room, which was stripped of almost all comfort. There were a couple of battered wooden desks set against the walls—which were bare and painted a dull gray—a low coffee table, and a couple of black leather couches and chairs that had seen better days. The air was thick with the acrid scent of old cigarette smoke, and water dripped from a leaky pipe somewhere in the building with a rhythmic defiance of the tense silence between Saint and the Russians.

After his third sip, Saint had consumed most of the bitter, black coffee. He placed the cup on the wooden table and crossed one leg over the other. “All right, time for the truth.”

Katia was standing against one of the desks, the closest to the largest window, watching him like a cat observing a trapped mouse. Her large, brown eyes peered deep at him, then she swept her hair over her shoulder. “Fair enough. I told you we know you’re here to assassinate Darwish. You can easily imagine we’re not the only ones with that piece of intel. Soon, the Syrians will learn about it.”

“From you?” Saint asked in a dubious tone.

“Yes.” Katia nodded slowly. “If you’re unwilling to help us, then you have no value to us. But we’ll hand you over to the Syrians. They can handle this affair as they deem fit. But believe me, Saint, it’s not going to be pretty. I’ve worked with the GIS before. I know what they’re capable off.”

Saint tried to stop a shiver from racing through his body. He thought of his relationship with Barakat, advisor to al-Assad, the GIS’s chief. My deal with him will be worth nothing once he discovers my other purpose for coming to Damascus. He might even think I used Evanoff as a cover to get inside the country.

Then he thought of what the Syrians would do to him. They would break him, unravel him piece by piece. And when they had wrung every last drop of information from his battered body, they would put a bullet in his skull and throw him in a nameless grave.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. That can’t happen.

Varenkov leaned forward in his seat and gestured to Saint. “We hope you can see the inevitability of your fate. You have no choice but to work for us.” His voice was strong and gruff, ringing with a hint of a British accent.

Saint leaned forward, fingers curling into fists. “Do you expect me to trust you?” he asked, his voice calm but taut.

Katia tilted her head slightly, her eyes flickering with something close to pity. “No, not really,” she admitted. “But I expect you to understand your sad reality. You’re alone. No backup. No escape. The Syrians will rip you apart. And me and Artem?” She spread her hands in mock generosity, then gestured at her partner. “We’re offering you a way out.”

His jaw clenched, his mind racing through his options. His team was out there. If they were still operational, they might have a chance to turn things around. But right now, in this moment, he was cornered.

Katia continued, “It will be a joint operation.”

“About what?”

“About Darwish.”

Saint blinked and jerked back his head. “What? You want him killed as well? Or… are you the client?”

Katia smiled. “No, and no. Let me handle the second question first, since the answer is easy.” She took a step forward and gestured at Saint. “We are not the client. You were hired by your… well, let’s call him ‘friend,’ your friend Robin to kill Darwish. However, the client that Robin didn’t tell you about is none other than the CIA.”

Saint’s mouth fell open. His eyes flitted between Katia’s face and Varenkov’s. He thought he had heard it all, and the SVR could no longer surprise him. He shook his head. I can’t be more wrong. But is it true? He gave Katia a dazed look, then asked, “Why would the CIA want Darwish dead?”

Varenkov grinned as he exchanged a knowing look with Katia and gave her a nod. She shrugged and spread open her arms with palms up. “One of the reasons is obvious: Darwish, like most of today’s politicians, ministers, and people in power, once was a terrorist. These people had ties to either al-Qaeda or ISIS. They fought against Syria’s legitimate government. They massacred villages supporting the government or opposing their militias. Those crimes are sufficient for the CIA to target Darwish and a host of other Syrian politicians.”

Saint shook his head. “That can’t be all of it,” he said slowly in a measured tone. “The CIA doesn’t care about terrorists once they come to power. If Syrians can help to weaken Iran’s and Russia’s influence in Syria—I mean no offense,” he waved to Varenkov and then to Katia, “then all terrorists are their best friends, regardless of what they’ve done or are willing to do.”

Varenkov smiled at Saint, then nodded as he looked at Katia, while pointing an index finger at Saint. “I like this guy. He’s smart and straightforward.” He glanced at Saint.

Katia said, “You’re right, Saint. If the CIA executed all Syrian leaders who used to be terrorists, there would be no leaders left. But Darwish holds special interest because he used to work for the CIA.”

“What? Really?” Saint’s eyes widened in shock and surprise as he grappled with Katia’s words. His eyebrows shot up, creasing his forehead with deep, startled lines. “But if he worked for the CIA, why do they want him dead?”

“Worked is the operative word here,” Varenkov. “He used to work for the CIA. Not anymore.”

“What happened?” Saint asked, although he knew the answer.

“Darwish stopped working for the CIA. He was dissatisfied with the way they were treating him. No respect, not enough money. So he decided to quit. But as you know—if you know anything about the CIA—they’re like the Mafia: You can never leave.”

“Okay, I get it,” Saint said, although the barrage of information was too much for him to process and draw logical conclusions. “Darwish quits working for the CIA, and they want to kill him. How does the SVR fit in? What do you want from me? Kill Darwish on your behalf?”

Katia and Varenkov shook their heads in unison. Katia said, “No, Saint. If we wanted Darwish dead, we would just leave you to carry on with your assignment. You’re excellent at it.”

Saint’s mouth parted slightly, hanging open in stunned silence. He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing what Katia was going to say next.

“Instead of killing Darwish, we want you to help us extract him, Saint,” she said slowly, articulating every word very clearly so that he wouldn’t miss or misunderstand anything.

“Extract him? And why is that? Oh, no… I guess I know why.” All color drained from his cheeks, leaving his skin pale.

Varenkov’s lips stretched in a self-satisfying grin. “You’ve got it, Saint. When Darwish turned his back to the CIA, he became a double agent and began to work for us.”

Chapter Fourteen

SVR Safehouse

Southern Damascus

Syria

Saint was still in shock after the SVR operatives’ revelations. Katia and Varenkov had explained in broad terms how Darwish had switched sides. “The CIA was worried about the asset giving us intelligence incriminating the Americans,” Katia clarified. “That’s why they tried to kill him a couple of times. Then, they tried to recruit him again, first with threats and blackmail, followed by promises of money. However, because of Darwish’s political ambitions, none of that worked.

“Plus, Darwish is not just a double agent. He’s a master manipulator. He has been playing the CIA for years, feeding them lies, making them believe he was their asset. In reality, he was giving us CIA secrets.”

Saint’s pulse quickened.

Katia said, “The Americans trusted Darwish. They funneled intel through him, gave him access to high-clearance information. And now that they know the truth? They can’t afford to let him—or anyone else who knows his secrets—live.”

A slow, creeping unease settled in Saint’s stomach. This wasn’t just another hit, another execution. This was a cleanup mission. The CIA wasn’t just trying to kill Darwish. They were trying to bury him, erase every trace of his existence.

He nodded slowly as he studied Katia’s face. A lot of Syrian government officials had checkered pasts because of their need to survive al-Assad’s regime and to navigate the treacherous Syrian political climate. Many had switched sides more than once, according to the wind of change, gambling with their futures and their lives. The ones who were still alive were more than lucky; they were strategists, who, in a way, could predict the future correctly. “But why is there a need to extract Darwish? Why can’t he simply get into a plane, a government jet, and fly to Moscow, elsewhere in Europe, or somewhere safe?”

Varenkov shook his head. “It’s not that easy. Darwish doesn’t believe he’s in danger. He has survived two assassination attempts; he’s beginning to think he’s untouchable. Plus, now that he’s about to become minister, he thinks neither the CIA nor any of his old enemies would dare to attack him.”

“So, what is your plan? You will extract him against his will, then?” Saint tilted his head to the left.

“More or less.” Katia uncrossed and crossed her legs. “We’ll show him that he’s ‘touchable.’ Then he’ll take us, and the CIA threat, more seriously.”

Saint nodded slowly. He wasn’t satisfied with her reply and suspected something else at play. But he knew there was no point in asking because they wouldn’t tell him the truth. And he seriously doubted the truthfulness of everything he had been told so far. I’ll have to ask Turgeneva, and see what she can find. That’s if I have a private moment to make a call… “So what is the plan? How are you going to convince Darwish that the threat against his life is real?”

Katia shook her head. “We’ve given you enough, Saint. Enough for you to make a decision. We’ll give you more details if you agree to be a part of our op.”

Saint twisted his lips slightly. “One more thing: Don’t you have enough people for this op? Especially since Darwish is on your payroll?”

“This isn’t about having enough people on our side, but about having no one against us. We can’t allow you and your team to threaten Darwish’s life.”

“Yes, about them. What’s going on with them?”

“They’re fine. For now. But why don’t you worry about yourself?”

Saint nodded. “I understand. How much time do I have to decide?”

Varenkov shrugged and glanced at Katia. She smiled at him, then looked at Saint, “Five minutes. You don’t really need any time because the choice is obvious. But we’ll give you some time to think about it, since we’re reasonable people…” Her smile stretched from ear to ear.

“Yes, very.” Saint sighed.

“More coffee?” Katia began to walk toward the kitchen to her right.

“No, thanks. I need to concentrate and think for the next five minutes.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Coffee will help you focus,” Varenkov said and stood up. “Not that you really need it…”

He opened the living room door and stepped into the hall.

Saint drew in a deep breath. He already knew his answer, but he wanted to take his time. How is this going to work out? They’ll stage an attack against Darwish, then extract him alive? And what’s their long game? They don’t want Darwish to become minister? He shrugged. There were so many unknowns. And they would remain unknown even after I agree to work with them.

Katia came out of the kitchen with a mug in her hand. She sat across from Saint and glanced at her phone.

Saint thought about his choices—or lack thereof—for another long minute, then nodded. “Alright, Katia. I’ve made a decision. I agree to work with you.”

She smiled at him. “You made the right decision to work for us.” She stressed the word “for” more than it was necessary. “Welcome to our team, Saint.”

He gave her a neutral look. “What about my team? Will they be involved?”

Katia nodded. “Yes. We’ll need a distraction when we grab Darwish.” She brought her mug to her lips, then rubbed her hand along the left side of her neck. An inch-long scar ran down toward her throat. Saint had noticed it the moment he got into the gray sedan and wondered how she had gotten it. A sharp knife pressed against her throat…

“I’ll tell you more about our plan when Varenkov comes back. A couple of details will be worked out as we’re expecting new intel. But, why don’t you tell me about how you and your team were planning to off Darwish?”

Saint told Katia the broad details of his plan. He had decided to give Katia and the Russians the minimum amount of intelligence necessary for their relationship to work. Varenkov joined them, and both he and Katia asked a number of questions regarding the plan and Saint’s team. He answered all of them as vaguely as possible.

“It’s not a bad plan,” Katia said when Saint was finished. “We need him alive though, so we’ll have to modify it and improve it, but yes, let’s use that as a base for our op.”

“I need to call my team and explain to them the change of plans—”

Katia shook her head. “It has already been taken care of.”

Saint frowned. “You’ve detained them too, haven’t you?”

“Saint, you seem to be making the same mistake of underestimating us. If we are to work together, that has to change.”

Saint’s face went rigid, his features momentarily frozen. Before he could say anything, Katia added, “We don’t do an operation… what is the expression?” She tipped her head to the left as a thoughtful look stretched her face. “Yes.” She snapped her fingers. “Half-cocked. We don’t do an op half-cocked. Your team is all locked up. But now that you’ve agreed to work for us, they’ll be fine.”

Saint’s Adam’s apple bobbed with an involuntary swallow. “How did you find me? Who gave me up?” he asked in a low voice as his eyes bounced between Katia’s and Varenkov’s.

Varenkov shook his head as he glanced at Katia. “That’s none of your—”

“It’s okay, Artem.” Katia hushed him with a flick of her wrist. “He needs to know, and we can trust him, right, Saint? We can trust you, yes?”

Saint nodded slowly, stifling the confusion building up inside him. She’s good, he thought. Katia was testing him, knowing full well they couldn’t trust him, but also that Saint would not be able to reply with anything else but a solid “yes.” “Yes, of course you can trust me,” Saint said, trying to sound as genuine as possible. “We all want the same thing.”

“See?” Katia gave Varenkov a knowing look. “What did I tell you?”

Varenkov’s face drew back in a look of suspicion, but he didn’t say anything.

Katia leaned forward. “It’s Abass. He gave you up, Saint.”

Saint’s face froze. His expression was suspended between understanding and denial. And I started to like that… that scumbag. A sharp breath hitched in his throat, his jaw slackening just enough to betray his disbelief.

Katia gave him a look of almost compassion. “It happens even to the best of us, Saint,” she said slowly, in what sounded like genuine concern. “At least his betrayal didn’t result in your death.”

Saint shrugged. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but he couldn’t expect anything else from rugged SVR field operatives. Even Katia’s words were, to a certain extent, unusual but appreciated.

“But let’s not linger on the past,” she added with a hand gesture. “We’ve got to prepare for our operation. As soon as we’ve got the last piece of intel, we’ll spring into action.”

Saint nodded. Yes, but what is it? And how will I get out of this alive, after we’ve finished whatever it is the Russians want finished?

Chapter Fifteen

SVR Safehouse

Southern Damascus

Syria

Intelligence wasn’t coming as quickly as Katia and Varenkov had anticipated. They had some tense conversations in Russian and Arabic but didn’t explain anything to Saint; no explanation was necessary.

“If you hand me my phone, I can find us intel,” he asked when both Russians seemed to have calmed down sufficiently to have a reasonable conversation.

“Not going to happen.” Katia sat down in one of the couches and began to type on her phone.

Varenkov, who was standing near the door leading to the kitchen, shot him an evil look. “Do you think we’re stupid?”

Saint exhaled through his nose, a low, simmering frustration building inside him. “No, but I think we’re wasting time.” He stood up and walked to the window. “We should be out there, getting ready. I can help our operation—”

“You will, when the time comes,” Katia replied without looking up. “Now, you can help by being quiet.”

Varenkov glared at Saint, who had just turned around. “I know what you want to do, and I don’t like it.” He spoke slowly in a menacing voice.

“And what is that?” Saint demanded in an equal tone.

“You want to send a code for help. Whoever it is you’re calling. They’ll get your location and—”

“You will be here and listen to every word of my conversation—”

Katia locked eyes with Saint and cut him off with a sharp hand gesture. “Saint, we’re Russians, but we’re not stupid. Like Artem said, you will communicate in code. It’s not what you say, but what you don’t. And how you phrase things, how you skip certain things. The tone of voice. Everything.”

Saint shook his head, but the Russians were right. He was going to call Turgeneva and ask her to inform Robin and Hannah about his whereabouts and his fate. He frowned and opened his mouth to word an excuse about how they had misunderstood him, but Varenkov returned his headshake. “Let me tell you one of our tricks, Saint, so that you can understand what we mean. You have this expression that says ‘A picture is worth a thousand words,’ right? So, whenever we send a picture of a person, the position in which the operative appears tells us a lot more than any words. If the operative is standing, that means ‘Nothing has changed. Everything is okay. We can run with this op.’ If the operative is sitting, that means ‘Abort.’ That agent has said not a single word, but the message is clear. And if somehow the picture is intercepted by enemies, well, without the code, the picture is meaningless.”

Saint nodded. “I get it,” he said with a sigh. “You don’t trust me, even though I thought we’re working together, and we want the same thing.”

Katia cast him a sideways glance. “Do you trust us, Saint?” she asked in a cold voice, clearly expecting “no” as an answer.

Saint tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “I trust that our goals align—for the moment.”

“Right, but we need to make certain, absolutely certain, that when you’re out there, holding a gun, you’re not going to point it at us.” Katia’s eyes narrowed, and she gave Saint a measuring look.

“That would be a mistake that can’t be forgiven.” Varenkov shook his head and let out a grunt.

“A mistake that will cost you your life,” Katia said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, yes, I get it. It’s not going to happen. And that’s why I want to show you that I can be trusted.”

“You will. Just not now, and not in this way. But here’s something you can do. Your team. You can convince them to work along with us and follow orders.”

“Not that they really need convincing.” Varenkov’s lips curled into a small smirk. “A gun behind their heads does the job…”

Saint nodded. “I will talk to them.” Maybe there’s a way I can communicate with them what we need to do to get ourselves out of this situation.

“Good.” Katia nodded as she studied Saint’s face for a long moment. “As long as you don’t try to stab us in the back, Saint, everything will work out well. At the end, after this op is completed, you’ll get back your freedom. You have our word. And you can trust us on that.” She stressed the word “can,” and her voice took on a firm tone.

Katia’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable weighing with a cold finality. He knew full well that even if he played the Russians’ game and followed their orders, they still wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate him the moment he outlived his usefulness. He shrugged. He had done that in the past. Poetic justice, he thought and shook his head. But for now, survival requires cooperation. If I want my freedom, I’ll have to fight for it. He tightened his hands almost instinctively.

Varenkov opened his mouth to say something, but Katia’s phone rang. She quickly glanced at the screen, then said something to Varenkov. He silently approached her, and they both studied her phone for a few seconds. They exchanged a few muted words, then Varenkov looked at Saint. “We’ve got the intel,” he said flatly, his tone cold as steel. “It’s time you made yourself useful…”

Saint’s pulse quickened. “What’s going on?”

Katia gave him a sharp look but didn’t respond immediately. She glanced at the screen again and began to type furiously. A tense silence lasted for about a minute, as Saint studied Varenkov’s poker face, then Katia said, “Change of plans. Darwish has been tracked to a house in the northern outskirts of Damascus. He’s meeting a government official there.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know. Someone important, apparently. We’ll sort that out later.”

“So, we’re hitting him there?”

Varenkov shot him a curious look. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Saint’s face twisted with doubt. “Without recon?”

“Oh, our agents have done sufficient recon. Low security since this is a secret meeting. Now, it’s time for us to jump into action.” Katia sprang to her feet and walked to one of the desks. “Let me show you.”

The three of them huddled over the phone. Katia had pulled up a map of the area. From the bird’s-eye view, northern Damascus presented a stark contrast to the dense city’s sprawl. A remote house stood in the expanse of barren, sandy terrain with scattered patches of dry shrubs.

“This is the location.” She pointed to a red dot right next to the house. A narrow, dirt road led to it. “It’s two stories, with high walls. Very safe compound. We have some pictures. I’ll show you,” she said. “The nearest houses are here and here.” She pointed at two spots. “About one hundred yards away.”

“What’s here?” Saint pointed near an area between the target house and the nearest one.

“Nothing. The land hasn’t been developed yet. Dirt, debris, trash.”

“And there may be cars in the area, kids, people. It’s still Damascus,” Varenkov said gruffly.

“What is the security like?” Saint asked.

“Darwish has only two guards. His most trusted personal bodyguards. The government official has another two.”

“And how many do we have?”

“Your team has four. The two of us, plus four other guys,” Katia replied. “And we have the advantage of surprise.”

Saint studied the area. The landscape northeast of the property stretched into barren lands that looked like agricultural plots. “This could be a possible exit.” He pointed to a curving line that represented a narrow dirt road. “Can you zoom out?”

Katia did so.

“What’s that?” Saint asked, pointing to a large flat-roofed structure.

“Looks like a warehouse,” Varenkov replied.

“We’ll have our agents check,” Katia said.

“But we’re not leaving in that direction,” Varenkov said. “We should get in through here, the road that leads to the front of the house.” He tapped the screen.

Katia nodded. “Your team will cause the distraction.” She looked at Saint. “Pretend to attack the house. As Darwish is being extracted—either out the back or the front, we’ll have both sides covered so it doesn’t matter—we’ll pick him up.”

Saint’s frown grew deeper. “His team will misunderstand our attack. Plus, I thought he was your agent. There should be an easier way to get him out. Unless… unless he doesn’t want to get out.”

Katia gave him a sideways glance. “Are you calling us liars?”

Varenkov glared at Saint.

“No, but something doesn’t fit. If Darwish is really working for you, he will understand you want to extract him.”

Katia shook her head. “Well, some people are just difficult. Even when you explain the situation to them, and the consequences of their actions, they still stubbornly refuse to accept that their fate is sealed.” Her intense gaze remained on Saint.

“We’re still talking about Darwish, right?”

“Sure.” Katia shrugged.

“So what happened with him?”

Varenkov shook his head. “None of your business.”

Katia said, “We had a disagreement, but it’s irrelevant to this conversation.”

Saint began to shake his head but realized he couldn’t say or do anything to change their mind. So he said nothing.

Katia said, “Now, we’ll meet with everyone in ten minutes, get into our vehicles, and head to the target house. It’s fifteen minutes away. According to our man on the ground, Darwish arrived five minutes ago. He should still be there when we get to the house. If there’s any movement, he’ll let us know.”

Varenkov said, “We’ll hit the house as soon as we get there.”

“We’ll go over the details of the plan once we’re all here and explain everyone’s job. Any questions?” Katia looked at Saint.

“No.” He shook his head.

