CHAPTER 1
London, present day
Mikhail Dragunov
London felt like a graveyard, except it had better landscaping.
Tourists didn’t notice it, of course. They saw the old architecture, the fog drifting along the Thames, the polished facades of money and power, but underneath all that shine, the bones were the same as any other empire.
Brittle, buried, and bought at the cost of blood and the freedom of others.
The Shard rose above it all like a dagger aimed at the sky. A fitting headquarters for ARCHEON, an organization that built kingdoms out of shadows and kept score in corpses and contracts.
My car slowed to a stop at the private entrance. Two ARCHEON security officers approached immediately, each one cut from thesame cloth: immaculate suits, empty expressions, movements synchronized like they’d been programmed instead of trained.
“Mr. Dragunov,” one said. “You’ll follow us.”
Nowelcome. Noplease.
Like they just expected me to do as they commanded.
I swallowed my annoyance, at least for the time being.
With a quiet huff, I stepped out into the cool morning wind, adjusting my coat. It was drearier here than in Moscow somehow. Colder too, though not in temperature. This city had a way of leaching warmth from a man, leaving only calculation behind.
The sliding doors opened with a soft whisper as I entered the tower. Inside, the lobby was all marble and glass, high ceilings and art pieces designed to distract rather than inspire. Every reflective surface made the space feel endless and inescapable.
An architectural prison.
Fitting, actually.
The elevator ride felt longer than it was. A straight ascent into the sky, the city shrinking beneath us. My escorts flanked me on either side, silent and stiff. Their eyes never left the doors, but I could feel their unease, could see it in every bit of their body language. They recognized danger, even if they didn’t say it out loud.
Good. They should be wary.
Men like me didn’t climb towers to bow to anyone.
I had come to get some answers, and I wasn’t going to leave until I got them.
The elevator chimed softly as we reached the upper floors. The doors slid open onto a private foyer, a bit different from the one downstairs. This one was designed to intimidate. Black stone tiles. Low lighting. The scent of chilled air and gun oil.
Death smelled like this.
Two more ARCHEON agents waited near a pair of heavy doors with enough security hardware to impress even me. I observed silently as my escorts presented their credentials for the first door: badge swipe, voice authentication, retinal scan.
The second door required another set of credentials.
The third required a dual biometric confirmation, handprints pressed into two different scanners simultaneously. Red lights washed over us, then turned green.
As the final lock disengaged with a heavythunk, my hand twitched toward my jacket where my gun was hidden out of habit and instinct. I suppressed it.
I wasn’t here to kill anyone. At least, not yet.
The corridor beyond was lined with glass, revealing the city in its morning haze. Traffic shimmered in the distance. The Thames glistened like a sword cutting through stone. Morning sunlight cast fractured reflections across every surface.
“Straight ahead,” one agent said.
I didn’t bother acknowledging him. I had already guessed the way. People in power always placed themselves at the highestvantage point. It was a universal weakness, mistaking height for safety.
