The sun cast a dull, gray light over the city as if even the sky mourned the end of an era. News of Javier Montoya’s arrest spread like wildfire. People flooded the streets, curiosity and anticipation mingling in the air. Every eye turned toward the grand courthouse, a towering structure of stone and glass that had witnessed the rise and fall of many before him.Javier Montoya sat in the back of the armored police vehicle, his wrists bound by steel cuffs that bit into his skin. His jaw was clenched, muscles working beneath his sun-kissed skin. He was a strong man—physically, yes, but more so in influence. His name had rung bells, commanded respect, and stirred fear. But today, those bells tolled a different tune.He had fought the officers, his resistance more a reflex than a strategy. His knuckles were bloodied, his tailored suit torn at the shoulder. But when they whispered that the president himself was interested in his case, something in him broke. A crack in the armor. A shadow

"We’re not done yet. There’s one more."The message burned on the phone screen, stark and inevitable. The cottage on the outskirts of Paris had always been a refuge, a safe haven wrapped in the soft glow of the countryside. But safety had always been a brittle thing—easily shattered by the past.Elizabeth’s voice was a gentle ripple in the silence. “Who is it?”A thousand miles away, Ramirez sat in a darkened office, the leather of his chair groaning under his weight. Files lay scattered across his desk, paper trails of shattered lives and quiet horrors. At the center of the mess lay a photograph—a man with salt-and-pepper hair, his smile cold and practiced. Claude Renaud. A diplomat draped in immunity, his hands stained by crimes that laws could not touch.Ramirez’s fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm on the desk. Montoya’s fall had been a chapter closed, but the story had continued, twisted into new shapes. The organ trade hadn’t died—it had merely worn a new face, one that mingled wi

The train station was a living organism—voices, footsteps, and the low rumble of engines blended into a chaotic symphony. Walker’s senses were on high alert, every sound sharpened, every movement a potential threat. His hand tightened around Elizabeth’s, their fingers woven together as they maneuvered through the crowd.Their bags hung off their shoulders, packed with the essentials—cash, passports, burner phones. The plan was simple: disappear into the folds of Europe, erase their footprints, and build a life where shadows couldn’t follow. But simplicity rarely survived the real world.Walker’s instincts prickled. The air felt different—charged, uneasy. He caught a glimpse of a face in the crowd, just a flash, but enough. The man moved with purpose, his stride too steady amid the chaotic flow of commuters. His eyes didn’t wander, didn’t glance at departure boards or the faces around him. Instead, they remained fixed—a predator locked onto its prey.“We’re not alone,” Walker murmured,

Charles de Gaulle Airport sprawled before Walker like a miniature city, its sweeping glass ceilings and intricate steel beams a testament to modern architecture. The terminal buzzed with the rhythm of travelers—suitcases wheeling, heels clicking, announcements echoing over the intercom in French and English. The vibrant mosaic art along the walls and the suspended kinetic sculpture above him offered a fleeting distraction, but his mind remained anchored to the task at hand.Walker had arrived early, as always. Ramirez's flight from New York wasn’t due for another forty minutes, giving him time to watch and wait. He took a seat near a bustling café, the aroma of freshly baked croissants wafting over. His fingers wrapped around a cup of black coffee, its heat a reminder to stay sharp.He scanned the crowd, watching the tapestry of humanity flow through the terminal. Business travelers in crisp suits, families shepherding sleepy children, backpackers with weary but hopeful eyes. It was e

Elizabeth moved through the bustling open-air market, the wicker basket on her arm brimming with fresh bread and vibrant vegetables. The sun filtered through the canopy of leaves, dappling the cobblestone street with patches of light and shadow. It should have felt safe, comforting even—surrounded by the hum of life, the mingling scents of rosemary, thyme, and freshly baked goods. But every time she glanced over her shoulder, all she saw were ghosts.A man stood by a flower stall, his posture too rigid, his eyes lingering on her just a moment too long. She turned away, the calm facade on her face betraying nothing, but beneath the surface, her heartbeat drummed a rapid rhythm. She could feel the weight of his stare even as she slipped into a narrow alley behind the market. Her fingers tightened around the phone in her pocket.“Walker, someone’s watching me.” Her voice was a whisper against the crisp Parisian air.“Where are you?” His tone was steady, but she could hear the steel benea