“Good. It goes without saying that at the first sign of trickery, I will kill you, Saint. Execute you with my own hand.” Katia’s voice was razor-sharp and devoid of any emotion. It was as if she was talking about taking out the trash. There was a predatory look in her sharp eyes.

Saint barely breathed. A slow, crawling cold spread through his chest. It wasn’t fear, as he had faced much more threatening situations many times. The deep feeling was that of recognition of inescapability from this situation. He felt like a trapped animal. His pulse thumped faster, and he felt his carotid artery throbbing on the side of his neck.

Saint held Katia’s gaze, refusing to flinch, stifling the feeling of doom rising up from the pit of his stomach. Almost subconsciously, his mind began to prepare for their strike. He drew in a deep, calm breath, his façade strong and his resolution as unwavering as ever. He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. Then, finally, he spoke a single word, “Understood.”

Chapter Sixteen

Outside Darwish’s Safehouse

Northern Damascus

Syria

The first thought that popped into Saint’s mind was to turn his AK-19 rifle to the two Russians standing next to him. All it would take was a couple of bullets at the back of their heads. But that wouldn’t help his situation. It would facilitate his escape, for sure, but he still needed to get to Darwish.

According to Katia’s plan, Saint and the two goons with him would cause a diversion. They’d attack the safehouse’s back entrance. Darwish and the government official would be, most likely, rushed through the front of the house, the safest route. That’s when Katia and her team, which included Saint’s former team members, would intervene.

Saint still couldn’t make sense of what he referred to as a “hostile extraction.” It was clear that Darwish didn’t want to be extracted. So why insist on getting him out alive? What do the Russians want from him?

Saint was positioned about a hundred yards away from the safehouse. They had stopped at the corner of a single-story cinderblock house, the nearest to the safehouse, and were observing it. A black SUV was parked near the back entrance, a small brown gate. Two guards were smoking and pacing near the vehicle.

“There could be at least one more, perhaps two in the SUV,” he whispered to Ivanov, the nearest operative, a tall, muscular man with a bald head.

He nodded and cocked his head to Pavlov, who was standing near the cinderblock wall. He was a few inches shorter than Ivanov, but as fit as him. “We’ll kill the guards first, then wait. If someone gets out of the SUV, we hit them too,” Ivanov said in a low voice in English with just a slight hint of an accent.

Saint nodded. It was a good plan that kept their exposure to a minimum. “Katia should give us the green light soon.”

He glanced at his phone, which just beeped with the arrival of a text message. “In position. Strike!”

“That’s her.” Saint showed Ivanov the message.

Ivanov nodded, but pulled out his own phone. He checked it, then nodded at Saint. “She messaged me too. Let’s do this.” He ordered in a strong voice. “You take the left Beard; I got the one on the right,” he added, referring to the bearded guards.

Saint nodded. He lifted the silencer-equipped AK and stepped around the corner. He aimed his rifle at the guard, who was glancing at his phone. Saint tapped the trigger once, sending a round into the guard’s head. He dropped to the ground, dead.

Ivanov had dropped to one knee next to Saint. The Russian fired a couple of rounds about two seconds after Saint. Ivanov’s rounds struck the other guard in the chest and neck. He slammed against the SUV, then crumpled next to it.

Saint turned his rifle at the SUV and waited for someone to get out of the vehicle. Nothing happened for a few tense seconds. If there’s someone there, they’ve noticed what’s going on. And they’ve warned Darwish.

He glanced down at Ivanov, whose rifle, too, was aimed at the SUV. Then, Saint took one step back and turned to Pavlov. “Is there anything—”

His words were cut off by a couple of rounds hammering the far side of the wall. A long burst followed as Ivanov dropped behind it for cover. Cinderblock slivers flew inches away from him.

“You okay?” Saint asked him.

Ivanov nodded. “I’m good. It has started.”

Saint nodded. We’ll have to see if Katia’s calculations are correct…

More rounds pounded the wall behind them.

Saint exchanged a look with Ivanov and Pavlov. Both Russians were relaxed, but held their rifles ready for action. Saint wondered about the situation at the front of the house. He strained his ears but didn’t hear distant gunshots.

Darwish’s guards would surely check to make sure it was all clear before moving him. But Saint didn’t like those few seconds of delay. Could his guards choose to make a run for it through the back exit? That would happen if they noticed Katia’s team.

The pause in gunfire continued as he considered voicing his thoughts. Then, long volleys came from what sounded like the front of the house. The SUV’s rumble cut through the air.

“What’s going on?” Ivanov asked. “Are they leaving?”

Saint shrugged. He dropped onto the dusty ground and slid toward the corner of the wall. He peered around it for just a split second. Two more guards had materialized next to the SUV. One of them was looking at the back exit and waving at someone. A black truck was coming from up ahead, seemingly from the other side of the house.

One of the guards opened fire at Saint. A couple of rounds hit the wall very close to his face. Slivers pricked his ear and the side of his face, but he still returned fire. He missed, but his three-round burst forced the guard to hide behind the SUV.

The other guard too disappeared inside the house’s yard.

The truck driver kept going and a man slid half of his body through the front window. He aimed a rifle at Saint and opened up with a long volley. His bullets were off the mark, hitting the wall a few feet away from Saint.

He turned his AK at the truck and fired at the gunman. He didn’t get him as Saint’s bullets struck the front grille of the truck and the windshield. “Reinforcements,” he shouted at his teammates. “They’re getting Darwish out this way.”

“You sure?” Ivanov asked.

“Positive.” Saint nodded as he fell back behind the wall.

Gunfire bursts erupted from the gunmen. Bullets hammered the side of the wall, with some ricocheting off the ground.

Saint said, “Two gunmen, more arriving in a truck. The SUV’s ready, waiting for Darwish.”

“We can’t let him go,” Ivanov replied.

“How are we getting him out alive?”

The Russian snorted. “Alive? Who said that?”

Saint shook his head. “Never mind. We can’t stay here.”

As if to confirm his words, another volley pummeled their position.

“Car.” Pavlov gestured with his hand to their white BMW sedan parked about ten yards behind them. “Stop them exit,” he added in broken English.

Saint nodded. He didn’t think they had enough firepower to stop the four gunmen and whoever else would be coming out of the safehouse. But they also couldn’t let Darwish and the government official escape. Where’s Katia?

Ivanov said something to Pavlov in Russian, and he sprinted toward the BMW. When Saint looked inquisitively at Ivanov, he said, “Pavlov’s getting the car. We’ll stop them.”

The SUV’s engine roared. Saint looked over his shoulder toward the SUV. He couldn’t see it, because they were still behind the wall, but he could figure out what was going on. “We may be too late.”

“No, we’re not late.” The Russian’s eyes burned with rage.

Ivanov stepped out in the open.

“No, don’t,” Saint shouted.

Ivanov tapped his rifle’s trigger. He fired a long volley, holding the rifle steady with both hands.

Saint couldn’t see if the Russian was hitting any of the targets, but he couldn’t let Ivanov face the opposition alone. Saint moved next to Ivanov and fired at one of the gunmen standing by the SUV, hitting him in the chest. He collapsed next to the SUV, which kept coming toward them.

Saint and Ivanov concentrated their firepower on the SUV’s driver. Saint had no idea if Darwish was in the SUV or in the truck—which was right behind the SUV—but at this point, he didn’t really care. In the fight for their lives, it was kill or be killed.

A gunman appeared at the window behind the SUV’s driver. He squeezed off a quick burst. A few rounds whizzed next to Saint and Ivanov’s heads, but mostly were erratic. However, one of them struck Ivanov in the chest, right above his bulletproof vest. Blood spurted out of the wound, and he fell to the side.

Saint flinched as his teammate went down. He glanced at the Russian writhing on the ground, clutching at his chest. Then Saint’s eyes flitted to the advancing SUV, closing in. Five more seconds, and Ivanov would be run over.

Saint dashed toward the downed Russian as bullets flew all around him. He grabbed the man by his vest and dragged him out of harm’s way. They both rolled onto a small ditch on the other side of the dusty road.

A moment later, the SUV zipped next to them. A gunman opened fire at Saint and Ivanov. The first rounds missed them, then one grazed the back of Saint’s bulletproof vest.

He felt like someone had hit him with a large hammer. Sharp pain seared down his spine, spreading across his back. He kept his head down, praying no other rounds would hit him.

The truck raced behind the SUV. A volley poured out of a gunman’s rifle, hitting around Saint. Two rounds struck his rifle’s metal stock. Another one slammed into Ivanov’s back, and one more struck him in the side. The Russian groaned as blood oozed out of the wound.

As the truck passed him by leaving a trail of dust behind, Saint looked up. He aimed his rifle at the truck, but he couldn’t see anything. His chances of hitting the driver were slim to none. So he sighed and looked at Ivanov.

The Russian’s face had started to go pale and clammy as the blood was draining from his body. His lips trembled, parted slightly as if trying to form words. “I’m… eh…”

“Shhhh, don’t say anything. We’ll get you help. Pavlov, hey, Pavlov!” Saint called out.

A sheen of sweat glistened on Ivanov’s forehead. His eyes, wide and unfocused, darted aimlessly before beginning to dull, the spark of awareness flickering like a dying flame.

The BMW came to an abrupt stop next to Saint. Pavlov jumped out of the vehicle and dashed toward Ivanov. He held the man’s head, then cried out something in Russian.

Saint didn’t understand a word, but the pain and desperation was clear in Pavlov’s voice. His eyebrows were drawn tight, deep lines creasing his forehead. He let out a couple of short, uneven gasps, then clenched his jaw.

“You know what to do, right?” he asked the Russian. “How to save his life?” He doubted Ivanov’s life could be saved, but he couldn’t say that to Pavlov.

The Russian nodded and ran to the BMW. He popped the trunk and began to rummage in it.

Saint glanced at Ivanov. His jaw slackened, and his breath turned shallow and ragged. A faint gurgle escaped as his body struggled against what seemed to be the inevitable end.

A loud rumble came from up the road. Saint looked in that direction. A gray Nissan sedan sped toward them. He recognized it as the vehicle Katia and Varenkov had been driving to the front of the safehouse.

Saint climbed to his feet, then ran to the sedan as it skidded to a halt. Katia was behind the steering wheel. She had already rolled down the window and shouted at him, “What happened here?”

“They took off. Didn’t see Darwish though. And Ivanov’s down.” He gestured toward the ditch. “Where’s Varenkov?”

Katia looked in that direction, but didn’t answer his question. “Is he dead?” she said in an emotionless tone.

“Seriously wounded. Pavlov’s trying to help him.” He cocked his head toward the BMW.

Pavlov was carrying what looked like a first aid kit as he rushed to Ivanov.

Katia asked, “Will he make it?”

“Not sure. Not if he doesn’t get proper medical attention ASAP.”

“I’ll make sure that happens.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call someone. Varenkov’s wounded too. But get in. We’re going after Darwish.”

“Did you see him?” Saint opened the sedan’s door.

Katia nodded. “He got in the truck. Backseat, passenger side.”

“Still need him alive?”

“Yes.”

“You know he doesn’t want to be extracted, right?”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Katia frowned and stepped on the gas. “I don't care what Darwish wants. We're taking him—one way or another.”

Chapter Seventeen

Outside Darwish’s Safehouse

Northern Damascus

Syria

The Nissan sedan lost traction for a moment and swerved. Katia tightened her grip and straightened out the steering. A plume of dust came from up ahead, so they knew the targets were still there.

“Why doesn’t he want to be extracted?” Saint asked as he shifted in his seat.

“Not now, Saint.”

“You’re trying to kill him?”

“Not now.” She stressed the last word and tightened her jaw. A muscle twitched just beneath the surface.

Before Saint could say anything, a few rounds struck the front of the Nissan. A couple ricocheted and grazed the windshield, but didn’t crack it. Katia turned the wheel, and the Nissan bounced over the broken road, full of potholes.

“How do you want to do this?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Katia replied without looking at him.

“You want Darwish alive, but they’re trying to kill us.”

“So?”

“That makes our task almost impossible.”

“Almost. That’s why we’re here, Saint, not because things are easy.”

Saint sighed. He slid the rifle out the window and leaned against the door. He aimed the rifle at the curtain of dust, but didn’t fire it. He couldn’t see the target, and he doubted he’d hit the tires if he fired blindly. I’m more likely to kill or wound Darwish.

He coughed as dust engulfed their vehicle. Katia tapped the brakes as they came to a few rocks and trash on the ground, then yanked at the wheel to make the tight turn.

Saint kept the rifle aimed at the still unseen target. The dirt road soon enough would turn to asphalt.

Katia slowed down to avoid flattening a couple of children that dashed carelessly in front of the Nissan. She turned the steering wheel to the left as an old woman shuffled behind the children. A battered taxi began to back up onto the road from the right side. She slammed on the horn, but the driver either didn’t hear it or didn’t care. He kept backing up.

Katia stepped on the gas and drove further to the left. The Nissan jerked forward and squeezed past the taxi just as its fender brushed against the side of the sedan.

The dust began to thin as the vehicles were now speeding through a narrow and crooked asphalt road. The shape of the truck slowly came into view. Saint aimed his rifle and fired a quick volley. A few of his rounds lifted sparks from the truck’s tailgate. He thought at least one or two rounds also struck the right tire, but the truck didn’t stop or slow down. In fact, it picked up speed as the road sloped down.

“Hit the tires, the tires!” Katia shouted at him.

“Yes, what was I thinking?”

Saint realigned his rifle with the right tire, but before he could open fire, a gunman popped up in the truck’s backseat. He thrust the barrel of a rifle through the small opening of the back window and opened up with a quick burst. A couple of rounds pierced the windshield right in the middle.

Katia lowered her head and turned the wheel.

Saint fired his rifle, but missed.

The gunman kept his finger on the trigger. More rounds skimmed the Nissan’s hood. Two—maybe three; Saint wasn’t sure—pierced holes near the top of the windshield.

He aimed his rifle at the gunman and squeezed off a couple of rounds. At least one of them hit him. His volley stopped, and he disappeared inside the truck.

“Now! The tires!” Katia hollered.

Saint lowered his rifle and fired again. Single rounds, calculated, focused. The first round missed, but the second hit the right-side tire, blowing it up.

The truck dropped down, then fishtailed. The screech of rubber against the cracked asphalt sliced through the chaos. The driver fought for control, yanking the wheel desperately, but the ruined tire gave way, dragging the vehicle into a deadly spin.

The back of the truck slammed into the crumbling wall of the nearest house with an ear-splitting crash. The impact sent a shockwave through the truck’s frame. The truck spun around, then flipped onto its driver’s side in a deafening roar of twisting metal. It rolled one more time and settled on its crumpled roof.

Glass exploded in all directions. One of the gunmen in the back of the truck was hurled through the truck’s shattered windshield. The rest of the crew didn’t fare much better. They hung upside down like bats.

Katia hit the brakes, bringing the Nissan to a sudden stop. Saint reloaded and re-aimed his AK at the truck. He peered and noticed Darwish dangling from the seatbelt.

Katia had seen him too. “There’s Darwish.” She pointed and pulled out her Russian-made Lebedev PLK 9mm pistol. “Go get him.”

Saint nodded. He stepped out of the Nissan and hurried toward the wreckage with steady, deliberate steps. His pulse was a steady drumbeat in his ears. He raised his rifle as he covered all angles, moving the rifle swiftly from left to right. A couple of men were observing the scene from behind the windows of one of the houses. An old man was standing by an open door about ten yards away from the rolled over truck.

Katia fired at the truck driver and the gunman in the front passenger seat. The driver remained hanging from his seatbelt, like a hooked fish. The gunman had already dropped onto the ground and had reached for his rifle. Katia’s bullets ended his life.

The acrid stench of burnt rubber and gasoline hung thick in the air. Smoke curled from the crumpled hood. Saint reached the truck just as a couple of gunmen stepped out of the SUV, which had stopped about thirty yards away from the truck. They pointed their rifles at the truck, but didn’t open fire.

Through the shattered window, he spotted Darwish, who was trying to free himself from the tangled seatbelt. Darwish’s face was streaked with blood. A deep gash ran from his left temple halfway down his jaw. His breaths were coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The man’s right shoulder was soaked in crimson, his gray shirt darkened by the blood oozing from fresh wounds. His eyes flickered with pain, unfocused, dazed, but still alive.

Darwish locked eyes with Saint and gave him a worried look. He said a few words in a weak, shaky voice.

Saint shook his head and began to unhook Darwish’s seatbelt.

“Are you American? CIA?” Darwish asked.

Saint ignored his questions and studied the face of the man slumped awkwardly, the supposed government official. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle. He was in his late thirties, or early forties, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. Glass shards glistened on his scalp and forehead, with trickles of blood running down and pooling against the fractured roof. The man moaned, then coughed, and asked Saint in a firm tone, “You speak English?”

Saint said nothing.

He looked up at the two gunmen securing positions next to the SUV. They hadn’t opened fire but kept their rifles trained at the truck.

Saint glanced at Darwish and pulled free the seatbelt’s twisted buckle. The Syrian fell onto the roof with a loud thud and a deep sigh. “Get out. Now!” Saint ordered him.

“So you are American?” Darwish said.

The official studied Saint’s face as he tried to release the seatbelt. “Who are you with?”

Saint tugged on the seatbelt, freeing the official. He dropped onto the ground and gasped as something sharp cut into his back. Before he could say anything else, Saint grabbed him by the shoulder. “Out. Now!”

Katia fired a couple of rounds, seemingly at the gunmen standing by the SUV. Saint looked up as they fell back, seeking shelter behind the vehicle. They’re not going to fire if they’re worried about hitting Darwish and the government guy.

Darwish had already climbed to his feet and was leaning against the side of the truck. He blinked sluggishly at Saint, then coughed out blood. Saint stepped next to him, then helped the official wearing a dark blue suit to his feet. “This way!” He ushered them toward the Nissan with his rifle.

“Where are you taking us?” Darwish asked.

Saint gave the man a cold gaze. “Get going!” He pushed the man with the rifle’s muzzle and stayed very close to him. If one of the gunmen tried to fire at Saint, they’d have to be extremely lucky to hit him.

The government official was a couple of steps away from Saint. “Look, this isn’t what you think it is,” he said in English with just a hint of a sharp accent that Saint couldn’t place. “Whatever it is—”

“Shut up! Just shut it!” Saint shot back.

Katia fired a few more rounds from her pistol, then waved at Saint and the captives. They were now almost halfway to the Nissan.

Darwish said, “If you let me go—”

“Not happening,” Saint cut him off and shoved him forward.

He glanced over his shoulders at the gunmen but couldn’t see them. Katia reloaded her pistol and fired a few more rounds. When Darwish and the official were a few feet away, she gave Darwish an intense look. “Rough landing,” she said in a mocking tone.

The Syrian cursed out loud. “I should have known it was you, you—”

Katia punched him hard in the stomach. Darwish folded over and coughed out blood. “Put him in the backseat,” she told Saint. “And who are you?” She turned to the official.

“Imran Mahmoud. I work as an advisor for the president,” he replied in a low, respectful tone.

“Just an advisor?” Her eyes searched his face with quiet suspicion. “An advisor that has two bodyguards? We’ll see about that?”

Mahmoud said, “I’m not sure what you want from him,” nodding at Darwish, “but I’m not involved at all—”

“We’ll deal with that later. Get in the car now.” She shoved him toward Saint and turned her attention to the gunmen.

Saint cast a look over his shoulder for just a moment. The gunmen were still hiding behind the SUV.

First, he pushed Darwish inside the car, then did the same with Mahmoud. “We’re ready,” he told Katia as he shut the Nissan’s rear door.

“Good. Get in, and let’s get out of here.”

Saint slid into the front seat and turned to face the captives. As he did so, he pulled out a pistol, the same Lebedev model as Katia, who had given it to him. “Sit still, stay quiet, and you might live through this,” he told them.

Katia yanked open the door, got in, and threw the Nissan into reverse. She turned her head and began to drive, slowly at first, since a group of men had spilled onto the road. One or two of them were taking pictures of the scene unfolding in front of them, while others were shouting and making wild gestures with their arms.

She hit the horn. “Get out of the way. Out, you idiots!”

The Nissan picked up speed, as Katia gripped the steering wheel. She maneuvered the car with practiced skill, her movements swift and precise.

Then a couple of black sheep shot from the left.

Katia slammed onto the gas as the furry creatures disappeared under the trunk.

A moment later, they reappeared on the other side of the car, as oblivious as when they had first showed up.

Katia heaved a sigh of relief. She slammed the foot on the gas pedal as she looked through the rear windshield for a place where she could turn. A small alleyway came up to her left, so she went for it.

She turned the steering wheel sharply. The Nissan’s rear tires skidded slightly as she backed into the tight alley. The grayish plastered walls on either side loomed close, barely giving her enough room to maneuver. Katia’s hands were steady, her eyes scanning the side mirrors with precision.

