Chapter 1: The Defector
Vienna, Austria – 23:47 Hours
The air was crisp, laced with the scent of rain as Jasper Hawke stepped out of the black sedan. The streets of Vienna were quiet at this hour, the city wrapped in a deceptive calm. He scanned his surroundings, taking note of the street cameras, the passing vehicles, and the man lingering too long near a café entrance.
His instincts were never wrong. Someone was watching.
He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored jacket, the subtle movement ensuring his silenced pistol was still in place beneath his coat. The mission was simple: extract Anton Belov, a former Russian intelligence officer seeking asylum. But Hawke knew better—no mission was ever simple.
Across the street, a dimly lit hotel blended into the historic architecture. Room 507—that was the target.
Hawke strode toward the entrance, his polished demeanor masking the tension coiled beneath the surface. Inside, the lobby was nearly empty, save for a tired-looking receptionist scrolling through her phone. He bypassed the check-in desk and took the elevator.
As the doors closed, he tapped his earpiece.
“I’m inside,” he murmured.
A voice crackled through the comms. “We’ve got eyes on the perimeter. No movement so far.”
Hawke wasn’t convinced. No movement meant they were waiting.
The elevator chimed as it reached the fifth floor. Hawke stepped out, walking with the confidence of a man who belonged. Room 507 was at the far end of the hallway. The door was slightly ajar.
Not good.
His grip tightened on his pistol as he pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was a mess—papers scattered, a chair overturned, the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air. A half-finished drink sat on the desk, its ice long melted.
But no sign of Anton Belov.
Hawke scanned the room, his eyes landing on the open window. The curtains billowed slightly. He moved forward cautiously and peered down. Five stories below, an alley stretched into the darkness.
Then he saw it—a body.
Lying motionless, face down.
Hawke exhaled sharply. He was too late.
Or so it seemed.
Because the moment he turned back to the room, a shadow moved—and the barrel of a gun pressed against his spine.
Vienna, Austria – 23:52 Hours
Jasper Hawke had learned long ago that the key to survival wasn’t just skill—it was instinct. And right now, his instincts screamed trap.
The cold barrel of a gun pressed between his shoulder blades, but his pulse remained steady. Whoever held the weapon had made one mistake—getting too close.
“Hands up.” A male voice, accented but firm. Russian.
Hawke slowly raised his hands, calculating his next move. The room was tight, the bed positioned a few feet away, a desk to his left. The gunman stood behind him, close enough that Hawke could almost feel his breath.
Sloppy.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
Hawke obeyed, pivoting just enough to catch a glimpse of his attacker. Late thirties. Muscular. Dressed in black. A professional, but not an elite operative. Not agency-trained.
And then he saw the patch on the man’s vest—a faint insignia, hastily removed but still recognizable.
FSB. Russian Intelligence.
This wasn’t a robbery. This wasn’t a random hit. This was a message.
Hawke kept his expression neutral. “If you’re looking for Belov, you’re late. Someone got to him first.”
The gunman didn’t flinch. “We know.”
That confirmed it. The body in the alley was staged.
Before Hawke could push for more, the man’s finger twitched on the trigger. Time was up.
With a swift movement, Hawke lunged sideways, knocking over the desk lamp in the process. The room plunged into darkness.
A gunshot cracked the silence, but Hawke was already moving. He dropped low, using the bed for cover. The momentary blindness was all he needed.
In one motion, he grabbed the desk chair and flung it toward his attacker. The distraction was enough—Hawke surged forward, twisting the gunman’s wrist, forcing the barrel upward. Another shot fired into the ceiling.
A grunt of pain. A struggle for control. Hawke used his knee to drive the man backward, slamming him against the wall.
The gun fell. Hawke didn’t hesitate. Two sharp blows to the throat.
The Russian gasped, collapsing to his knees. Hawke caught him by the collar.
“Who sent you?” Hawke demanded.
The man coughed, struggling for air, but his lips curled into a smirk.
“You’re already dead,” he rasped.
Before Hawke could react, the Russian reached into his pocket. Click.
A small detonator blinked red in his palm.
No time to think. Hawke threw himself backward, diving through the open window just as the room erupted in flames.
Vienna Alleyway – 23:55 Hours
Hawke landed hard on the metal fire escape, rolling with the impact. Above him, the hotel room was engulfed in fire. Sirens would come soon.
He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up. He had seconds before the authorities swarmed the area.
As he turned toward the alley, movement caught his eye. A sleek black sedan idled at the corner. Someone inside was watching.
Then, the back window rolled down, and a woman’s face appeared—sharp, calculating, familiar.
Hawke’s breath caught. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
Sophia Moreau.
His former partner.
The one who had been killed two years ago.
She held his gaze for one long second before the car sped away into the night.
Hawke stood frozen, his mind racing. A dead woman was watching him. The defector was gone. And someone inside his own agency had set him up.
This wasn’t just an assassination attempt.
This was only the beginning.
