“Immediate,” I reply. “Loud. Sloppy.”
The first explosion hits a warehouse outside Kraków—flames licking high into the morning sky. Emergency services flood the area within minutes. Cameras capture chaos. Panic.
Good.
The second strike follows twenty minutes later—aconvoy ambush in Romania. Men screaming. Gunfire. A mess.
I watch without blinking.
“This will be interpreted as retaliation,” I say. “He will believe I am angry.”
“Because you lost prisoners,” one analyst says.
“Yes,” I agree. “And because his journalist exposed my watcher.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“Which makes this believable.”
The screens split—news feeds lighting up, chatter exploding across intelligence channels.
Violent backlash.
Power vacuum.
Escalation.
All lies.
I glance at the final screen—still images of Ronan Pierce moving through shadow, Lena Hart at his side.
“They will respond,” I say softly. “They always do.”
“And while they’re busy—” the analyst begins.
I cut him off with a raised finger.
“While they’re busy,” I finish, “we reposition what actually matters.”
I tap the console again.
Deep beneath the surface, new commands go out—encrypted, old-school, routed through dead drops instead of networks.
Move the prisoners.
Split them further.
No patterns.
One of the analysts pales. “Sir… that includes the other men from Pierce’s team.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Pierce will notice.”
“He will,” I agree. “But too late.”
I step closer to the glass wall, staring down at nothing and everything.