The instant the Nissan’s nose cleared the road, she shifted gears with a swift, practiced motion and slammed the accelerator. The tires screeched as the car jerked forward, kicking up dust and debris. She twisted the wheel hard to the right, sending the Nissan into a tight turn as it shot out of the alley and back onto the road.

Behind them, distant gunfire rang out. A couple of rounds thumped against the back of the Nissan.

Saint bit his lip. If one of the tires blew up, that would make their escape harder. They’re not close enough, he thought, but couldn’t be certain. “Faster, faster!” Saint said, his voice calm but firm.

“I know, I know!” Katia snapped back, already pressing the gas to its limit. The engine growled in response as she raced down the empty road. She kept her left hand on the horn, blasting it to clear the road from a few curious onlookers standing just outside the doors to their houses.

Another turn was coming up. Saint tried to visualize the map of the area, which they had studied in detail as they prepared for the operation. It was one of the ways out of the neighborhood. In this situation, their best way out. “There, there. Take that turn!” he shouted.

“Got it, got it,” Katia replied calmly.

She yanked the wheel again, sending the car sliding through the curve with razor-sharp control. The tires gripped the asphalt, and the Nissan shot forward like a bullet.

A few other cars were on the two-lane road in front of them, but they were moving fast. Katia made another right turn two blocks away, followed by a left. They were out of the danger zone.

Saint glanced over his shoulder. No one was following them. He drew in an easier breath and shifted in his seat to face Katia. Okay, so we got Darwish. What are we going to do with him now?

Chapter Eighteen

Outside Damascus

Syria

Damascus had disappeared behind them, swallowed by the smog and the low hanging clouds. Outside, the hot air was thick with dust, and the sun baked the earth. Waves of heat shimmered off the cracked asphalt, blurring the horizon in a restless, hazy mirage. They drove through desolate stretches of open land and scattered buildings. Skeletal trees and heaps of trash dotted the landscape every now and then.

Inside the Nissan, tension hung heavy in the air, suffocating.

Darwish’s body was coiled tight, his breath coming in shallow bursts. Blood had crusted the side of his face, and he was sitting in such a way as to not put any pressure on his slumping injured shoulder. Once in a while, a tremble would go through his body.

Saint suspected it wasn’t just the pain and the shock. There was something deeper, more evil that was gnawing at him. Darwish had recognized Katia, and she had welcomed him with a punch in the gut. The Syrian had tried a couple of times to convince them to let him go. Katia had threatened to shoot him if he didn’t shut up. Eventually, Darwish had stopped, seemingly resigned to his fate.

Mahmoud appeared to be more relaxed. He had only asked about the identity of Katia and Saint. They had refused to answer, of course, but he seemed to be content to know they spoke English. “At least we can communicate,” he said at some point in a hopeful tone.

“Well, let me communicate this: Shut up, or you’ll end up like him.” Katia gestured toward Darwish.

“And what will that be?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Saint looked at her, but Katia shook her head. Not here; not now, her stern look told him.

He looked over his shoulder and studied Darwish’s face. The Syrian wasn’t just afraid. He’s desperate. Are the Russians trying to kill him? But if that was the objective, why rescue him? We could have killed him during the chase. Or do it now. He frowned and shrugged, disliking the uncertainty. What’s going on?

Up front, Katia gripped the wheel tightly, focusing on the road ahead. Once in a while, she looked to the left. She was searching for something.

The meeting point, Saint thought. When he had asked her, Katia had simply said it was up ahead. That was five minutes ago.

He thought about asking her again, but just then Darwish leaned forward. “Katia, listen to me for a moment.” His voice was low, but urgent.

“You talk too much,” Katia replied in an annoyed tone.

“Please.” He pressed. “You don’t have to do this. You can let me go. We can still—”

“That’s not going to happen, and you know it. Now, shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”

Darwish’s hand’s trembled slightly. He swallowed hard and shook his head. “Whatever they told you, it was all lies. I haven’t done anything that—”

“I saw the files, Darwish. I saw them with my own eyes. It’s clear you’re a traitor.”

Saint’s face went rigid, his usually controlled expression cracked for just a fraction of a second. His eyes, sharp and calculating, widened ever so slightly—a flicker of disbelief flashing through them. “Traitor?” he said in a cold voice. “The story changed from extracting an asset to him now being a traitor. What’s going on here?”

“I’ll tell you shortly,” Katia said curtly.

A muscle twitched near Saint’s temple, but his lips remained pressed in a firm line. He looked in the rearview mirror, scanning the faces of the two captives in the backseat. Mahmoud had a thoughtful look on his frowning face as his gaze locked onto Darwish, unblinking, as if seeing him for the first time.

“I’ll pay you. Whatever the amount; I’ll give it to you. I have money, more money that you’ll ever dream—”

“Enough! This isn’t about money; it’s about loyalty.”

Darwish shrugged, but the gesture must have caused him a great deal of pain because he winced and flinched. “If it’s not money, then what do you want?”

Katia snorted. “We made it clear what we want—”

“No, I don’t mean the SVR; I mean you.”

Katia reached back and smacked Darwish across his face. “Not another word about my agency!”

Darwish recoiled and shook his head.

“You’re Russians?” Mahmoud’s face twisted in a mixture of surprise and what Saint interpreted as disbelief.

Katia ignored his question. She looked out the window and nodded to herself.

Saint glanced in that direction. A small one-story cinderblock building that looked like a large shack appeared to their left. It was about half a mile away from the road, in the middle of barren land. The shack looked abandoned—or maybe never completed—and half the front wall had collapsed. A large gap was there in place of the door.

Katia turned to face Saint, and he gave her a knowing look. She returned the nod.

Darwish said, “If you don’t want money, I have other things to give. Information, access. You know who I am, and who I will soon be,” Darwish said in a hoarse voice full of desperation. His breathing grew more frantic and audible. “Just tell me what you want—”

“I want you to be quiet, to keep your big mouth shut.”

Darwish opened his mouth and gestured with his right hand, but said nothing. He pursed his lips and lowered his head.

Katia turned onto an uneven dirt road leading to the shack.

Saint looked over his shoulder. No one was behind them. A couple of vehicles kept going on the two-lane road they left behind.

“Where are we headed? What’s happening?” Darwish’s voice cracked with panic.

Katia shook her head.

Saint said to him, “You never learn, do you?”

“She’s going to kill me. If it were you, would you stay quiet?”

He’s got a point there, Saint thought. But is she really going to kill him? Or is she trying to scare him? But for what? To give her intel? She hasn’t asked for anything.

The Nissan kicked up clouds of dust that clung to the sweltering air. Saint mopped the sweat forming on his brow with the back of his hand. He took in the landscape of dry, cracked earth, punctuated by scattered boulders and scraggly shrubs. The back of a black SUV became visible as they drew closer to the shack. He noticed a couple of gunmen positioned inside the shack, standing to the sides. Their rifles were pointed at the Nissan.

“The rest of our team,” Katia said. “End of the line.”

What’s going to happen now, Saint thought. Nothing good for Darwish for sure. But what about me?

Katia brought the vehicle to a stop in front of the shack. The engine rumbled for a few more seconds before she killed it. Dust swirled in the still air, settling in a fine layer over the windshield.

One of the gunmen stepped out of the shack and headed toward the Nissan. He had lowered his rifle, holding it muzzle down. The other gunman remained standing just inside the shack’s doorway.

Katia waved at the gunman, then glanced at Saint. “Let’s get out, and finish this,” she said in a firm voice.

Saint nodded and leaned against the door.

The Russian exhaled and opened her door, which protested with a metallic groan.

Saint stepped out and stretched his shoulders. He held his rifle in a low-ready position. The muzzle was low enough to indicate he presented no threat to Katia’s teammates. At the same time, he was ready to shoot if the situation turned for the worse.

In the backseat, Darwish made no effort to move.

Katia peered at him, then yanked open the back door and leaned in. “Get out!” She ordered him in a calm, yet lethal voice.

Darwish shook his head, his breath shallow, his eyes darting between her and Saint, who had walked around and was standing next to Katia. “Listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me. Get out of the car! Now!”

She reached in and grabbed Darwish by his shirt collar. He tried to resist by pressing himself against the seat, even though he knew it was useless. “You don’t have to do this! Please, no…” He pleaded with her, his voice cracking.

Katia remained untouched. She wrenched Darwish from the car with brutal efficiency. He stumbled, nearly falling to his knees. He leaned against the car and drew in a series of deep breaths.

Mahmoud had already gotten out, knowing he’d suffer the same fate if he resisted. The guard stood behind him, keeping his rifle trained at Mahmoud’s back.

“Move it. Get behind the building.” She gestured with her pistol that she had pulled out of her shoulder holster.

Darwish had finally realized he couldn’t escape his inevitable fate. He shook his head and shuffled slowly in front of her. His eyes no longer darted around in panic—they settled, unfocused, staring past the building as if already seeing the void beyond.

Katia reached for her phone in one of her pants’ pockets. She dialed a number from memory, then began to speak rapidly in Russian. Her voice was calm, but there was a sense of urgency to it.

When they came around the building, the smell of human waste assaulted Saint’s nostrils. He looked at Katia as she stepped in front of Darwish and waved her pistol at him to stop. He stood there, wavering on his feet, fully aware of what was to come.

She looked to her right, at Saint who was a couple of feet away from her. “You don’t need to be here for this. You know what’s going to happen.”

Saint didn’t want to see Darwish’s execution, but he needed to be absolutely sure the Syrian was killed. He had no doubt that Katia wasn’t going to change her mind at the last moment, but still he wanted to have undeniable evidence of what had really taken place. “I’ll stay,” he said dryly.

“Do as you want,” Katia replied in an emotionless tone.

“Can you at least tell me why this is happening? Help me fill in the blanks…”

Katia nodded at him. She spoke rapidly into the phone, then said to Saint, “Sure, I thought everything was… filled in, but here you go: Darwish is a CIA asset. We thought he was working for us, until a week ago, when we discovered the truth. The CIA also realized we knew, so they informed Darwish and wanted to get him out. But Darwish refused. He is stubborn, arrogant, and thinks he’s invincible.”

Nothing Katia said was new to Saint. He had put together that much already. He kept his gaze focused on the Russian, as she stepped closer to him and continued, “That’s why the CIA brought you in. Your true mission was not to assassinate Darwish, but to extract him. One of your team members—Corsini—is actually on the CIA’s payroll.

Saint’s brows twitched, then furrowed deeply. His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as if he had just taken a punch he hadn’t seen coming. “Corsini?” The name came out clipped, as if saying it dirtied his mouth. His shoulders stiffened, and his posture straightened almost involuntarily.

“Yes, he was going to brief you that morning, before we grabbed you.” She smirked. “I guess that moment never happened because Abbas did his job well.”

Yes, maybe too well. Saint made a mental note to settle the score with Abbas, the man who had betrayed him earlier. I wouldn’t be here if it were not for him…

Katia said, “There you have it.”

She turned her back to Saint, spoke a few hurried words in Russian, then turned the phone to Darwish. She handed it to him and spoke in English, “Someone wants to talk to you.”

Darwish picked up the phone with his shaky hand. He kept it in front of his face, his eyes struggling to focus on the screen. He moved it so that it wouldn’t reflect the sunlight.

Saint craned his neck, but he couldn’t see the screen. Then, a strong man’s voice was heard loud and clear, “Omar Darwish. What did I tell you the last time we spoke?” The man spoke in English with a thick Russian accent.

Darwish shrugged and shook his head. “I’m… I… I couldn’t—”

“I told you that if you betrayed us, we would kill you. Do you remember that?”

Darwish’s breath hitched.

“Yes, yes, but you must understand. The Americans, they left me no choice. If they told the president, then all my family would be suffering, tortured—”

“Excuses, just excuses. You had a choice and chose wrong. You gave intelligence to the Americans. You sabotaged our operations. Brave people died because of you. And now, you’ll pay for your treason.”

Darwish almost dropped the phone as his hand—and his entire body—trembled. He clenched his jaw, his eyes glistening. “No, wait—”

“You betrayed us. This is what happens to everyone who betrays Russia.”

Darwish flinched. He shook his head and opened his mouth, but didn’t have a chance to say a single word. Katia placed her pistol at the back of the Syrian’s head.

He swallowed hard and tried to turn his head. “Katia—”

She tapped the trigger, cutting off his words and his life.

Darwish’s head snapped sideways, a fine mist of red bursting into the hot air. His body slumped, lifeless, before it hit the dusty ground.

Saint recoiled at the sight. He knew it was going to happen and had witnessed cold-blooded executions before. Still, there was something unnerving in Katia’s demeanor and her gestures.

Something that rang the alarm bells in his mind. You could be next!

That caused him to raise his rifle and press it against Katia’s back. “Drop the gun,” he shouted. “Or I will kill you.”

Chapter Nineteen

Outside Damascus

Syria

Two things happened before Saint had even finished his words: First, the gunman nearest to him turned his rifle at Saint. Second, the other gunman aimed his rifle at Saint as well, aiming it at his head.

Katia hadn’t dropped her pistol and hadn’t turned around either. Still, she knew her goons were in position. “Saint, you’re bluffing,” she replied in a calm voice. “If you tap the trigger, you’ll be dead.”

Saint’s finger remained on the trigger, steady, deliberate, his body coiled like a spring. His palms were sweaty, and his mind was heavy with the burden of his decision. Two rifles were aimed at him—one at his side, the other at his head—but his focus stayed razor-sharp. His odds weren’t good, but he had been in worse situations.

“That might happen,” Saint said in a measured voice. “But you’ll have a bullet in your heart. If I go down, I’ll take you with me.”

Katia said nothing for a long moment. Her pistol was still raised, and she didn’t move a muscle.

Saint could see her mental gears at work though, weighing possibilities, probabilities.

A moment later, she began to turn around. She still held the pistol.

“The gun! Drop it.” Saint pressed the rifle harder in her back and stepped to the right.

“What do you want, Saint?” She stopped, turned her head, and looked over her shoulder. Something flickered in her faze. Not fear, because Katia didn’t do fear. It was a calculation. She was determining if she could strike a deal with Saint that would save both their lives.

“Put the gun down,” he said slowly and clearly. “Tell your lackeys to do the same. Third, I walk out of here alive, and Mahmoud comes with me.”

Mahmoud cocked his head and blinked at Saint, who exchanged a quick look with him and the gunman standing next to the Syrian. The Russian’s eyes were glued to Saint’s face, and his rifle remained pointed at Saint’s head.

A tense silence reigned for a few seconds, shattered only by a couple of large flies buzzing through the scorching heat. Then Katia exhaled loudly through her nose a slow, deliberate breath. “Really? Why do you want him?”

“You got what you wanted. Darwish is dead for his betrayal—”

“And you reached your objective. You came to Syria to assassinate him. Well, he’s dead.” Her voice was smooth, as if they were having a normal conversation.

“Right, but I still need to get out of Syria in one piece. Mahmoud is my ticket out. If he’s the president’s advisor, he has connections.”

“We can get you out without a scratch.” She turned a couple of inches.

“Thanks, but no thanks. The pistol. Drop it!” He shifted his body weight to his other foot, turning with her.

“You don’t want to do this, Saint. You’re a professional, Saint. Not a reckless fool.”

“Right. That’s why I’m handling this professionally. Your life for mine. A fair trade.”

Katia nodded slowly and began to lower her pistol. It was just a fraction, and her move was controlled, intentional.

The two Russians didn’t lower their rifles.

Saint didn’t ease up either.

Katia tried to lock eyes with him, giving him a measuring glance. “Saint, you don’t really want to die here, do you?” She gestured faintly with her free hand. “We can all walk away from this, yes? You go your way; we go ours. Yes?”

Saint's jaw tightened slightly; a flicker of tension visible in the muscle near his cheekbone. He didn’t like the change in Katia. Is she trying to trick me? Or is she trying to save face?

“You’re assuming I trust you.” His eyes, sharp and assessing, remained locked onto Katia’s, dark with suspicion.

She lowered her pistol another couple of inches, then gestured with her other hand to the guards. They too began to bring down their rifles, following her lead.

Saint’s grip on his weapon remained steady. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, but he didn’t move to wipe it away.

Katia said, “I’m giving you a reason to trust me, Saint. Look, I don’t want to kill you; I never intended to do so. We would have parted as friends at the end of this mission,” she said in what sounded like a very genuine tone. Her voice carried a warmth that made it almost impossible to doubt her sincerity.

Almost.

Katia lowered her pistol all the way, then dropped it by her feet.

“Their turn now,” Saint said. “Tell them.” He cocked his head to the left, keeping the guard on that side in his peripheral vision.

“Put those rifles down,” she ordered them in a cold voice, gesturing with her hands. “Down! Now!”

The guards tossed their AKs on the ground.

“Step back. Away from the guns,” Saint said without looking at them and took two steps back. Both guards and Mahmoud were now in front of Saint and to the sides. “And keep your hands up.”

The guards did as told while Katia turned completely around.

Saint’s rifle was now pointed at her chest, but the AK was just beyond her reach. He doubted she’d try to wrestle the gun away from him, but he needed to be prepared for such an eventuality.

“There you have it, Saint. I’m disarmed…” Her chin remained high; her sharp eyes locked onto Saint’s with unwavering intensity. There was no fear in them—only a cold, simmering defiance, as if surrendering her gun was merely a strategic move, not a true defeat. Her lips curled slightly at the edges, not quite a smirk, but enough to suggest that she wasn’t broken, only biding her time.

“Mahmoud, come here.” Saint called at him.

Reluctantly, the Syrian walked toward Saint.

When Mahmoud was a couple of feet away, Saint said, “Stop there.”

He tilted his head slightly to Katia, who’s searching eyes never left his face. Her posture stayed strong, shoulders squared, back straight. She exhaled slowly, controlled, as if she had expected this outcome all along, and she was still in charge. “Now, what?” she demanded in a strong voice.

“I walk away; you walk away. We’re done. We don’t owe each other anything.”

Katia’s expression remained neutral, but he saw the small flicker in her eyes. “Sounds fair,” she said, but there was a hint of displeasure in her voice.

“My phone. Where is it?” he demanded.

Katia's face twisted into a knowing, smug smile. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as a slight arch of her eyebrow emphasized her amusement. “I thought you’d forgotten all about it…”

“You wish. Hand it to me.”

“I don’t have it, Saint.”

“Where is it?”

“Back at the safehouse. You’re welcome to come with us, and get it.” She smirked.

Saint shook his head. He’d have to do without his phone. “Never mind,” he said. “But I’m taking Mahmoud. Don’t come for him, or for me, or you’ll regret it.”

Katia smirked. “Oh, Saint, do you need to threaten me?”

“Not a threat, just a statement of facts. We have a deal, a new deal. We’re even. We walk away from this, in peace.” He knew “peace” wasn’t the correct word, and it rang hollow.

Katia frowned and snorted. “Right, peace at gunpoint…”

Saint nodded. “It had to be done this way.”

She shook her head. “No, it didn’t.”

Saint shrugged. He wasn’t about to argue, not now that he got what he wanted. His grip on his own gun didn’t waver. The Russians were unarmed, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous.

He began to back away, slowly. He looked at Mahmoud, then gestured with his head for the Syrian to follow him. “Let’s go.”

“One more thing,” Katia said as she took a step forward. “Mahmoud—why do you really want him?”

Saint thought about his answer for a brief moment. The truth was that he didn’t know exactly why he cared for the Syrian. Maybe it was because he didn’t want the man to suffer Darwish’s fate. Or maybe he wanted to better understand Mahmoud’s relationship with Darwish. Or it’s because I don’t want to come out of this entire ordeal empty-handed. If Mahmoud is really a presidential advisor, he’ll have clout, which I can surely use.

Saint shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’s coming with me.”

She studied his face for a long moment. Then, to his surprise, she chuckled. “You always were a stubborn scoundrel.”

Saint ignored her comment. He continued to walk backwards until he was a few feet away from the Nissan. His body remained tense as he turned slightly toward Mahmoud. “Get in,” he told the Syrian, “And drive. Can you do it?”

Mahmoud hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Are you sure?” Saint asked.

“Yes, yes, anything to get us out of here.”

“This isn’t the end,” Katia said in a loud shout, her parting shot. “We’ll meet one day, soon enough, and you’ll regret this.” She folded her arms.

“Maybe, but not today.” He slid in the front seat and kept the AK aimed in the general direction of Katia and her guards.

Mahmoud put the car in reverse and turned the steering wheel. Then he changed gears and tapped on the gas pedal. The car picked up speed as they drove away from the shack.

Saint glanced at the rearview mirror. Katia and her guards rushed toward their weapons. “Faster, faster, faster!” Saint shouted at Mahmoud.

He slammed on the gas pedal as the Nissan bounced over the dips and dives of the dirt road. A curtain of dust began to veil Katia and her guards as they assumed firing positions, aiming their weapons at the car.

Then, a couple of rounds pierced the rear windshield.

