English Channel. Pre-dawn.
The black boat sliced through ink-dark water, silent save for the hum of its electric motor.Damien Voss sat at the prow, pistol balanced across his knees, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
Across from him, Asher sat, expression unreadable, thumb absently tracing the hilt of his combat knife.Behind them, Mara watched them both like someone standing between two wolves about to tear each other apart.Koslov manned the tiller, pretending not to listen, but failing.
The betrayal hung between them like poison gas.
"Say it," Damien said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, barely controlled.
Asher didn't blink. "Say what?"
"How long?"
The older man sighed, leaning forward, resting elbows on knees. The muscles in his forearms flexed beneath scars, ink, and grime.
"Zurich. That's when she made contact. Valeria Strand herself. Offered me a way out. Not for me. For my sister."
Mara's eyes narrowed. "You told me your family was dead."
"Not all of them," Asher snapped, suddenly raw. "My sister's still alive. They've been holding her in that Baltic black site for two years. She's dying in there, Damien. Dying."
"So you gave her us?" Damien's voice was razor-edged now. "Gave her me?"
Asher's jaw flexed. "I didn't sell you out. I bought time. There's a difference."
"No," Mara whispered. "There's not."
London was rising in the distance now, grey towers cutting through the mist like broken knives. They were almost there.
And the Wolves were waiting.
"What did you promise her?" Damien asked softly.
"Your location. After Zurich. Your next target. Strand wants to make you a spectacle, not a corpse."
"She wants a puppet show," Damien murmured bitterly. "The rebel leader revealed as a fraud. The martyr unmasked as just another greedy man."
Asher met his eyes. "I'm not going to help her kill you."
"You don't have a choice," Mara hissed. "They're tracking you, not him. You're the beacon."
Koslov finally spoke, his Russian accent thick as fog. "We can dump him overboard."
Asher didn't flinch.
"No," Damien said.
Everyone stared at him.
"No?" Mara snapped. "He sold us."
"He's still one of us," Damien said. "He's just… broken. Like the rest of us."
Asher's eyes flickered with something like gratitude. And guilt. Mostly guilt.
"You can't be serious," Mara spat.
"I'm done losing people," Damien whispered. "I've lost too many."
The boat veered north, cutting away from the obvious landing points.
"We go in silent," Damien ordered. "The old MI6 dead drops by Battersea. No comms, no signals. London's crawling with Wolves by now."
Koslov grunted approval.
But Mara was still glaring at Asher like she was imagining the best angle to put a blade between his ribs.
"You trust him, you'll get all of us killed," she warned.
Damien met Asher's eyes.
"I don't trust him," he said quietly. "I trust that he hates Strand more."
Asher's throat worked as he swallowed.
"We'll burn her, Damien," he said. "But I want my sister back. After that? I don't care if you put a bullet in me."
Damien stood slowly, the grey dawn wind cutting through his coat.
"We get your sister back," he said flatly. "Then we finish this."
Across London, in the penthouse of the Shard, Valeria Strand watched their signal on a ghost map of the Thames, smiling faintly.
"Let him come," she whispered. "Let the king come to his execution."
Behind her, twelve Wolves knelt in silence, masked, rifles gleaming.
The final act had begun.