Not because it was dangerous.
But because it involved proximity to the man who had once owned my legal identity.
I had trained for this. For years.
Firearms certification. Tactical surveillance drills. Psychological resistance training. Disguise work. Undercover persona development.
I had rehearsed how to stand near dangerous men without trembling.
How to look at them without exposing emotion.
How to record conversations without being detected.
How to treat them like a suspect .
I forced my voice steady. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
Roman nodded beside me.
“Understood.”
Vincent shut off the projector. The screen went dark.
The room lights seemed suddenly brighter. More real.
“Briefing packets will be distributed after this session,” he said. “You leave in seventy-two hours.”
He glanced around the table once more.
“Remember — this target has resources. Connections. And loyalty from people who would die protecting him.”
His gaze lingered on me briefly. “Do not underestimate him.”
My jaw tightened.
Roman Caldwell leaned back in his chair and flashed a half-smile.
“We’ve got this, boss.”
The confidence in his tone wasn’t arrogance. It was calm competence — the kind forged through deployments, failed missions, and lessons learned the hard way.
Vincent gave him a brief nod before moving on to the next target on the agenda.
The briefing continued for another ten minutes.
Other suspects. Other operations.
Other names pinned to walls and maps like pieces in an ongoing war.
Agents asked questions. Analysts clarified logistics.
Someone scribbled notes across a digital tablet.
But my focus had already drifted.
My eyes stayed fixed on the frozen image of Ruslan Baranov projected on the wall.
The photograph didn’t move. It didn’t show the dangerous intelligence hidden beneath that composed exterior.