Chapter Twenty

Outside Damascus

Syria

Before Saint could say anything, Mahmoud turned the steering wheel. He drove to the left through the scrubland for a few yards, then swung to the right, making them a harder target. Then he went back to the narrow strip of hard-packed dirt that passed for a road.

A few more rounds broke off what was left of the rear windshield’s glass. A couple zipped dangerously close to Saint’s head, but missed both him and Mahmoud. The Syrian glanced at the rearview mirror as Saint looked over his shoulder. The dust curtain had grown so thick that he couldn’t see the attackers.

Peace, Saint snorted. Russian peace.

Another round or two thumped against the Nissan, but the car endured the battering. Mahmoud’s grip on the steering wheel was firm but relaxed. His posture was upright, composed. He pulled onto the two-lane road and turned left, leaving the shack and Damascus behind. Unless the Russians gave chase, they were safe, for now.

Saint studied Mahmoud for a brief moment. “What kind of advisor are you to the president?” he asked in a low voice with a certain amount of doubt in his tone.

“Uh… political advisor. I’m in charge of issues related to neighboring countries, Iraq, Turkey, Jordan.”

“Political?” Saint peered at Mahmoud. “Are evasive driving techniques taught at Syrian universities now?”

“What?”

“You handled the gunfire like a pro. You’ve got skills. How?”

“Uh… survival mode, I guess.”

“No. Where did you learn that?”

“When I was with Ahrar al-Sham,” Mahmoud replied without missing a beat.

Saint nodded slowly, but a frown stretched his face. Ahrar al-Sham was the Islamic Movement of the Free Men of the Levant, once closely associated with the Islamic State in Syria. Ahrar al-Sham was an extremist militant group that had been one of the most effective rebel groups in the fight against the dictator’s regime. The group had often used improvised explosive devices and attacked military bases across Syria for the purpose of securing weapons and ammunition.

“A lot of government officials have a military background,” Mahmoud continued. “We learned how to drive, fight, escape.”

The Syrian’s explanation made sense, but Saint wasn’t fully convinced. It was too much of a coincidence for this political advisor to be such a skilled driver and so composed under pressure. Mahmoud had stared death in the face and hadn’t blinked. Something gnawed at Saint, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

“Let me see your credentials, ID, phone, whatever you have on you.”

Mahmoud’s eyes flickered with suspicion. “Why? Don’t you trust—”

“No, I don’t trust you.” Saint cut him off in a loud voice and pointed his rifle at the Syrian. The barrel of the AK rammed into Mahmoud’s side.

“Hey, hey, what’s that for? We’re on the same side here—”

“Show me your pockets. Now!”

Mahmoud began to shake his head, but Saint stopped him. “Do it, or I will do it for you.”

The Syrian gave Saint an intense look, then closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Fine, sure.”

He reached with his right hand into his jacket pocket and brought out a small, flip phone. It was standard, nothing fancy. Suitable as a burner phone, Saint thought. He took it from Mahmoud and swiped upward across the screen. A message in Arabic letters appeared along with a keypad against a black background. Saint assumed that was to prompt for him to enter the PIN. “What’s the PIN?” he asked Mahmoud.

“Why do you need it?”

“Do I need to spell it out?” He thrust the rifle harder into Mahmoud’s ribcage.

The Syrian winced and slid farther toward the door. His knuckles tightened slightly on the wheel. “Fine, fine. It’s 033078.”

“Your birthday?”

“My wife’s.”

Saint entered the code, and the phone blinked to life. It took a moment for the apps and the widgets to appear, then Saint tapped the message icon resembling a speech bubble. He scrolled through a series of messages. They were all in Arabic, considering the lettering.

Then a string of recent text messages, looking different from the others, caught his eye. The letters were definitely not Arabic. They look more like… like Hebrew.

The realization hit him.

He held the phone up for Mahmoud to see. “What’s this?”

“Text messages?”

“The language.” Saint frowned. “It’s Hebrew.”

“Is it? Do you speak Hebrew?”

“No, but I recognize it. Are you a Mossad agent?”

Mahmoud’s face froze. His dark eyes widened just a fraction. It was barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but enough to betray him. “No, of course not,” he said in a firm voice.

Saint noticed it. “You’re a Mossad agent.”

“Because I have a text message in the Jewish language, which I speak?” He furrowed in thick brows in denial.

“Where did you learn Hebrew? Why?”

“In school. I like languages. I speak English, French, some Italian. What’s wrong with it?”

“I will check this message.” Saint waved the phone. “If you’re lying to me, you’ll be sorry, gravely sorry. So answer me now, to save me time and yourself a great deal of pain. Are you Mossad?”

Mahmoud’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His lips parted slightly, then he coughed to clear his throat. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, gripping it just a little too tightly, knuckles paling. He opened his mouth, but then shook his head. His jaw muscles relaxed, and his face smoothed out, “Fine, fine, Saint. My name is Noam Mizrahi, and I am Mossad.”

Saint exchanged slowly. “What was your business, Mossad’s business, with Darwish?”

Mizrahi shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His gaze flicked to the road ahead, narrowing as they approached a pair of massive oil tanker trucks, their hulking frames blocking most of the lane. He exhaled sharply, then honked twice—short, impatient bursts—before swerving into the oncoming lane.

The road curved ahead, obscuring his view, but he didn’t hesitate. His foot pressed harder on the gas. For a tense moment, Saint’s world closed in, the unknown waiting just beyond the bend.

Then, as luck would have it, the lane remained clear. No vehicles. No screeching brakes. Just an open road. Mizrahi swung the car back into place, exhaling only when the tankers shrank in the rearview mirror.

Mizrahi glanced at Saint and said, “Well, you know Darwish had a history of working for foreign intel agencies. The CIA, the SVR. He was trying to cut off all ties, erase the past, considering he was about to become the powerful minister of interior.”

“And that’s why Mossad was trying to recruit him, so he could become a spy for Israel.”

Mizrahi nodded. “I was so close—this close.” He lifted his right hand, fingers pinched together, emphasizing just how narrowly he had missed. “We were supposed to close the deal at the meeting today.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

Before Saint could ask anything else, Mizrahi added, “But you were right: I’m your ticket out of Syria. I have the right contacts to get us safely out of the country. Both of us. In a matter of hours.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. All it will take is a couple of phone calls. We’re Mossad; we have the people in place,” he said with confidence in his voice.

Saint frowned. He wasn’t sure he could believe or trust Mizrahi. All he had was the man’s word and a string of messages he couldn’t read. They looked Hebrew, and Mizrahi had confirmed that much. But what if he’s lying to me? What if he’s going along with it, but he’s not a Mossad agent? But what agency could he be working for?

“You’re not convinced, are you?” Mizrahi asked.

“It will take deeds, not just words,” he replied slowly and thoughtfully.

“Okay.” Mizrahi nodded. “There’s a safehouse in Qudssaya, one of the western suburbs of Damascus. We’ll go there, and I’ll show you evidence to confirm my words.”

“What if that’s a trap?” Saint said in a wary tone. “An ambush?”

Mizrahi nodded. “We won’t call in advance. And you can get into the safehouse on your own.”

Saint shook his head. “No way I’m letting you out of my sight.”

“Whatever convinces you.”

Saint looked around the cabin. “I’m almost a hundred percent convinced the SVR has put a tracker in here. We need to ditch the car as soon as we can.” He glanced over his shoulder.

No cars were behind them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t being followed. Saint knew better than to trust an empty road. The Russians were patient hunters—they wouldn’t come roaring in, not if there was a tracking device embedded somewhere in the Nissan. Katia and her goons would stay back just far enough to be unseen, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

His grip on the door handle tightened. The shattered rear windshield whistled with the wind, a constant reminder of how close they had come to getting gunned down. He looked at Mizrahi and nodded slowly. “Let’s find another ride. The Russians are still out there, closer than we think they are. I can feel it. We’re not going to wait for them to show up.”

Mizrahi returned the nod. “We’ll take the next exit and find us a new car. Then, we’ll go to the safehouse. Sounds good?”

“Yes. Then, if you’re telling me the truth, we may have a deal.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

Saint snorted. “You have a million reasons to lie to me, Mizrahi, or Mahmoud, or whatever is your real name…”

Mizrahi shot Saint a sharp look, his expression tight with offense, as if he had just been slapped. “Is Saint your real name?”

“Believe it or not, it is.”

“American?”

“Canadian.”

“CSIS or CIS? Or something else?” Mizrahi asked, referring to the Canadian Security Intelligence Service and the Canadian Intelligence Service.

“Something else,” Saint replied dryly. “And how about I ask the questions?”

“Fine.” Mizrahi looked down at Saint’s rifle still poking at his side and let out a tense breath. “Can you get that thing out of my ribs now that we have an understanding?”

“We don’t have an understanding; we don’t have a deal. You’ve offered me something that may or may not be true. Until I’m certain you’re not going to trick me—or worse, betray me—the rifle stays. And, if you try something, you’re as good as dead.”

Mizrahi scrunched up his face. “You’re a hard man, Saint.”

Saint shrugged. Being an assassin was hard, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Mizrahi or anyone else for that matter. Somehow, his mind went to Hannah and their daughter Sarah. One day, I’ve got to tell Sarah about what I do… what I used to do. He shook his head. Not today, though. Not right now. I have more pressing things to worry about at this moment.

He looked at Mizrahi as they came to an intersection, and he turned left. A cluster of stores rose up in the distance. I’m sure we’ll find a car there. And then we’ll see if Mizrahi is telling the truth…

Chapter Twenty-one

Four Seasons Hotel Lobby

Downtown Damascus

Syria

“So no one knows where Darwish is or what happened at that house?” Hannah said in a voice louder than necessary.

She glanced around the hotel’s luxurious lobby. The nearest patrons—three men dressed in dark blue suits she had pegged for diplomats or businessmen—were huddled around their coffees, sitting about ten feet away. They were beyond earshot of her phone conversation, if she kept her voice low.

“Yes, that’s what I said. The police and mukhabarat agents are still at the crime scene. It’s a mess. There was gunfire. A car chase. A few dead and wounded. At this point, it’s difficult to gather any usable information, any real facts,” her colleague said in a dry, indifferent voice.

Hannah cursed under her breath. She had been facing one obstacle after the other ever since she had arrived in Damascus. Rami Rahmani was her colleague at the Interpol’s National Central Bureau. He was meant to assist her investigation into Darwish’s alleged war crimes under al-Assad’s regime. Instead, Rahmani had blocked her at every turn—and hadn’t even arranged the meeting with Darwish she had requested. He had already accepted their offer for an interview, to give them his side of the story after Interpol had agreed to suspend the Red Notice issued for his arrest and extradition. However, the meeting had been postponed twice so far, without any credible explanation.

Even now, when he was dispatched to the crime scene to gather evidence, he was coming up with pathetic excuses. Hannah shook her head. “You’re the government, Rahmani,” she said in a low, but firm voice. “Talk to mukhabarat,” she added, repeating the Arabic word he had used. It meant “intelligence,” and it referred collectively to Syrian intelligence agencies. “Get us intel, something we can work with.”

“Things don’t work like that, Parsons,” Rahmani said gruffly. “This isn’t Europe; Germany.”

“You don’t say.” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “But the agents must have some ideas of what happened. Darwish was about to become minister. He can’t just disappear. Someone must have seen something. And whoever attacked him—assuming this was an attack—must have been someone powerful, with a lot of connections.”

“Are you saying it is someone in the government?” Rahmani asked in the same gruff voice, which had grown louder.

The thought had crossed her mind, but she didn’t have any evidence to back up that conclusion. It could be that someone wanted to eliminate Darwish to cut all ties, real or perceived, with the old bloody regime. Or it could be that another country’s agencies were involved. Hannah had heard rumors of Darwish’s nefarious dealings with Russian and US intelligence services. One of them, or both, could certainly have something to do with this. “I’m not making any accusations, if that’s what you’re implying. All I’m saying is that whoever is behind whatever happened there isn’t your run-of-the-mill criminal.”

Rahmani didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he came back on the line, he said, “So, who could it be then? The Americans? The Israelis?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s something we need to investigate—”

“We don’t have the resources necessary to—”

“We have you and me, Rahmani,” Hannah snapped, cutting him off before he could finish. Her jaw tightened, and a flicker of frustration flashed in her eyes. She leaned forward in the beige armchair, her fingers gripping the armrest as if steadying herself. “We can’t just sit here, waiting for someone while Darwish is gone, possibly dead,” she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper as she said the last word.

She looked around the lobby as a couple in their late fifties or early sixties made their way through the reception area. One of the two male clerks standing behind the white reception desk locked eyes with her but only for a moment, before he looked back at the computer screen in front of him.

“We are working, Parsons, working hard to find out what happened. But there are limitations, restrictions on what we can do—”

Hannah’s pulse quickened. “Restrictions we set on ourselves. Look, I know this is hard, but we have to find out what happened here. Whoever is involved needs to be held accountable—”

“And they will, but this will take time. I have this under control; I am doing all I can here.” Rahmani’s voice rose up in anger and irritation. “Things aren’t easy. You can’t snap your fingers, and get things done. And if another foreign power is involved, especially Americans, things become more complicated. I need to talk to my superiors, colleagues at the Foreign Ministry.”

Hannah let out a heavy sigh and shook her head. Her foot tapped continuously against the marble floor gleaming beneath the chandelier’s soft golden glow. “So, what exactly are you going to do, besides talking?” Her voice came out harsh and accusatory even though that wasn’t her intention. Hannah shrugged. She didn’t mind it.

“Talking—as you call it—is all we can do right now,” Rahmani replied in the same tone.

I wasn’t the one calling it. If I did, I would have called it a waste of time, she wanted to say, but that wouldn’t help anyone and would actually be a waste of time. “Okay, you do that, and let me know how it’s working out for you.” She made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice as her lips curled with a sharp, knowing smirk.

A moment of tense silence, then Rahmani asked, “And what will you do?” His voice came across as a demand, and Hannah had no intention of satisfying him with a definite answer. “I’ll do some talking of my own…” She leaned back in her armchair.

“Oh, and who are you talking to?”

“I don’t know yet.” It was the truth. Hannah’s mind had begun to wonder about the possibilities.

“Nothing illegal, I hope,” Rahmani said in a warning tone.

“Of course, not. I’m not here to break the law, now, am I?” she said matter-of-factly, although her lips stretched into a playful smile.

“I don’t know,” Rahmani said somberly. “I hope you’ll do nothing st… strange.”

Hannah frowned. No, I’m not going to do anything stupid. She shook her head. I’m going to do something smart to get to the bottom of this, since you’re not doing it. “I’ve got to go, Rahmani. Call me once you’ve finished all your talking.”

“Yes, and you do the same.”

“Goodbye now,” she said wryly and hung up.

Hannah sighed, and her lips pressed into a thin line. Her brows knitted together for a brief moment, irritation flickering in her dark eyes, but then—just as quickly—it faded. Relief washed over her like a slow tide. The tension in her jaw eased, and her shoulders, once tight with frustration, loosened ever so slightly. We can, and we will do this without that slimeball. I won’t be burdened down by dead weight…

She thought of a couple of assets she could ask for intelligence. Schäfer, her Interpol teammate, had reached out to them before they had even arrived in Damascus. The two assets had agreed to help. However, Hannah hadn’t pursued them because she wanted to exhaust all official means. Hannah knew that course of action would lead nowhere, but she had to satisfy the request of her Interpol boss, Richter, who wanted to do everything by the book. “Let’s see if we can do this without an international incident,” he had insisted.

Hannah nodded to herself. It’s time to reach out to the assets again.

She pulled out her phone to call Schäfer, but just then she saw him walk through the lobby. Schäfer was tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp, chiseled features—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a straight nose. In another life, he could have easily been a model. His blond hair was neatly trimmed, his skin fair and smooth, and his piercing blue eyes, which were cool and calculating, missed nothing.

Schäfer was dressed entirely in gray, from his fitted shirt to his pants. He looked both effortlessly stylish and completely mission-ready. The fabric hugged his athletic frame, emphasizing the lean muscle beneath. He smiled at Hannah as he stood next to her and said, “Hello, boss.”

Hannah returned the smile. She had told him countless times not to call her “boss,” but Schäfer had always brushed it off with a smirk. “Just got off the phone with Rahmani. Darwish has disappeared!”

“What? How?” He sat next to her.

She told him the gist of what she had learned from Rahmani. “He’s not willing to help, so we’ve got to do this on our own.”

“So, I can make the calls?”

Hannah hesitated for just a moment. “Yes,” she said in a firm voice and gave him a nod.

Schäfer peered deep into her eyes. “And Richter? Is he okay with this?”

Hannah shrugged. “Haven’t talked to him yet. But he’ll be okay. As long as there’s no diplomatic crisis, and we don’t get caught, we should be okay.”

Schäfer nodded reluctantly. “Yes, well, if we engage the assets, our response will be neither ‘measured,’ nor ‘reasonable,’ as Richter wants it…”

Hannah nodded. “Yes, well, we’re beyond that now. If we want to know what happened to Darwish, and if he’s still alive, we need to do what we need to do. What we should have done ever since we got here.” She spoke with a certain amount of regret.

“Okay, well, not all is lost. We’ll figure out what happened to him. If he’s been kidnapped or dead, I can’t say I’ll miss him. He had it coming.”

“Yes, I’m not going to be sorry. Well, maybe a little because whatever happened to him it wasn’t because of us.”

Schäfer smiled. “Who knows, maybe there’s still something we can do to make our trip worthwhile. My hands are itching for some action.” He wrung them together, fingers flexing restlessly. Then he cracked his knuckles, tension coiling in his grip.

“Get it done.” Hannah tipped her head at him. “And let’s get out there ASAP!” She stood up. “I want to know everything about what happened to Darwish.”

“Consider it done.” Schäfer jumped to his feet. “We’ll have all the answers very soon.”

“Yes, and we’ll find him, wherever he is. Dead or alive, it makes no difference.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Mossad’s Safehouse

Qudssaya, Syria

A rough checkpoint formed by a low mound of packed dirt and rusted steel sheets appeared up ahead. Four soldiers wearing olive-drab uniforms stood in front of a whitish truck. Their rifles slung casually over their shoulders, and their eyes scanned the road with practiced wariness.

Thankfully, Saint didn’t have to drive that far. He turned left, a couple of blocks away from the checkpoint, following Mizrahi’s instructions, and headed toward a decrepit five-story apartment building on the outskirts of the small city. A handful of children were playing with a couple of bicycles that looked way too big for them. They looked curiously at Saint and Mizrahi, who were driving an old white Volkswagen sedan. They had “borrowed” it from outside a local fast-food joint, just after slipping into the restaurant’s restroom to wash the blood and grime from Mizrahi’s face and head.

Saint parked as close as he could to the apartment building and looked around. Cracked concrete walls and rusting metal balconies. Four men were standing next to a falafel shop, deeply immersed in some important conversation with the store owner as to ignore everything else around them.

Saint stepped out of the car. He had placed his rifle in the trunk, but had tucked his Lebedev pistol in the small of his back. He cocked his head toward the entrance and gestured for Mizrahi to walk in front of him.

The stairwell smelled of dust and stale water. They climbed five stairs and came to the safehouse on the first floor. A keypad was on the black solid metal door, and Mizrahi punched in a code of four numbers. The door snapped open, and they went in.

The one-bedroom apartment was stripped bare, devoid of any warmth or personal touches. The walls were an uninviting shade of beige, peeling in places where time and neglect had taken their toll. Thick curtains blacked out the windows, so Saint turned on the lights in the living room. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dim, yellowish glow that barely reached the corners of the room.

“I’ve been here only once,” Mizrahi said in a relaxed tone. “But there’s a safe behind the cupboard.” He cocked his head toward the kitchen, to the left.

Mizrahi stepped in that direction and gestured to a whitewashed cupboard over the sink. He opened one of the glass-panel doors. He moved the four ceramic coffee cups and glasses that were on that shelf out of the way. Then, he ran his fingers along the inside panel until he found the hidden latch. He tapped it gently, and, with a muted click, a concealed wooden door swung open.

“Okay, now I’ve got it. Stay back, back!” Saint said.

“Relax, it’s not a—”

“Just move back.”

Mizrahi stepped to the side. “My passports are there, along with cash, a phone, and… a gun.”

“Right, and you were going for the gun?”

Mizrahi pursed back his lips and shook his head. “No.”

Saint moved the door to the side and felt around the safe. He kept his eyes glued to Mizrahi, in case he decided to do something stupid. But he just stood there, observing Saint.

Saint brought out the wad of cash: US and Euro banknotes. About three, four thousand in total. The passports were Canadian and Israeli. The Canadian one had a fake name, while the Israeli one had his real name, Noam Mizrahi.

Saint nodded at Mizrahi. “Okay, it seems you’re telling the truth about being an Israeli… that is if this is authentic.” He waved the navy-blue passport with the menorah and olive branches on the cover.

