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The jet dips lower.
City lights sharpen beneath us.
Zurich.
Game on.
We touch down smooth.
Too smooth.
Like the calm before something breaks.
“Let’s move,” Ethan says.
The moment the jet stops, we’re up.
No delay.
No hesitation.
The door opens—
Cold air rushes in.
Different here.
Sharper.
Cleaner.
But underneath it…
Something else.
We descend onto the tarmac, boots hitting ground in sync.
No uniforms.
No markings.
We’re ghosts here.
Just another team that doesn’t officially exist.
A black transport van waits nearby.
Engine running.
No driver visible.
Of course.
“Right on time,” Jonah mutters.
“Or right on cue,” Cal adds.
Same thing.