Mizrahi gave Saint a sideways glance. “Why would I lie about it? About being a Mossad operative in Syria?”

“This still doesn’t prove you’re Mossad.” Saint shrugged.

Mizrahi crossed his arms, a gesture that must have caused him pain, since a wince twisted his face. “All right, so what evidence would convince you? I can make a call. Have someone come and meet us.”

“No, and no.” He reached again in the safe for the phone and the pistol. He brought them out and checked them. The phone was a Samsung model, while the pistol was an H&K VP9 Tactical 9mm. The phone was turned off, but the pistol was locked and loaded. He put the gun inside his waistband, then placed the phone on the kitchen counter.

Mizrahi stared at Saint. “How am I going to prove to you I’m a Mossad agent?”

“The phone.” Saint glanced at it. “What’s the number?”

“I can unlock it for you—”

“No, I want to know the number.”

Mizrahi shook his head. “I know what you’re trying to do. Get someone to access its content. But it’s not going to work because the phone is brand new. Never used it. I can show you.” He took a step closer to the counter.

“No. Don’t touch it.”

“It’s my burner phone—”

“Stop.”

Saint wasn’t sure if the phone was loaded with a tiny amount of explosives. As soon as he touched a button or received a message, that could cause the phone’s detonation, ending up wounding or killing Saint. It was a risk he wasn’t about to take. Or the phone could have a tracker. Either way, it’s staying here.

He studied Mizrahi’s defiant face for a brief moment, then said, “This is what we’ll do. You’ll give me a series of phone numbers, your handler’s and supervisor at Mossad. That’s how I’ll confirm your story.”

Mizrahi began to shake his head, but then nodded slowly. “Okay, Saint. I have to admit that’s smart,” he said reluctantly.

“And I want details about you and them, things I can verify, to make sure you are who you say you are.”

“You’re extremely paranoid, you know that?”

“I know.”

He looked around the kitchen. If this really is a Mossad safehouse, it’s likely wired with cameras or audio devices. They probably already know we’re inside—and a team could be closing in. He frowned as his heart began to pump faster. Maybe coming here was a mistake, but a mistake I can fix.

“We’ve got to go.” He grabbed Mizrahi by the arm.

“Why? Where?”

“Out of here. Right now.”

“No one is coming here, if that’s what you’re worried about. The safehouse isn’t bugged.”

“So you say. Move it!”

“Let me get the first aid kit…”

“Where is it?”

“Cupboard by the entrance.”

Saint took the first aid kit metal box and rummaged through it. When he was certain there were no tracking devices, weapons, or secret compartments, he handed the box to Mizrahi. “Let’s go.”

Out in the car, Saint drove around the apartment block and away from the checkpoint. He began to head back toward Damascus, but planned to turn north and skirt the city.

“Where are we going?” Mizrahi said as he began to work on the wounds on his scalp and forehead. The glass shards had sliced up his skin and had left jagged red trails. He flinched because of the discomfort and pain as he pressed against a deep gash near his temple.

“Somewhere safe.”

“And where is that?”

Saint didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Mizrahi. “You’ll see when we get there. Now, finish up, and get me those phone numbers and concrete details.”

Mizrahi frowned. “I just started…”

“Well, you’ve got five minutes.”

Saint slammed the horn, weaving the car past a sluggish delivery van that barely crawled along the road. The streets of Qudssaya had turned into a chaotic mess—cars jostling for space, mopeds darting recklessly between lanes, and pedestrians stepping into traffic as if blind to the danger.

Before leaving the city, Saint and Mizrahi stopped at an electronic store, since Saint was looking for clean phones. The store owner demanded to see a passport or some kind of ID. Saint had none, so the bald, middle-aged man initially refused to sell them. “No ID, no phone,” he said, pretty much the extent of his English.

“Wait a minute, I found my ID.” Saint pulled out the wad of dollars he had taken from Mizrahi’s safe. “My name is Benjamin.” He showed one of the hundred-dollar bills to the man, before sliding it across the glass counter. “Benjamin America.” Saint grinned. “You can keep that ID.”

The man looked at the banknote, then at Saint, scanning his face. Then, he touched the bill with his rough, calloused fingers and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Then he held it up to the dusty light above the counter and tilted it slightly.

"It's real. Like all of these." Saint laid the bills across the counter, five hundred dollars, including the ID one. “Two phones. Android.”

The owner grunted, then scooped the money off the counter in a quick, practice move. He checked each and every one of them, slowly and meticulously, before dropping them into a drawer to his side. He pulled two Samsung phones from the wall of phones behind him, and set them on the counter.

“Mr. America, phones.” The man tapped the glass counter. “I put SIMs. Data. Local and international calls, yes?”

“Correct,” Saint nodded.

“Okay. No receipt. No warranty,” the man said flatly.

Saint shrugged. “Okay.”

As Saint and Mizrahi waited, the man inserted the SIM cards and set up the phones. Once I have those names, I’ll contact Turgeneva and see what she can dig up. Then, I’ll make the calls and find out if Mizrahi is really a Mossad operative.

Chapter Twenty-three

Four Seasons Hotel

Downtown Damascus

Syria

“Saint is here? Are you sure?” Hannah’s voice came out sharp, while her eyes widened slightly. She searched Schäfer’s face for any sign that this was some kind of mistake and stepped closer to him. “How did you hear that?”

“The asset.” Schäfer nodded, pushing himself upright in his chair. “He confirmed seeing Saint in Damascus yesterday and earlier this morning. I asked him if he was certain. He said he was.”

“And we can trust him on this?” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Her brow furrowed, deepening the tension in her expression, while her shoulders tensed involuntarily.

“I believe we can,” Schäfer replied slowly and confidently. “He has no reason to lie to us. I didn’t bring up his name. I asked about intel related to Darwish, and the asset mentioned Saint.”

Hannah tilted her head slightly. “I hope he’s not messing with us.” Her voice was quieter now but edged with urgency. Her gaze locked onto Schäfer’s, a flicker of unease beneath her usual controlled demeanor. “Saint is the last person I want to meet in Damascus…”

Schäfer sighed. “I understand how you feel because… well, you know… your relationship with Saint…” He said with a certain amount of reluctance. He paused for a brief moment, before adding, “But we can’t ignore this intel—”

“I’m not going to let my personal feelings cloud my judgment, Schäfer,” Hannah snapped back, her voice louder than necessary. Schäfer had caught her by surprise, mentioning her relationship with Saint, which she had thought was not common knowledge. But then Schäfer was not your common, run-of-the-mill Interpol operative. She had to expect he’d know everything about her. She knew everything about him.

Hannah drew in a deep breath, trying to calm down, then said, “You know me; I’m not like that. So I’m not saying we ignore the intel; I’m just saying we need to be absolutely certain about what we think we know.”

“Of course,” Schäfer said. “The asset also confirmed the involvement of the SVR, as I explained before we got to Saint. And there are rumors that the CIA is also implicated.”

“Right. With so many players, what’s Saint doing in the middle of it all?” The line between her eyebrows deepened and stretched across her forehead.

Schäfer gave her a sideways glance. “Is… is that a rhetorical question? You know Saint isn’t here for the sights, right?”

Hannah said nothing for a long moment. The soft hum of the air conditioning filled the small room. She paced toward the window, then turned around and looked at Schäfer sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed, watching her with a quiet intensity. “I just… I can’t believe that Saint is here to assassinate Darwish.”

“What’s so incredible about it? He’s a world-class assassin, and, considering the evidence, he’s gotten the job done. No one has seen Darwish alive since earlier this morning, and no one knows where he might be. Neither the police nor the mukhabarat have any leads.”

“Yes, I’m not doubting his abilities, but I’m not sure this is Saint’s work. It’s too messy. Saint is usually clean, leaving no traces behind, nothing to connect him to the job he’s done.” She took a couple of steps toward Schäfer. “And when we throw the SVR and potentially the CIA in the mix, Saint’s role might not be as prominent as we think…”

Schäfer’s jaw tightened for a second before he exhaled slowly through his nose and nodded at her. “You may be right, Hannah. If the SVR—and maybe the CIA as well—were responsible for the attack on the safehouse where Darwish was last seen, then it’s possible Saint had no part in it.”

Hannah nodded slowly, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to reach that conclusion. She knew Saint—neither the SVR, the CIA, nor both together would stop him. She shrugged and said, “Regardless of how much or how little Saint is involved, we need to find him. So—”

Schäfer raised a hand to stop her. “Before we do any of that, let’s consider another possibility. What if Saint has nothing to do with Darwish’s disappearance?”

Hannah pondered his words for a moment, her gaze unfocused as she processed the implications. She ran a hand through her hair, fingers threading through the strands before tucking a few behind her ear in a distracted gesture. “Yes, you could be right. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’re here, looking for Darwish, at the same time that Saint is also here. He could be after another target, but let’s operate under the theory that Saint is in Damascus to eliminate Darwish and has been actively involved in reaching that objective… Until we have evidence to the contrary…” she said in what she thought was a hopeful tone, but it didn’t ring very hopeful even to her.

Schäfer nodded. “You’re right.”

“So, let’s try to find him. Mobilize the assets to focus most of their effort in finding Saint. And yes, I will call him right away and ask him directly. Although…” she hesitated, and her voice trailed off.

“I get it: He may not tell you.” Schäfer completed her thought, his voice even but knowing. He studied her for a moment, then added, “And if he does, it’ll be on his terms.”

Hannah exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. “Exactly. He wouldn’t want me involved, although we are very much involved. And even if he gives me an answer, we won’t be certain, a hundred percent certain that he’s telling us the truth. See, this is not personal for Saint; it’s business.”

“Right.” Schäfer crossed his arms. “That means we don’t rely on just that approach. While you call him, I’ll get the assets moving. We won’t stop until we find Saint and the truth about what happened to Darwish. One more thing: Richter…”

Hannah frowned at the mention of their boss. “What about Richter?”

“What will he say when we update him about Saint?”

“There will be no update about Saint,” Hannah said firmly. “We don’t know for sure he’s here or for what reason. It could be that the assignment bringing him here is completely unrelated to our job. We’re not going to bother Richter with half-cocked reports, now, are we?” She half-smiled at Schäfer, giving him a playful look.

“No, of course not, boss.”

Hannah nodded. “Good. Now, let’s start looking for Saint. The sooner we find him, the better.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, before adding, “Because if we don’t, someone else, the Russians or the Americans, will find him…”

Chapter Twenty-four

North of Damascus

Syria

Saint glanced at his phone buzzing in the center console and stepped on the brakes. He knew it was Turgeneva because of the cheerful tone he had assigned to the hacker’s number. She must have good news if she’s calling so quickly. It had been less than an hour since Saint had given her two phone numbers belonging to Mizrahi’s handler and direct supervisor. “Find everything you can,” he had demanded. “Spare no expenses, but be careful. They could be Mossad agents’ numbers.”

Turgeneva almost hadn’t accepted the assignment. “I’m not playing with fire, Saint. I can lose more than my entire career by sticking my nose into the Israelis’ business. My life could be at stake.”

“Just do what you can, at a safe distance—”

“There’s no such thing in my business. I’ll see what I can do, but don’t hold your breath.”

The phone rang again, but Saint didn’t pick it up. He looked over his shoulder, then began to make a right turn and stopped on the side of the road. They were north of Damascus, driving on a secondary, two-lane road. He looked at Mizrahi in the front passenger seat and gave him a frown. “Don’t try to go anywhere.”

The Israeli sighed. “I’m not. We’ve had this conversation already…”

Saint answered the phone just as it rang again. “Yes, give me a second.” He turned off the engine and took the keys. Then, he stepped outside. “Tell me you have something good,” he said in a hopeful tone.

“I have good news, Saint,” Turgeneva said, but her voice didn’t show it. “As I explained to you, I couldn’t tap those phone numbers. It’s not just the concern of being caught. The truth is, if those numbers really belonged to Mossad personnel, the security measures would be impossible to penetrate, even by someone like me.” Her voice rang with clear regret.

Saint frowned. “So, what is the good news?” He gripped the phone tighter.

“Since I couldn’t attempt something directly, I tried the subtle approach. I ran the two names through several classified databases. Nothing popped up, as expected, so I made a few calls. People who know people who work or worked for Mossad. One of them confirmed that both names are active Mossad operatives.”

Saint stole at glance at Mizrahi, who was checking one of his bandages along his temple. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, a hundred percent. I wasn’t able to confirm the stories you gave me, but the dates and the numbers match.”

“Good, very good,” Saint said after a sigh of relief. “Send me everything you have.”

“Anything else?”

“Not right now.”

“I’ll be off the grid for a day or two,” she said in a warning tone.

“Any particular reason?”

“Yes, but none that interests you.”

Saint wondered if she was going underground because of this Mossad job. He shrugged. She would have told me. Plus, she knew the risk when she accepted the job, and she said she was extra careful. Still, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, nothing to worry about. I just… I need some time away from everything.”

“All right. I hope there are no emergencies…”

“If that happens, you’re on your own,” she said hurriedly in a cold, emotionless tone. “I’ll email you all the info I have right away. Bye now.”

“Bye,” Saint said, but the hacker had already hung up.

Saint shook his head and glanced at his phone. He tapped the screen and went to his encrypted email account. No messages from her. It will take a minute or so.

He returned to the car and slid in. Mizrahi glanced at Saint and said, “So, convinced I am who I am?”

“Yes, and that Asael Dror is truly your supervisor at the Institute,” Saint replied, referring to the Mossad agency, whose complete name was “The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations.” Mossad in Hebrew meant “institute.”

Mizrahi nodded. “I told you the truth.”

“About this, yes. Now, I need to talk to Dror and get a deal.” He started the car and drove back onto the road.

Mizrahi shook his head. “That’s not necessary. I have the contacts. I’ll call, and they’ll be ready for us. There’s an outpost near Jubata al-Khashab. We’re about an hour away,” his said in a voice full of excitement and hope.

“I have no doubt you can make it happen. But getting out of Syria isn’t the only thing I need.”

Mizrahi’s expression shifted the moment the words left Saint’s mouth. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and the faint glimmer of hope in his eyes dulled like a light switched off. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t make it easy. What do you want?”

“I want someone eliminated.”

“Must be someone very powerful if you can’t eliminate him yourself,” Mizrahi replied without missing a beat.

“You’re right. But he’s a fly compared to Mossad.”

“What’s his name?”

“The name is Gabriel Neymar.”

The Mossad operative blinked and tilted his head to the side. His eyes narrowed with focus as he searched his memory. “Gabriel Neymar,” he repeated slowly, testing the name aloud like it might trigger something. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s the mastermind of an assassin network out of Brazil,” Saint explained.

Mizrahi nodded slowly. “Let me guess: It’s personal.”

“You got it. He wants to kill me, so I’ve got to kill him first.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, but Mossad should have no problem finding him.”

“And what makes you think my agency will do it?” Mizrahi’s voice turned sharp, edged with disbelief. His voice cut through the hum of the road, low and tight. “Do you think Mossad takes contracts from assassins now?”

Saint didn’t take his eyes off the road. He overtook a silver SUV and a black truck in front of it, then said, “Mossad values the lives of its people. If something happens to one of them, they’ll bring him back. And it doesn’t need to be said, but I already saved your life.”

“Hardly,” Mizrahi said, but Saint cut him off by raising his right hand.

“Katia and the Russians would have killed you—”

“Not once I told them who I am…”

“And why didn’t you? Even after you saw how they executed Darwish, you kept your mouth shut.”

“I… I was waiting for the right moment. And if you really want to save my life, you’ll let me go, not hold me here, kidnapped.”

“I will let you go once I have your boss’s and Mossad’s commitment they’ll take care of Neymar,” Saint said in a calm, but deliberate tone.

“I don’t know that he’ll agree to those terms. We don’t like ultimatums. Plus, killing someone, especially someone like Neymar isn’t something Dror can decide on his own. His boss and his boss’s boss will need to sanction that action.”

Saint shrugged. “I don’t care who authorizes it, as long as it gets done.”

“You must be really desperate if you’re counting on Mossad to do your dirty work. What happened to Plan A?”

Saint bit his lip. He had no intentions of sharing his suspicions with Mizrahi, but the truth was that Plan A had gone off the rails. Saint had a deal with al-Assad, the GIS chief, and Saint had kept his side of the deal: The uranium shipment had been delivered safely to Damascus. However, there had been the Darwish complication.

Now that Darwish is dead, my deal with Barakat, al-Assad’s advisor, is worthless. He will soon learn about my involvement, if he hasn’t already. The Russians will be more than happy to make me the fall guy. They were trying to save Darwish, but I killed him. Katia had warned him when he was wavering on whether he should work with the SVR. “We’ll hand you over to the Syrians,” she had said. “It’s not going to be pretty.” He had no doubt that Katia and the SVR would go ahead with their threat now that they didn’t need Saint, and he had humiliated them. “Yes, Plan A’s down—hard kill. Moving to Plan B. That’s why I need Mossad.”

Mizrahi shrugged, then shook his head. “The odds are against you, Saint.”

Saint returned the shrug. “That’s usually how it goes. Now, I need you to call Dror and make your case.” He waved the phone he hadn’t yet used at Mizrahi. “Your life is at stake here, so be convincing.”

Mizrahi’s mouth twitched. His hands moved restlessly, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t grab the phone, even though Saint moved it closer to Mizrahi’s face.

“You’ll have only sixty seconds. I’m sure they’ll start tracking the call as soon as you dial.”

“It’s impossible for me to convince him in such a short—”

“Just tell him that you’re in Damascus, doing well, and that I saved your life. Now, to repay me, they need to eliminate Gabriel Neymar. You’ll call again in an hour, and by that time, they should have the answer.”

“And if the answer is ‘no?’”

“The answer will be ‘yes,’” Saint said confidently. “You’ll see. But tell them you’ll be dead if there’s no deal.”

Mizrahi held Saint’s eyes for a long moment, studying his face. Silence stretched between them, tense and tight. “Will you kill me?” he asked in a low, dry voice.

Saint shook his head. “I won’t have to. The Syrians will do it, once they learn you were trying to recruit Darwish.”’

Mizrahi nodded and looked away. His jaw tightened, and he said nothing for a few seconds. He looked out the passenger-side window, eyes narrowing as they passed market stalls set up on the side of the road. The tension in his body was as taut as a drawn wire.

Saint said nothing, giving Mizrahi the space he needed to make a decision.

A moment later, he turned slightly toward Saint, eyes filled with the weight of a man who’s just signed his execution order. He took the phone slowly and said in a low, bitter voice, “I’ll make the call.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Four Seasons Hotel

Downtown Damascus

Syria

The more Hannah learned about Saint’s involvement in the Syrian affair, the less she liked it. He wasn’t answering his phone, no matter how many times she called and how many urgent, pleading messages she left. She was beyond worried about his safety, but the deeper she dug into the intricate web of intelligence swirling around Damascus, the heavier the pit grew in her stomach.

It appeared Saint had arrived in Syria to deliver a package, something so secretive that no one knew what it was. However, it must have been highly valuable, considering it came aboard a government jet and in the presence of a senior advisor to the chief of the Syrian intelligence services. What did he get himself into? she wondered. Why did the Syrians drag him to Damascus? To assassinate Darwish? But he was to become a minister very soon. Did they not want that? Or is Saint going to be the fall guy? Bring him here to kill Darwish, then blame him for the assassination?

She paced her hotel room, feeling like a caged animal. She shrugged, but the theory made sense. The Syrians were looking for Saint, dead or alive, preferably dead, according to the intelligence Schäfer had gathered from his assets.

Hannah sighed and returned to her small desk and glanced at her laptop. The screen showed one of the reports Schäfer had sent her. The SVR was also looking for Saint. Their involvement wasn’t exactly clear, but they seemed to be helping the Syrian authorities. The Russians had always had strong connections in Syria, no matter the country’s regime or leaders. But is there something more to their assistance? They seem to be too eager to find Saint. And there’s still a slight chance the CIA is involved? Why? What do they want?

She ran her hands through her hair. So many questions, but no answers. And she felt they were running out of time. Each minute that slipped by dragged her farther from Saint—and closer to losing him forever. I can’t let that happen. Her hands trembled slightly as she tapped the keyboard, scrolling down the document.

“I’m not going to lose you, Saint,” she said in a low, bitter voice.

She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to breathe, trying to think. She couldn’t afford to fall apart now. If Saint was still alive—and she had to believe he was—then he needed her focused, not lost in a storm of emotions. I’ve got to do this. You will do this, Hannah.

Dragging in a shaky breath, she moved to the minifridge and pulled out a small bottle of water. She drank deeply, then drew in a series of long, calming breaths. She nodded to herself, thinking of their daughter. Sarah will see her Daddy again. I’ll make sure of it."

She forced herself back to the desk and reanalyzed the report. Thirty minutes later, she wasn’t any closer to knowing anything more. Then, her phone beeped with the arrival of an email. She glanced at it, then frowned. It was Richter. He had been asking for an update, but Hannah had ignored his two calls and two emails. She didn’t want to lie to him, but she also couldn’t tell him the truth about Saint’s involvement. But what is the truth? she wondered. I still don’t know what role he plays—or doesn’t—in all this. And I can’t tell Richter about Saint. He might decide to throw me off this case. It’s not that I don’t trust Schäfer to resolve this on his own; I just need to be here, work on this, help find—maybe even rescue—Saint.

She checked the email, and, as she had expected, Richter was demanding a status report. She typed a quick reply, informing her boss that there was really nothing new, at least nothing worth his time. A report was forthcoming in a day or two. Hopefully, that’ll get him off my back, and, by that time, we’ll have found Saint, or at least the truth about him.

Hannah thought about going back to the older intelligence reports and reviewing them. Maybe I’ve missed something, a small detail that could be the answer, the solution. But just then, her phone buzzed on the desk. She glanced at it and frowned, thinking it was Richter again. Instead, the screen lit up because of a text message from Schäfer. It read Meet me downstairs. We might have something.

Hannah nodded to herself as she stood up. It must be good if he doesn’t want to tell me but show me… She put on her windbreaker to cover her shoulder-holstered Glock, then took the room’s key card.

Schäfer was standing stiffly in the lobby, near the hotel’s main entrance. She beelined toward him, and he took a few quick steps forward to meet her halfway. His face was carved with tension, and his jaw was locked tight. He glanced around, covering all angles. The lobby was empty, but for one clerk behind the reception desk, and a handful of patrons sitting in one corner. They were all beyond earshot, so Schäfer whispered, “I just got word from one of my assets.” He leaned closer to Hannah and continued, “One of his contacts claims to know what the Russians want from Saint.”

A small vein pulsed at Hannah’s temple. “Is he legit?” She kept her voice low and narrowed her eyes at Schäfer.

“I don’t know. The asset thinks so. But we can’t be certain until we meet him.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “Meet him? Why can’t he call or text us?”

“He’s terrified of the Russians. He believes they can trace his calls and track him everywhere.”

“If that’s the case, he’ll lead the Russians straight to us.”

Schäfer shrugged. “That’s not my concern. I’m sure the Russians know we’re here. They know everything the Syrians know.”

“And when does he want to meet? Where?”

“Now. Old City.”

“Now?” Hannah frowned. “We’ll have no recon, no time to prepare.”

“I don’t like it either, but we can’t ignore it. It’s the only lead we have.”

Hannah nodded and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She thought the meeting smelled off: A sudden lead handed to them like bait. But then, Schäfer had sworn to do the impossible to find Saint. Her gut twisted painfully. But what choice do I have?

Schäfer said, “I have the address. Fardoss Café by the Citadel. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

She exhaled slowly and nodded at him. “Let’s go.”

Schäfer tapped his phone’s screen. “I’ll let him know we’re coming.”

They hurried along Shoukry Al-Qouwatly Boulevard, then turned right at the intersection of Sa'adalah El-Jabri and Al-Jamhorya. Crumbling, colonial-era structures stood side by side with newer glass-and-steel buildings; the clash of old and new jarring against the dusty skyline. They jogged past street vendors crowding the sidewalks and cut through the slow-moving traffic.

One more left turn on An-Naser Street as Hannah and Schäfer blended into the crowds. The diesel smoke hung low, mixing with the scents of grilled meat and spices and the car horns blaring, as drivers fought for space. People bustled past them—men with mustaches in button-down shirts and pants, women in hijabs clutching market bags, children darting from all directions. A couple of mosques with sky-stabbing minarets stood to their left.

“Five more minutes,” Schäfer said to Hannah. “The café is across the street.”

“Let’s cross now.”

They spotted a narrow opening in the sluggish traffic and darted onto the median, flanked by palm trees and flashing ads. After a brief pause, they threaded through the slow-moving cars, swiftly making their way to the opposite sidewalk.

In a few seconds, the stunning Damascus Citadel rose imposingly above the city skyline. Hannah wished they had time to enjoy the medieval structure, but it wasn’t going to happen. She focused her attention to the right, where Schäfer had said the café was located. The Hamidiyeh Souq was to the south, and the area was swarming with vehicle and foot traffic. They were coming up to the Old City, bustling with tourists and locals.

“Where is it?” Hannah asked Schäfer as she slowed down for just a moment.

“Right there.” Schäfer gestured with his hand across the intersection.

Hannah felt the adrenaline rushing through her body. She looked and saw the sign: Fardoss Café was stamped in red letters against a white background. They dashed through the stalled traffic again and stepped onto the sidewalk crammed with café tables. Plastic or iron chairs were arranged in tight clusters, barely leaving enough room for pedestrians to squeeze through.

“Do you know what he looks like?” Hannah asked as they were about twenty steps away from the café.

“No, but the asset is here. He’ll introduce us.”

They began to scan the faces of the patrons sitting outside sipping sweet tea or coffee. Others were glued to their phones, trying to ignore the chaos around them. Hannah had seen photos of the asset, but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe he’s inside.

She stopped when they came to the café’s entrance and turned around. She wondered if she or Schäfer—or both of them—should check inside. Then, she felt something or someone bump her from the side.

Hannah spun on her heels and stared into the intense brown eyes of a fair-skinned woman. “Hello, Parsons,” the woman said in a firm tone as she pressed a pistol against the middle of Hannah’s chest.

Chapter Twenty-six

North of Damascus

Syria

Saint had expected Mossad’s resistance, but Mizrahi’s call with his boss had blown up like a grenade. As soon as Mizrahi had mentioned the fact that he was kidnapped and that Saint demanded a favor to let him live, Dror had exploded into a stream of expletives. The gist was that Saint was a dead man if he didn’t let Mizrahi go right away. The call that wasn’t supposed to last sixty seconds had ended in less than thirty.

Mizrahi was as devastated as Saint. “Well, what did I tell you?” he said, his voice heavy with defeat, his shoulders sagging in a helpless shrug. “Now we’re both dead men…”

Saint’s face had turned pale, and he was grinding his teeth without even realizing it. His eyes, which a moment ago had been sharp and calculating, now were wide with disbelief. A shallow breath escaped his lips, before he said, “Dror will come around. That was a scare tactic.”

“I don’t think so. It’s not like him to bluff.”

“Well, all we can do now is wait.”

“Wait for what? For Dror to change his mind? That’s not going to happen.”

“For someone at Mossad to finally see reason. This is a good deal. No, a great deal.”

“Obviously, they don’t think that way.”

“They will. Give them time. One hour.”

Mizrahi shook his head. “You’re wasting your time, Saint.”

“You have something better to do?”

The Mossad operative nodded. “Yes. I can be at the nearest Israeli outpost in an hour.”

“We’ll wait.”

So, they had driven along the northern outskirts of Damascus, then they had parked behind an abandoned warehouse. Saint wanted to attract as little attention as possible, while he tried to come up with an alternative if the Mossad option didn’t work out. He’d have to find another way to face Neymar, but Saint wasn’t going to hand Mizrahi over to the Syrians if Mossad refused to help.

He thought about calling Hannah and checking on her and Sarah. But what will I tell her when she asks about me, where I am, and what I’m doing? I don’t have anything good to say, and I don’t want to lie to her. Still, I want to hear her voice and know she’s doing well.

He stepped out of the car and dialed Hannah’s number. He was both relieved and worried when she didn’t pick up. He shrugged. She must be in a meeting or can’t get to the phone. He left a short message, telling her he had a new number and asking her to give him a call when she got a chance.

When it was a couple of minutes to the hour, Saint swallowed hard while his fingers hovered over the phone’s screen. He knew that once he dialed Dror’s number, he’d know the truth. He shrugged. I may not like it, but I have to do it.

Mizrahi’s face had twisted into a deep frown. “It’s not going to go well,” he said in a somber tone.

“Only one way to know,” Saint said and dialed the number.

On the other end of the line, Dror picked up right after the first ring. “Saint, do you still have our man?” There was just a sliver of desperation in his otherwise firm voice, enough to make Saint’s instincts sharpen like a blade.

He nodded to himself. “Yes, for now,” he replied in a calm, neutral voice as he looked at Mizrahi. “What’s your decision?”

“This is Nadav Azoulay, and I’m a Mossad director,” a man’s voice came through, low and controlled. Each word was weighted and careful, spoken in a tone of authority without needing to raise its volume. His English was almost flawless, the kind you pick up after years abroad, with the faintest hint of an accent. “Is Mizrahi safe?”

“Yes, sir,” Saint replied with reverence in his voice. “Here he is.” Saint held the phone close to Mizrahi’s mouth.

“I’m doing well, sir. No complaints—”

Saint moved the phone away. He wasn’t sure whether Mizrahi was about to speak in code, give away their position, or play a trick on him. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes, Saint. Are you still in Syria?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me your demands for Mizrahi’s release?”

Saint frowned. He was sure Azoulay was told of Mizrahi’s conversation with Dror. Now the director wanted to confirm the facts and hear them first-hand. That will waste precious seconds and give away our location. He shrugged. I’ll have to ditch this phone and move fast. “My request hasn’t changed,” Saint replied in a warm, but firm, tone. “Mizrahi’s life in exchange for assistance with the elimination of Neymar.”

A tense moment of silence, then Azoulay asked, “Are you a man of your word, Xavier Saint?”

“Absolutely, sir. I will not trick you; I will not betray you. Once we have an agreement about Neymar, Mizrahi will be a free man.”

“Hmmm,” Azoulay said, drawing the sound out thoughtfully.

There was a pause on the line, a heavy silence.

Saint thought the Mossad director was weighing Saint’s words and whether he could be trusted. If I can trust Mossad, they surely can trust an assassin.

The tense silence stretched for a few more seconds, then Azoulay said, “Okay, Saint. This is the deal: You will drive our man to a specific location in Syria. Once his presence there has been confirmed, a team will move on Neymar. You understand that our part of the deal will take longer to be carried out; nonetheless, we do have a deal.”

“That is acceptable,” Saint said and smiled at Mizrahi. “Where is the location?”

Azoulay gave it to him. “It’s thirty minutes south of Damascus.”

“I’m sure I can find it. Anything else?”

“Handle yourself professionally, Saint, and this will be a good deal for everyone.” Azoulay’s calm tone carried an unspoken warning. He didn’t need to spell it out for Saint. The message was simple and clear: Saint wasn’t to mess this up.

“I will certainly do so.”

“Here’s a number if there’s a problem, but, for your sake, I hope there isn’t one.”

“Go ahead.”

Saint repeated the number and wrote it down in his phone. He waited for another moment, but Azoulay said nothing. Then came a soft click, and the call ended.

Saint’s face remained rigid for a few seconds. He just couldn’t believe he had reached a deal with Mossad, and they had accepted his conditions. After Dror’s blow up during the first call, he had expected a similar situation. This was too easy. Will Mossad honor this agreement? Azoulay sounded like an honorable man…

Saint glanced at Mizrahi, who looked very much puzzled as well. “Do you know this man, Azoulay?” Saint asked.

Mizrahi nodded. “Yes. I’ve heard his name, but never met him. He’s Dror’s boss.”

“And does he have the authority to make such a deal?”

Mizrahi shrugged. “Obviously, he does.”

Or at least so he says, Saint thought, but kept that to himself. “We must go,” he said. “They’re expecting us, well, you at the rendezvous. But first, we need to get rid of this phone.”

Mizrahi gave Saint a sideways glance. “You don’t trust them, do you?”

“I just made a deal with Mossad…”

“Yes, so why ditch the phone?”

“I don’t like being followed.” He lowered the window and tossed the phone onto the side of the road.

As he raised it again, his mind raced, replaying the conversation, the conditions of the deal. It was clear that Mossad had come away with the better part of the bargain. They could deceive him, retrieve Mizrahi, laugh him off, and not lift a finger to help him. And that was one of the best scenarios.

In the worst-case scenario, they’d eliminate him for kidnapping one of their agents and daring to threaten his life.

Saint’s stomach churned as he began to drive toward Damascus. Azoulay sounded like a trustworthy man, he thought. But if I totally misread the situation, I won’t let myself be cornered. If I lose Mizrahi and get nothing in return, at least, I won’t lose my life along with that.

As his mind began to think of an alternative option, his phone rang. A phone call from a number he didn’t know. Saint smiled. There’s only one person who has that number, the only person I called. Hannah.

He picked up the phone, unaware that this one moment would alter the trajectory of everything to come.

Chapter Twenty-seven

North of Damascus

Syria

Saint brought the phone to his ear, expecting Hannah’s familiar voice. Instead, a chill slid down his spine, as he recognized the woman’s voice on the other end of the line that made his blood run cold.

“Hello, Saint, my dear friend, or should I say my favorite friend,” Katia said in a calm, sly voice with a clear tone of self-satisfaction.

Saint’s body went stiff, his hands tightening around the steering wheel and the phone. He stepped hard on the brakes, then turned right, bringing the car to an abrupt stop. His mouth went dry, and his stomach turned upside down. “What are you doing, Katia?” he asked, already knowing the bitter answer, but his mind still not accepting it.

“We’re just having a little get together, old friends and new, Hannah Parsons, your cute little girlfriend being one of them. Now, would you like to talk to her?”

“Katia, this is a grave—”

“Don’t waste our time making threats, Saint. I have the love of your life here, next to me, but do you hear me making threats?” The SVR’s operative voice turned razor-sharp.

Saint shook his head, but said nothing. He exchanged a quick look with Mizrahi, whose brow was twisted in a curious frown at Saint’s sudden change. “What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice.

Saint hushed him with a quick gesture of his wrist and said in a low voice, “I’d like to talk to Hannah now.” He tried to sound composed and controlled, but he didn’t like how his voice came out, throaty and unsteady.

“There, that’s better. Now, we can talk and have an understanding.”

Saint gritted his teeth, but said nothing. He held the phone closer to his ear.

A couple of seconds later, Hannah came on the line. “House, south of Old City—”

The noise of what resembled a struggle cut her off.

“Hannah, Hannah!” Saint shouted.

All he could hear were loud shouts in Russian, then Katia came back on the line. “Well, that wasn’t smart of her. But she was punished for what—”

“Katia, I will kill you—”

“No, Saint, you will do what I tell you, or your little girlfriend here will die.”

Saint bit his lip and closed his eyes for a brief moment. “What do you want?” he spat out the words.

“Remember what I told you at the building,” Katia’s voice rang out with a silky, triumphant edge, every word dripping with satisfaction, like someone who held all the cards. “I told you that it wasn’t the end. And that we would meet soon. I’m sure now you regret what you did there.”

Saint flinched, but then caught himself. He swallowed hard before saying again, “What do you want?”

“You in exchange for her.”

Saint nodded. He knew it would come to that point, and he expected nothing less from the ruthless Russians.

Mizrahi leaned in a fraction, his body tensing instinctively. His head tilted just a little, trying to hear the other side of the conversation.

“Saint?” Katia demanded.

“Yes, yes, okay. Where and when?”

“Where are you?

“Just outside Damascus.”

“Good. Head toward the east part of the city. It’s in Hazeh, and I will give you the address when you’re close. You’ve got one hour.”

“Got it.”

“And Saint, I’m sure you’ve figured this out, but come in peace, and come alone.”

Saint flared his nostrils and bared his teeth. He thrust his chest out and said, “Of course, Katia, I’ll be coming alone and in peace.”

“Good. Don’t try to do something stupid. It’s not going to work.”

“I got it, Katia. I’ll be there.”

The Russian SVR operative hung up without another word.

Saint cursed out loud, then dropped his phone into the center console. He tightened his right-hand fingers into a fist and punched the steering wheel.

When he glanced at Mizrahi, the Mossad agent asked, “What exactly happened?”

“The Russians have taken Hannah. They’re holding her somewhere in Hazeh, east of the city.”

“And Hannah is someone you care for, someone you love?” Mizrahi spoke in a painful tone.

Saint nodded. “You married?”

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“One. Three-year old daughter.”

Saint’s lips formed half a smile. “Mine is four. Hannah is her mother.”

Mizrahi cursed out loud. “What are you going to do?”

“The only thing I can do: Go rescue her. And you and Mossad will help me.”

“What? Mossad help you? That’s not going to happen.”

“You said the same thing about Neymar, and Azoulay agreed to take care of that.”

Mizrahi nodded. “Yes, but this is different. It’s going against SVR operatives, in a hostile country, with almost no notice.”

“Doesn’t Mossad have a team here? I’m supposed to drop you off at that location less than thirty minutes away.”

“I have no idea how many there are, or how well trained and equipped they are for this kind of op. I just don’t see Azoulay agreeing to this.”

Saint shrugged. “I have no other option. I’ve got to try.”

Mizrahi gave him a look of understanding, followed by a nod. “I get it. I’d do the same if I were you…”

Saint reached for his phone and dialed the number Azoulay had given him.

One ring, two rings, but no one picked up. Then, as the third ring started, Azoulay said, “Saint, I told you there should be no problems.” His voice was calm, but loaded with a tone of irritation.

“There’s an emergency, and there will be a change of plans,” Saint said quickly as he put the Mossad director on the speakerphone.

“What is it?”

Saint hurried to describe the situation, sticking just to the facts, giving Azoulay all the information he had. The Mossad director listened patiently without interruption, and when Saint had finished, Azoulay sighed. “I haven’t been in the same situation, Saint, so I can’t pretend to know how you feel. But I can tell you that we can’t be involved.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“Both. We’re not prepared to face the Russians—”

“I can reschedule the meeting, ask for more time—”

“That’s not going to help. I’ve dealt with similar situations; one of them, just a month ago. These things, Saint, they don’t end well.”

The frown lines in Saint’s forehead grew deeper. He tried to steady his shaky hand. “So, Mossad isn’t going to be involved?”

“No,” Azoulay said in a firm voice. “Agreeing to the deal about Neymar, unusual as it is, it’s one thing. Going against the Russian SVR, that’s unprecedented. The consequences could be devastating.”

A brutal hammering filled Saint’s chest, his pulse leapt up to his throat in a strangling rush. He tried to speak, but he just couldn’t find the words. Mossad had been his last hope, and Azoulay had taken that hope away. “Is… is there something I can do, promise to do, to make you change your mind?” he asked in a pleading voice. “I’ll kill any of Israel’s enemies, anywhere in the world, just—”

“No, Saint, it doesn’t work like that,” Azoulay cut him off in a cold, dismissive tone. “And a ‘no’ is a ‘no.’”

Saint closed his eyes for a moment, then glanced at Mizrahi, who had been listening to both sides of the conversation. Mizrahi offered Saint a slow, almost apologetic shrug. Saint looked at the phone, then sighed. “Okay, I get it.”

“But we still have the deal, Saint?”

Saint nodded. “Of course, we do,” he said in an emotionless tone. If he was going to die in the hands of the Russians, Neymar’s fate no longer mattered to him. At this point, all he cared about was rescuing Hannah. But how am I going to make that happen? “I’ve got to go now,” he added into the phone, then tapped the End button on the screen.

Mizrahi’s eyes, normally sharp and alert, softened with a mix of pity and regret. He shifted awkwardly in the passenger seat, hands spreading out briefly in a helpless gesture. He shook his head, and his shoulders sagged. “What… what are you going to do now?” he asked in a hesitant tone.

“I don’t know.” Saint shrugged. “But I know what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to let Hannah suffer the wrath of the Russians in my place. And I’m also going to let you go now.” Saint cocked his head toward the front passenger door.

“What? Why?” Mizrahi gave Saint a puzzled look.

“Whether Mossad keeps its side of the deal or not, that’s not important. But, at least one of us will get to see his daughter again…” His voice trailed off.

Mizrahi blinked hard, his lashes flickering as he fought against the sting building behind his eyes. His throat bobbed in a hard swallow, and he looked out the window to give himself a second or two to regain control.

When he turned his head to Saint, he was holding a wad of cash and Mizrahi’s H&K pistol. “You’ll need these to get safely to your people. And I’m… I’m sorry things went the way they did…”

Mizrahi nodded slowly. “Yeah, I wish things were different too.” He took the money, but hesitated to reach for the pistol. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s the only way. We both go to the ones we love.”

“Well, good luck with it,” he said. His tone was flat and hollow and offered no real encouragement.

“Yes, I’ll need a lot of luck.”

Mizrahi’s hand hovered on the door handle a moment longer than necessary. With a heavy breath, he finally pushed it open, the hinges creaking softly. He planted one foot on the cracked pavement, then hesitated. He felt as if some invisible thread still tied him to Saint. Mizrahi winced, then shook his head, and got out of the car, shutting the door behind him.

Saint shrugged. It’s just me now, as always. Let’s see what I can do to make sure Hannah gets out of this mess alive…

Chapter Twenty-eight

Hazeh Neighborhood

Damascus, Syria

The rendezvous with Katia was taking place at an auto repair shop. At least, that’s how Katia had described it. A furniture store stood on the left side, and what looked like a junkyard was on the right. A large stretch of barren land surrounded most of the area by the auto repair shop.

Saint drove slower than necessary on the two-lane street, then turned onto the dusty road leading to the auto repair shop. His attentive eyes caught a glimpse of two gunmen kneeling by the concrete parapet of the shop’s terrace. Their rifles were aimed at Saint’s car.

The shop’s gray metal door was left slightly open, with a gap large enough for a couple of people to go through. The cinderblock walls were covered in graffiti, but large cracks were still visible. A crooked hand-painted sign in Arabic on the right side was barely legible. Two black SUVs and two grayish sedans were parked in the front. On the other side, old tires were stacked haphazardly next to broken oil drums and battered car parts.

A gunman stepped through the narrow gap and onto the graveled area in front of the shop. He turned his rifle at Saint, who parked at an angle, and turned off the engine, all while looking straight at the gunman. Saint’s jaw was set hard. He scanned the building’s exterior for other gunmen. He didn’t spot anyone else.

There was no fear in Saint’s eyes, but worry about how things would play out. He had a plan in place—if he could even call it that—which was little more than a gamble. Saint knew it, but it was all he had to keep Hannah alive.

He stepped out of the car, keeping his hands up and away from his body. He was unarmed, having left both guns in the trunk, but he didn’t want to give the gunman even the slightest reason to overreact.

Saint relaxed his shoulders and called out to the guard, “I have no weapons.” He showed him his hands. “Where’s Katia?”

The gunman said nothing but kept his eyes and rifle trained at Saint. His boots crunched over the gravel as he approached the shop. The air smelled of scorched rubber, oil, and the acrid bite of metal left too long in the sun.

A gunman appeared at the gap and pushed away the metal gate. Then, Katia began to march toward him with sharp, deliberate steps. Her brows were drawn low in irritation, but a cold smirk curled up the left corner of her mouth. She smirked at Saint and locked eyes with him as she stopped a couple of feet away from him. “Saint.” She nodded at him.

“Katia,” Saint said.

Before he could say or do anything else, her fist rocketed forward, slamming into his gut.

The air exploded from his lungs because of the surprise punch. He folded over with a grunt and dropped to one knee. The white-hot pain shot through his body like a lightning bolt.

“Welcome back, Saint.” Katia stepped back and gestured to the gunmen to collect him. “Bring him inside,” she said in English, then added something in Russian.

Saint gave Katia a fiery look. “I get it; I messed up,” he said in a low voice, keeping his tone neutral.

“Messed up?” Katia cocked her head. “You have no idea what you’ve done!”

One of the gunmen thrust his AK muzzle into Saint’s left side, right under the ribcage, and shoved him forward.

The other gunman turned his AK at Saint and followed them, staying a few steps behind.

Saint’s heart beat faster in his chest, and his lips formed a small smile. Getting punched in the stomach was a small price to pay to enter the shop and see Hannah. If she is inside. But Katia made a big mistake not shooting me on sight.

He shuffled forward; his mind honed on one single purpose: Stay alive long enough to save Hannah.

The inside of the auto shop was as he had expected. Dimly-lit with a grimy, oil-stained chipped concrete floor. Exhaust fumes and the sharp metallic tang of spilled gasoline assaulted his nostrils. Faint fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing a harsh, sterile glow across a couple of blue souped up Nissan sedans. Where is Hannah?

He followed Katia to the left, weaving behind a row of wooden shelves that formed a makeshift wall, and then he saw Hannah. She was tied to a rusted metal shelving unit, her wrist secured above her head with white plastic cuffs. Blood darkened the left side of her temple.

Saint winced at the sight, and drew in a deep breath. It took every shred of his self-control not to lunge for the guard’s weapon. At this point, even if armed with a rifle, he’d do more harm than good.

Two gunmen were standing next to her. Saint recognized them both: Varenkov and Pavlov. Vareknov’s left arm was wrapped in a black sling. He pointed his pistol at Saint, while his lips drew back in a menacing snarl he barely managed to suppress. “Good to see you, Saint,” he said in a calm voice that barely hid the threat beneath it.

Hannah’s eyes snapped open the moment she heard Saint’s name. She looked at him and gave him a small, tired smile. “Saint, you came for me…” Her voice was low and worn out.

“Of course, he came for you because you are the love of his life,” Katia said in a tone thick with mockery, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “Too bad those aren’t going to last long, neither your love, nor your lives.”

“Look, Katia, I have—”

“Shut up!” She cut him off as she turned around and walked to him. “You will hear what I have to say. And what I have to show you.”

Saint looked at Hannah and gave her a brief, but reassuring look. Then, he turned his eyes to Katia. “Please, Katia—”

The Russian wagged her finger in Saint’s face. “I told you to shut your mouth. I give orders around here. I will tell you when you can open your mouth. You get that?” She closed the distance between them, standing toe-to-toe, her eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity.

Saint nodded and looked down. “Yes.”

Katia took a couple of steps back and waved her arms around. “Good, now let me tell you how we got here, what happened that we have this situation. You there, and me here.” She gestured to Saint first, then to herself. “And Hannah Parsons there…” She shrugged. “Oh, that’s what you call…” She seemed to struggle to remember the word for a moment, then she smiled. “Yes, she’s collateral damage.”

Saint winced but said nothing.

Katia continued, “This whole mess could have easily been avoided if you, Saint, would have listened. I told you all you needed to do was cooperate. But you decided not to do that.”

Saint shrugged. He looked at Katia, trying not to appear too defiant. His jaw was tight, but he kept his face neutral, his eyes and all his attention focused on her. “You lied to me, used me.”

“No. We worked together, or should have. But you decided you wanted to do your own thing?” Katia took a step closer to Saint and looked intently at his eyes. “But I’m curious: What happened when we were at the building where Darwish died? Did you panic?”

Saint’s mouth twitched at the corners, almost, but not quite, a smirk, before setting back into a flat line. “No, I didn’t panic, but I realized what was about to happen to me. I would end up like Darwish.”

Katia shook her head. “No, Saint. We would have let you go, as I told you. After our operation was over, you’d have won back your freedom. And your precious princess here wouldn’t have been involved.”

Saint gave Hannah a small smile. She tried to return it, but her face just formed a slight grimace. Her eyes were too heavy with fear and exhaustion to find anything close to a smile.

He opened his mouth, but Katia continued, “You told us we could trust you, but you betrayed us, Saint. And we told you, Varenkov here told you not to point a gun at us because that would be a mistake that wouldn’t be forgiven.”

Varenkov nodded menacingly and let out a loud grunt.

“Now, you saw what happened to Darwish because he betrayed us. What do you think should happen to others who do the same?”

Saint’s eyes flicked with a reluctant acknowledgement. He disliked what Katia was saying, but couldn’t disagree with her sentiment. At this point, all he could do was try to change her mind. “I get it, Katia. I really do. But you know who I am; you know my skills, what I can do.” He took a step forward and lifted his hands slowly, palms open in a non-threatening gesture. “I can be a great personal asset to you, or the SVR, whichever you decide. I’m worth much more to you alive than not,” he said, his voice threading through the tense silence with firm conviction. “If you kill me, what do you get? A dead body—”

“I get revenge, Saint. And justice. Both very satisfying.”

“Right, but how about getting revenge and justice by decimating your enemies?” His hands moved subtly, as if outlining the possibilities. “I can’t fix what’s broken. But I will give you results, anything you want, anywhere in the world.”

He kept his tone sharp, promising, persuasive. Saint knew Russians respected strength, not pleading. Katia was going to make a deal if she was getting something out of it, not because he tugged at her heart strings. Does she even have a heart?

Katia’s eyes bore deep into him with a measured intensity, cold and calculating. She studied his face, as if trying to determine if there was any deception in Saint’s words.

He held her gaze, giving her nothing to be suspicious about.

The Russian operative smiled and nodded at him. “You’re very good. You almost had me. Almost. But the problem is, I can’t trust you anymore.”

She gestured to the two guards to get closer to Saint.

“No, wait,” he said, trying to stifle the desperation building up in his voice. He glanced at the two guards coming at him with their rifles raised, then at Katia. “Wait, tell me what I need to do to—”

“You can make a choice, Saint. You can choose to watch me kill your girlfriend, or choose to have her see you die.” Her lips curled into a cold smile, while her cruel voice sliced through the tense air like a blade.

His blood turned to ice, while his face went stark white. Whatever sliver of hope remained disappeared as he realized it was truly over.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Hazeh Neighborhood

Damascus, Syria

“What will it be?” Katia asked.

Saint’s neck veins stood out like cords beneath his skin. A deep, primal fury burned behind his eyes. What can I do? How can I save Hannah?

Before he could say or do anything, a deafening explosion ripped through the air. It came from behind them, somewhere near the shop’s entrance. Almost simultaneously, gunfire erupted from the front of the building, but no bullets whizzed around them.

Saint ducked and looked around. Dust and gray smoke entered the shop. Who is it? he wondered. The Syrians? Why? Then another thought crossed his mind. Could it be… He shook his head. No, I can’t believe that…

Katia went for her rifle and turned it to Saint. However, she fired above his head, through the wooden shelves behind him, at a couple of silhouettes that secured positions next to the blue Nissans.

The two guards shouted in Russian in confusion. They looked around then aimed their rifles at the Nissans and let out with long volleys.

Varenkov aimed his rifle at Saint, who dove to the floor, going for a stack of tires a few feet away. Before Varenkov could open fire, bullets zipped through the air. A couple struck the metal shelf to his right, missing him by a few inches.

The Russian ignored Saint and aimed in the direction of the incoming fire.

Katia had noticed Saint sliding behind the tires. She fired a few rounds at him. Her rounds hit the tires, but didn’t go through. “Kill him!” she shouted at one of the guards, who had a clear shot at Saint.

The guard spun around, but before he could fire his rifle, a couple of bullets hit him in the back of his head. He dropped to the concrete floor, and the rifle flew out of his hands. It landed just four feet away from Saint.

He glanced at the rifle, then his head spun to the other side. Hannah wriggled her body, trying to free herself from the cuffs. “Saint, watch out,” she called at him as Vareknov swung his AK at Saint.

Saint dropped down behind the heap of tires. Bullets ricocheted dangerously close, pinging off the concrete with sharp, metallic snaps. A couple of rounds slammed into the rubber, tearing jagged holes through the tires. Shredded bits of rubber and fabric sprayed into the air like black confetti.

The acrid smell of burnt rubber filled Saint’s nostrils. He gritted his teeth, lowered himself flat with the floor, and reached for the AK. His fingers curled around the rough metal stock.

A volley of gunfire cracked overhead, chewing up the tires even more, but he stayed focused. He readied the rifle, waiting for the right moment.

Hannah screamed.

Saint couldn’t stay hidden any longer. He peered from one side and spotted Vareknov standing right next to Hannah. His pistol was pressed against her forehead. Her eyes were wide with terror, while a dead-eyed smile twisted Varenkov’s face.

He glanced at Saint, and they locked eyes for a split second.

Saint didn’t think; he moved on instinct.

He tapped the AK’s trigger once.

The bullet struck Varenkov in the temple. He spun sideways, a look of stunned confusion etched on his face. His pistol slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor. Then he toppled sideways like a felled tree, crashing to the floor in a heavy, lifeless heap.

Saint turned his rifle to Katia, but she just disappeared behind a couple of metal shelves. He fired a quick burst, bullets pinging against car parts filling the shelves.

One of the guards popped up next to a workbench and a couple of oil drums and opened fire. His rounds flew very close to Saint’s head, but thankfully missed him. Saint slid behind a pile of scrap parts, the jagged edges jutting out like rusty knives. He kept low, careful not to slice himself as bullets tore past.

He was now closer to Hannah, who was still out in the open. No one was taking shots at her, for the moment. Saint’s eyes flicked from her to the plastic cuffs cinched tight around her wrists. Maybe Varenkov has a knife.

He looked at the downed Russian but couldn’t be certain. It’s worth a try.

Saint looked toward the workbench, waiting for the guard to reappear. When he did, Saint squeezed off a couple of rounds, planting them into the guard’s chest. He fell backwards.

A new volley came from the shop’s entrance, but none of the bullets struck around Saint. He looked in that direction as a man rushed toward the wall of shelves. “Friendlies, friendlies,” he shouted in English.

Saint recognized the voice but still couldn’t believe his ears. What? He’s here? Why? He looked at the man dressed in black tactical pants, a black shirt, and a bulletproof vest and shouted back, “Mizrahi?”

Two gunfire bursts came from the shop’s entrance and a side door. Saint turned his rifle at the side door and fired as Katia slipped through it. He missed and had to drop down as the other guard opened fire. Mizrahi and his associate returned fire, but the guard was able to step through the door.

No one fired for a few seconds, and Saint stood up. “You’re the last man I expected,” he said in disbelief to Mizrahi.

The Mossad operative nodded. “You’re welcome.”

“Give me a hand.” He gestured toward Hannah.

Mizrahi slipped a blade free from a sheath tucked into the belt of his chest rig. He tossed it to Saint, who grabbed it in mid-air. He stepped closer to Hannah, who gave him a small, tired smile.

“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispered to her as he sliced the plastic handcuffs.

Hannah heaved a sigh of relief. “Saint, don’t… don’t let them escape.”

“What about you?”

“I’m safe; I’m okay, now. And my partner, Schäfer, he’s locked up in the back.” She gestured with her hand. “I’ll get him out. You go after them before they escape!”

Saint looked at Mizrahi, who said, “Hannah’s right. We can’t let them slip away.”

Saint nodded. He gestured at Varenkov’s pistol, then said to Hannah, “Take that. And be careful.”

“You too,” she said to him.

“Are they on foot?” Saint asked Mizrahi.

Before he could reply, a loud engine roar sounded outside the shop, followed by the screech of tires.

“The Nissan.” Mizrahi cocked his head toward the shop’s entrance. “I’ll drive.”

They dashed through the smoke filling the shop. The smell of gunpowder and burnt rubber mingled into something sharp enough to cut.

Mizrahi slid into the first Nissan, then yanked down the sun visor. The keys dropped into his lap. He jammed them into the ignition and twisted hard as Saint buckled up in the front passenger seat.

The engine sputtered once, coughed like an old smoker, then roared to life. Mizrahi glanced at Saint. “Ready?”

“Readier than ever.” Saint nodded.

Mizrahi slammed the gearshift into drive and stomped the accelerator. The tires screeched in protest, burning rubber as the Nissan lurched forward, shooting out of the shop. Dust and bits of loose gravel exploded around him as he fishtailed through the front parking area.

A couple of gunmen dressed exactly like Mizrahi were standing in position next to the SUVs. They nodded and waved at him as the Nissan flew past them. Saint glanced through the side window at the body of a man sprawled by one of the sedans. He blinked in disbelief as he recognized the man. It was one of Neymar’s goons who had been going after Evanoff back in Bratislava. What is he doing here? And where’s Evanoff?

Saint shook his head and shrugged away those thoughts as he needed to deal with the matter at hand. He looked through the windshield. A red convertible Honda was just turning on the two-lane road. Saint peered so hard that his eyes hurt and nodded at Mizrahi. “That’s them. Heading out of the city,” Saint said.

“No, they’re not,” Mizrahi replied.

The Honda was picking up speed, taking advantage of the sparse traffic and passing the occasional vehicle.

Mizrahi kept his foot on the gas, and in a matter of seconds, the Nissan turned onto the road. Saint judged the distance between the two cars to be about a hundred and fifty yards at most. “Faster, faster,” he shouted at Mizrahi over the engine’s rumble.

The Mossad operative slammed the gas pedal, and the Nissan picked up speed.

Katia and the guard noticed the Nissan. The guard turned in his seat and aimed his rifle at the Nissan.

Saint saw the AK’s muzzle flashes at about the same time the bullets thumped against the car’s grille and hood. A round pierced the windshield, about six inches from his head.

Saint rolled down his window and leaned out. He locked eyes on the target—the back of the guard’s head—and squeezed the trigger. He unleashed a barrage of bullets that tore through the air. A few of them pounded the back of the Honda, but Katia veered left, cutting in front of a white cube truck.

Saint dropped back into the car and removed the magazine. He counted the remaining rounds through the magazine’s window. Sixteen bullets left. Should be enough.

Mizrahi pushed the Nissan to the maximum, determined to catch up to Katia and the guard. The distance between the two vehicles was now less than fifty yards. Katia passed a couple of SUVs and taxis, before the gunman aimed his rifle once again at the Nissan.

This time, Mizrahi turned the steering wheel just as the volley began. Only a couple of rounds struck the grille, and the rest hammered the SUV in front of Mizrahi. Its driver was hit or otherwise impaired because he lost control of the vehicle. The SUV spun around, before careening into the other lane and ending up in the ditch.

The Nissan became exposed.

The guard fired a quick burst. At least two of his rounds struck the windshield, sending spiderweb fractures rippling across the glass.

Mizrahi yanked the wheel to the left, then swung to the right.

Saint aimed his rifle, waiting for the moment when his partner would straighten the wheel. When he did so, Saint narrowed his eyes and aligned his AK’s sights with the right rear tire. He fired off a few rounds as the Nissan bounced over a pothole. His rounds struck the Honda’s hood.

Saint realigned his rifle and tried again.

Katia wrenched the Honda’s wheel at the last second. Saint’s shots flew wide, smashing the taillights into glittering shards.

The guard returned fire. A couple of rounds punched through the windshield.

“Come on, Saint,” Mizrahi called at him. “Hit them, before they kill us.”

Saint tightened his jaw so hard, it hurt. He tried to calculate how many rounds were left in the magazine, his last one. Enough, if I make them count.

He closed his left eye and aimed his rifle. The Honda swerved violently, as Katia was trying to dodge his volley of bullets. His heart hammered harder against his ribs, while the air whistled past his ears. You’re not getting away, not after what you did to Hannah and to me. I won’t let you!

Saint waited a couple more seconds until the tire appeared in his sights, then he tapped the trigger. He sent one bullet right where he intended it.

The tire blew up, and the Honda dropped. Katia struggled with the vehicle, which began to move onto the other lane. She regained control, but Saint focused his firepower at the other tire as the Nissan grew closer and closer.

The other tire exploded.

The Honda lurched violently to the side, skidding out of control.

Saint kept firing until he emptied the magazine.

A parked tow truck sat on the side of the road. Its back end was angled down in a crude, makeshift ramp. The Honda was going straight toward it.

Katia tried to turn the wheel, but the vehicle didn’t respond. She cursed out loud as the convertible climbed the ramp at full speed, flying into the air like a toy car.

Saint felt the seconds slow down. The red Honda sailed upward, wheels spinning uselessly in midair. He looked at Mizrahi, who tapped the brakes and stared in shock at the car arcing through the sky.

Three seconds later, the car came crashing down before it exploded into a huge fireball. Shrapnel shot in all directions as far back as the Nissan, which was stopped about forty yards away. Black smoke engulfed the mangled heap of burning metal.

Saint and Mizrahi exchanged a knowing look. “Well, that’s their end,” Mizrahi said matter-of-factly in a voice void of regret.

Saint nodded slowly. “Those who live by the gun, die by the gun.” One day, it might be my turn. Thankfully, not today.

Mizrahi cocked his head toward a few vehicles that were stopping by the wreckage. “Let’s get out of here before this turns into a circus.”

“Back to the repair shop, to Hannah.”

Mizrahi smiled. “Someone else is going home to see his little girl today.”

Saint’s face softened for a fleeting second. His eyes flickered with a glint of gratitude. He gave the Mossad operative a small, deliberate nod. “I… I don’t know how you did it, but thank you.”

Mizrahi said nothing. He tapped Saint on the shoulder and returned the nod. Then he turned the wheel smoothly, bringing the car around in a tight arc. A moment later, they were heading back to the car repair shop.

Epilogue

A Week Later

Stadtpark

Graz, Austria

Saint tried to get more comfortable on the wooden bench as he glanced at Sarah playing on the grass about twenty steps away. Then, he quickly looked at his phone. No new messages. Come on, Azoulay. What’s going on?

He thought about messaging the Mossad director and asking for an update, then shook his head. I’ve got to be patient. They said the operation was going to happen today, and today has just started. It’s not even ten in the morning yet.

He checked again on Sarah, who was running around one of the chestnut trees a little further away. Saint then glanced to his left and to his right and saw Hannah walking toward him. She wore a brown leather jacket over a black blouse and black jeans. In her hands, a paper tray with two large coffee cups swayed slightly as she crossed the grass toward Saint. “Morning, love,” she greeted him as she sat down, then leaned for a kiss.

Their lips brushed for just a second, then she offered Saint one of the coffee cups, the one closest to him. “That’s yours. They had this new light roast blend I thought you might want to try,” she said.

“Sure, thanks.” He took the cup. “What did you get?”

“Ceylon black tea.”

Saint brought his cup to his lips.

“Too hot,” she said, but he already took a quick sip.

“It’s good,” he said. “I like it.”

“What’s Sarah doing?”

Saint looked at Sarah sitting next to one of the chestnuts. Her head was tilted back, the wide eyes scanning the branches above with a look of intense concentration. Her hair, a tangled mess of golden curls, bounced slightly with each movement as she shifted in search of any sign of the creature. He smiled and said, “Looking for a squirrel, or a sparrow, probably. She pointed to a couple of them and said she wished we had brought some nuts to feed them. I told her we don’t do that. Squirrels are able to find their own food. Whenever we humans interfere, we just muck things up.” He shrugged. “I didn’t tell her that last thought.”

“I get it.” Hannah removed the lid of her cup, and the tea’s unique floral fragrance filled her nostrils.

“How did the meeting with Richter go?”

Hannah shrugged. “Uh, it went. Blah, blah, blah, the op in Damascus went sideways; why did it happen; why couldn’t you stop it; blah, blah, blah.” She shifted in her seat and gave Saint an intense gaze, before saying, “But ultimately, he was pleased that Interpol’s name never came up in any media report or inquiry. No diplomatic incidents. But Richter told me something interesting. He expected you to be dragged into the ‘Darwish affair,’ as he called it. That’s why he assigned me to go to Damascus, to see how I would handle things when facing someone I love.”

Saint nodded slowly and looked at her thoughtfully. “Very clever. Family versus duty to the agency. You passed?” He smiled at her.

Hannah returned the smile. “Obviously, although Richter had a few pointed remarks about why I didn’t tell him that you were involved. But it’s all good.”

“Did you ask him how he knew or suspected my involvement in the ‘Darwish affair?’”

“I asked, but he didn’t give me a straight answer. I’m assuming the CIA had something to do with it, since they were involved.”

“Yes, there was a guy that supposedly worked for the CIA as an asset in Damascus. He was on my team.”

“What happened to him?”

Saint shook his head. Both Corsini and O’Rourke had been killed during the attack against Darwish’s safehouse. At least, that’s what he had learned from one of his sources with the Syrian police. Abbas had ended up the same: dead. The bullets in his back suggested he’d tried to run. Some things never change with rats like him. “He didn’t make it,” he said in a dry voice. “But there’s another option. Someone other than the CIA leaked that intel. That’s how the SVR must have learned about it.”

Hannah peered at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Saint shifted uncomfortably, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he dropped his gaze to the ground. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking about how much to reveal to Hannah. But she deserved to know, considering how involved she was in this matter. “When I agreed to do the… the job in Damascus, the man with whom I have dealings… he’s betrayed me in the past,” Saint chose every word very carefully, trying to curb his emotions, although his voice rose up with tension.

Hannah raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “He could have done that again…”

Saint clenched his jaw and fists at the same time. The image of one of Neymar’s goons lying outside the car repair shop in Damascus flashed through his mind. Robin was supposed to have eliminated them. He said he was going to handle them. But he “handled” them by sending them after me.

He nodded at Hannah. “He did that again, and, this time, he will pay for it.”

Hannah flinched. “It’s something for another time, but we need to talk about… your profession.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about it. It’s not something I want to do indefinitely, for sure. I want to be there for you and, of course, Sarah.” He cocked his head toward the little girl, still looking for the elusive squirrel. When he looked back to Hannah, he added, “For now, there are a few things I need to finish. I need to tie up a few loose ends.”

“And this traitor is one of them?”

“Yes.”

Her shoulders tensed, almost imperceptibly, then she shrugged and pursed her lips. She didn’t like what Saint was about to do, but she agreed it was a necessary evil. People like the one who had betrayed him and who tried to kill them were never going to receive the justice they deserved, at least not in the formal way. No laws would catch them. The only justice left was the kind Saint could deliver: personal, brutal, but effective.

Hannah glanced at their daughter, and a small smile curled her lips. Saint might be an assassin, but he’s so kind and loving to her. Once he’s switched jobs, he’ll be the best dad ever.

Hannah looked at Saint, who sipped his coffee. “I have a few questions about what happened in Damascus…”

“Sure. Anything you want to know.” He caught himself as soon as he said the words, hoping she wouldn’t ask anything he would be reluctant to answer truthfully. He had promised in his heart to not lie to Hannah, but also not tell her the entire truth. Still, he gave her a big smile.

“Mossad, how did they find us?”

“I mentioned they were holding you in Hazeh. I didn’t have the exact address at that time; the Russians hadn’t given it to me yet. But Mossad is Mossad: They know how to find people when they want to.” A fleeting thought crossed his mind: He hoped they had found Neymar and made him pay.

“And how exactly did you get their help? From what I hear, Mossad is stubborn as a mule…”

“That was all Mizrahi. He convinced his teammates—I’m not sure how exactly—to come to our rescue.”

“You don’t owe them anything? Like kill someone for them?”

The jolt of surprise hit him hard, but he blinked it away, refusing to let it show. “No,” he replied in a confident tone, followed by a headshake. “I don’t do that.” He didn’t want to explain how he actually had offered to kill for Mossad, but they had turned him down. I’m telling her the truth. Technically, at this point, now, I’m not doing that.

“Okay.” Hannah nodded and brought her tea cup to her mouth. “Evanoff, what happened to him?”

Saint grinned. He opened his mouth to reply to her, but then noticed a couple of young men in worn-out jeans and faded blue shirts pedaling toward them on fat-tire bicycles. Their movements were casual, but their eyes were sharp. The tires crunched on the asphalt pathway as they stopped right beside him and Hannah.

One of them—the taller of the two with a blond mane—nodded at Saint and began to speak to him in German.

“Sorry.” Saint shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Hannah responded to them in German and gestured with her hand to somewhere to their left. They smiled at her, thanked her, before pedaling away.

“They were looking for the university,” Hannah explained.

“Yeah. I could make out the word ‘university.’ Now, you were asking about Evanoff. He disappeared without a trace. The Syrians don’t need him anymore since they’re getting the rest of the uranium from North Korea. They’re building a new uranium enrichment facility somewhere in the southeast of the country.”

“Wait until Mossad learns about it.”

“I think they’re already aware of it. That’s what I suspect Mizrahi and his team were in Damascus. We never got to the details, and it didn’t really matter. But as far as Evanoff is concerned, he’s no longer in the picture.”

Hannah stared at Saint for a moment, seeming to hesitate, before asking, “Do you think they killed him?” she asked in a low voice, a little louder than a whisper.

“Well, I haven’t seen the body, but I think I got good intel. Evanoff is gone.” He chose not to tell Hannah that there had been no new activity coming from Evanoff’s phone for seven days. The timing matched almost perfectly with the moment he disappeared.

He waved his hand dismissively, and said, “Now, on the other hand, my asset told me how the Syrians are reacting to this whole mess. They’re fully aware of the Russians’ involvement and what they did to Darwish. However, because of their deep relationship with the Russian government—and their reliance on Russia for military supplies and economic support—the Syrians are willing to sweep this matter under the proverbial rug.” Saint detailed what he had learned from one of his assets, a close confidant of Barakat, the advisor to the Syrian intelligence agency chief.

Saint had feared the Russians might have tipped off Barakat and the Syrians about his real reason for coming to Damascus. If they had, it would have been a death sentence. However, during his meeting with Barakat, he gave no sign that he knew anything. No loaded glances. No sharp questions. Nothing.

And when Saint finally informed him that the Syrian assistance with his so-called “Neymar situation” was no longer needed, Barakat didn’t press for details. In fact, he seemed almost relieved, eager to wash his hands of the whole matter. So he didn’t mind his confidant updating Saint on the state of affairs with regard to the Russians.

Saint continued, “And since Darwish was revealed to be a CIA and Russian double agent, the Syrians don’t want the embarrassment that would come if those truths became public.” He lifted his cup to his mouth.

An elderly couple strolled arm-in-arm in front of them. Saint wondered if he and Hannah would ever reach that moment—when they were old, frail, and wrinkled, but still holding on to each other. He nodded slowly to himself. I will make that happen. I will.

Hannah looked at Sarah, who was staring intently at a patch of grass in front of her. Her small fingers seemed to be searching for something among the grass blades. Maybe it’s a ladybug or some other critter.

“What’s next for you, Saint?” she asked in a timid voice, as if she was afraid to know the answer.

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he drew in a deep breath. The air smelled faintly of fresh-mown grass and the distant sweetness of blooming magnolias. He wished he could tell her that he was going to stay here in Graz with her and Sarah. He wanted to do that, so much that it hurt, but he couldn’t stop now.

Even if Mossad really took care of Neymar, as they had promised, Saint still had to deal with three more bosses responsible for running assassination networks and killing innocents. I’m halfway there. I’ve got to do this for the ones who’ve lost their lives, their families, and mine as well. If I stop now, they’ll come after me, Hannah, and Sarah. But if I kill them all, then, no one will threaten my family.

He drew in a deep breath, gave Hannah a steady, aching look. His eyes softened, a flicker of pain hidden beneath his resolve. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that seemed almost at odds with the violence still ahead of him. “I’ll finish this… what I’ve started,” he said in a low, but firm, voice. “I swear to you that I will make this, all of this, right. Then, we can have a life where we don’t have to look over our shoulders…”

Hannah gave him a look of understanding mixed with sadness for what he still had to do, and for the pieces of himself he would lose along the way. She didn’t speak; she didn’t have to. In the softest way, she pressed her forehead to his. In the slight, trembling nod she gave, there was a silent approval. A painful acceptance that this was the only way forward, and that she would be waiting for him on the other side.

Saint smiled, even though Hannah could barely see it. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring, even though he didn’t think anything was needed, when his phone buzzed sharply at his hip, breaking the moment. His jaw tightened as he recognized the ringtone that he had assigned to Azoulay, the Mossad director. “Sorry, Hannah. I need to take this,” he whispered.

“Of course.” Hannah moved back. “Go ahead.”

Saint stood up and took a couple of quick steps to the left. The phone rang again before he could answer it. “Yes, Azoulay…” he said in a voice full of expectation.

“I’ve got news, Saint,” the Mossad director said in a low, cryptic voice.

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The Story

A pact that can’t be broken…

Assassin Xavier Saint has barely escaped an ambush in Damascus, Syria, but he’s still in danger. Two of his worst enemies—masterminds of the network of assassins Saint is trying to destroy—are closing in fast. Worse, one of Saint’s supposed partners has failed at a critical moment.

While Saint investigates a seemingly unrelated attack in Poland, he strikes a pact with a new shady client. It’s for a contract he dislikes, but in his situation, he can’t refuse. The fate of his family rests on his success.

As he prepares the hit in Sri Lanka, Saint discovers the attack and his contract are strangely related. But what is the connection between the two? Who’s really pulling the strings, and why do they seem to know his every move?

In a world of assassins, the only pact that matters is the one you make with yourself…

Chapter One

Ujazdów Avenue

Warsaw, Poland

The driver of the red Toyota RAV4 saw the vehicle lunging at them when it was already too late. He tried to swerve, but the heavier, black GMC Yukon XL slammed into the side of the Toyota, right around the rear quarter panel with a brutal metallic screech. The impact sent a violent shudder through the RAV4.

The driver wrestled with the wheel as the SUV’s tires squealed on the asphalt. The Toyota skidded hard to the right, going into the adjacent lane, narrowly missing a gray Audi. Its driver, startled by the unexpected intrusion, jerked his own steering wheel. He sideswept a blue BMW that had nowhere to go.

The BMW’s driver—a woman in her sunset years—tried to step on her vehicle’s brakes, but it was too late. The car behind her smashed into the rear bumper. The BMW’s rear windshield shattered. Behind them, horns blared in panic and anger. Some drivers skidded to erratic stops; others swerved wildly to avoid crashing into stalled vehicles.

“What’s going on?” Trevor Hill asked, sitting in the RAV4 front passenger seat. “An accident?” He looked over his shoulder.

Before the driver could respond, Hill had his answer. The GMC picked up speed, rushing again toward the Toyota. Hill frowned, his sharp, ice-blue eyes narrowing beneath a furrowed brow. His face—all hard angles and quiet fury—locked onto the oncoming SUV. “He’s back,” he muttered.

His hand went to the inside waistband holster, and he drew his pistol. It was a compact SIG Sauer P229 9mm, and the weapon slid into his grip as naturally as a second skin. A former Captain in the G Squadron of the legendary 22 SAS, Hill had last seen action in Afghanistan before receiving an honorable discharge.

“And he wants to kill us,” the driver said and gritted his teeth.

“Not if we kill them first,” Hill replied in a calm, cool, and collected tone.

Adrenaline flowed through his veins, making him more alert, more focused. He aimed his pistol at the looming GMC, but didn’t fire. He wanted to be absolutely sure of their intentions. There was a slim, but still possible, chance the GMC’s driver could be suffering from a medical condition. Hill didn’t want to kill an innocent person, but when he opened fire, it wouldn’t be to wound: It would be to kill.

The GMC drew closer, but then, at the last possible second, its driver swung the steering wheel. Hill blinked in surprise but kept his pistol aimed. He peered at the GMC driver as the SUV swung to the left. It was still driving parallel to the Toyota at a distance of about four feet.

Hill began to lower his Sig, but just then, a figure popped up through the GMC’s sunroof. A bald, bearded man in his early forties. A gunman.

He turned his B&T APC9 9mm compact submachine gun at the Toyota and opened fire. The first rounds thumped against the rear door. Others hit the RAV4’s side, roof and back, as its driver yanked at the steering wheel. He forced his way into the other, right lane, crashing into a yellow taxi. Then he slammed on the gas and steered around a white van, putting it between the Toyota and the GMC.

More gunfire bursts ripped from behind them. Hill looked through the rear windshield, where a couple of rounds had punched through. As he glanced back at the driver, Williams had already pulled out his Glock 19. Steering one-handed, he moved into the lane to their right. “Who are these people?”

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll be dead soon.” Hill spat out the words.

People screamed and scattered along the sidewalks. A few dove for cover behind cars parked on the side of the road or benches and lampposts.

“Switch lanes,” Hill ordered Williams. “Right there.” He gestured at a gap that opened up to their right.

Williams nodded and yanked at the steering wheel. He squeezed in the tiny space between the two SUVs. The driver of the second SUV honked in protest.

“One more lane,” Hill said. “And roll down the windows.”

Williams switched lanes again, as he looked over his shoulders and in the side mirror.

Hill aimed his pistol at the approaching GMC. The gunman was still there. He opened up with a quick burst even though a sedan was between the two SUVs. At least a couple of rounds shattered whatever was left of the rear windshield. A third round ricocheted inside the cabin, missing Hill’s face by a couple of inches.

He barely flinched. He aimed his pistol and fired a couple of rounds. The first one missed, but the second hit the gunman’s right forearm. The submachine gun flew out of his hands, and he slid down inside the GMC.

Hill realigned his Sig with the driver’s side of the windshield. As the sedan’s driver realized how he was literally in the crossfire, he swung to the right. Hill seized the moment and fired round after round.

His bullets pierced the windshield. At least one, maybe more, must have struck the driver. He lost control of the GMC, which careened to the right. It hit a sedan, sweeping it to the side and continued onto the next lane.

But the heavy GMC was no match for the bright yellow-and-red Warsaw city bus barreling down the dedicated bus lane. The driver of the oncoming bus leaned on the horn. Its eardrum-busting blast shattered the air.

The GMC didn’t move.

The bus didn’t stop.

The front grille and bumper of the bus crashed right into the passenger side of the GMC with a crush of steel and shattering glass. The sheer mass of the bus lifted the SUV clean off the ground. For a split second, the SUV seemed suspended in midair. Then, the vehicle spun violently across the asphalt, skidding sideways in a shriek of torn rubber and twisting metal.

It hit a van racing down the other lane and, with a sickening roll, it flipped over onto its side. The world inside the GMC cabin turned upside down as the vehicle slammed down on its roof, but only for a moment. The brutal impact kept the SUV rolling, crunching onto the front passenger’s side, and finally slamming down onto what remained of its shredded tires and twisted wheels.

Williams stopped a dozen or so feet away from the wreckage. “They couldn’t have survived that,” he said in a tone that lacked confidence.

Hill shrugged. “We don’t know that. Plus, I want to know who they are, and why they’re out to kill us.”

Williams listened, his face tightening. “Sirens. You’ve got maybe sixty seconds.” He nodded toward the snarled mess of cars piling up behind them, a wreckage born in their path.

“Plenty of time to spare.” Hill stepped out of the SUV and rushed toward the wreckage. He had already returned his pistol to his holster. Curious bystanders had begun to cluster on the sidewalk. A few of them hesitantly began to shuffle toward the wreckage.

Hill crouched low as he approached the scene, weaving through chunks of smoking metal and broken glass. The acrid stench of burnt rubber and gasoline filled the air. The SUV’s twisted remains hissed softly, while gray smoke wafted from beneath the mangled hood.

He studied the driver and the gunman, the only two people in the vehicle. The gunman’s body was twisted, and his neck was bent at an impossible angle. Hill didn’t need any more evidence to conclude the man was dead or nearly dead. Even if I wanted to save his life, it’s already too late.

Hill moved swiftly to the driver’s side, hearing the clock ticking. He didn’t want to be around when the police, or even the ambulance, arrived. He wasn’t sure how much the witnesses had seen, or how much they were willing to tell the police. He didn’t want to know.

Squinting through the spiderwebbed windshield, Hill realized the driver was alive, but barely. He was still strapped to the crushed seat, and his chest rose in shallow, ragged breaths. Blood streamed from a gash across his forehead, and a couple of metal pieces poked out of his chest. His right arm was twisted the wrong way.

The driver looked at Hill with glazed eyes and let out a pained groan. “Help… help me.”

“Who sent you?” Hill asked firmly, leaning over him. “Why?”

The man coughed violently, spitting blood.

Hill was glad he was out of the way.

The driver’s eyes fluttered. He tried to speak, but only managed a painful wheeze.

Hill leaned in closer. “Tell me. Now. You don't have long."

The driver blinked, grimacing through the pain. His voice came out hoarse, barely audible. “Uh… will you… help me?”

“If you tell me the truth.”

The man looked at Hill with a certain amount of suspicion in his tired eyes, then nodded and muttered, “It… it was Fill… Fillmore.”

“Fillmore?” Hill’s eyes narrowed. He repeated the name to make sure he heard it correctly. “Say it again.”

“Fillmore sent us,” the man whispered, his head lolling to the side. His body trembled, and blood trickled down his chin. “To… to kill you.”

Hill racked his brain, but the name didn’t ring a bell, so he asked, “First name?”

The driver shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I… just Fillmore.”

“And why? Why did Fillmore…” His voice trailed off.

The driver groaned, and a final rattling breath escaped his bruised lips. Then, he went still.

Hill stared at him for a moment longer, as sharp sirens cut through the air. Nothing more for me to do here.

He stood up and looked away from a couple of youngsters, who were recording the wreckage. Hill kept his head down as he passed by a handful of men and women, who were slowly approaching the vehicle with a lot of hesitation.

Who is Fillmore?

Hill’s face tensed in concentration. His brow furrowed, and his lips parted slightly. He slid into the SUV, and, before he could say anything, Williams hit the gas. “What did he say?” he asked as the Toyota picked up speed.

“Fillmore.”

“Fillmore who?”

“I don’t know. That’s all he said before he croaked.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever known any Fillmore. You?”

Hill shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

His eyes narrowed as if he were trying to drag the name from the deep recesses of a locked room in his mind. Fillmore. Where have I heard that name? Was it in a briefing? A mission file? He couldn’t help but feel that name had something to do with what had happened in Afghanistan. Whoever this Fillmore character is, he wants Williams and me dead. But why? How do we find him—and stop him?

Hill glanced in the rearview mirror. No vehicle was following them, police or otherwise. Still, after what had just happened, he couldn’t sit still. We need to deal with this. Fillmore might try to do this again, differently, better, with more people, and get it right.

He remembered the name a good friend had given him. “If you’re ever in trouble you can’t handle, this guy is the bomb. He’s a pro; top of his game,” he had said. Hill was confident he could handle Fillmore and all his goons on his own. He wasn’t worried or even concerned about himself. But he couldn’t let anything happen to Williams, his younger cousin, whom he loved as a brother. If they try to go after him, and something happens to him…

He shook his head. I can’t let that happen. And, as much as he hated to admit it, Hill knew he couldn’t handle this situation alone, not before it spiraled completely out of control.

Hill nodded to himself. Yeah, I’d better call Xavier Saint.

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Justin Hall Spy Thriller Series

Javin Pierce Spy Thriller Series

The Carrie Chronicles Spy Thriller Series

Max Thorne Spy Thriller Series

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The Saint Assassin Vigilante Series

Tom Maverick Assassin Series

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ASSASSIN’S AMBUSH. Copyright © 2025 by Ethan Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Kim Killion

First edition: April 2025