Kaelen Vance felt the world shift under her feet the moment she stepped out of Claridge’s in her black dress. The air around her suddenly felt thinner, colder. Her burner phone, usually a silent tool used only for secure communication, vibrated violently in the small clutch purse she carried.
It was Alistair Finch, her primary London contact. His number flashed on the encrypted screen. She answered instantly. His voice, usually the height of calm British aristocracy, was strained, the polished accent frayed around the edges.
"Kael, listen closely. We have a problem. A big one."
"What's up, Alistair? Is the Aerospace deal off?" she asked, stepping into the waiting car she’d hired for the evening. The London night air was damp and cool on her bare shoulders.
"Worse. Langley is calling off the meeting. The chatter is thick as fog here. They’re saying I'm burned, compromised by the South Africans. Total fabrication, of course, but it’s sticking. My assets are freezing up by the minute. My bank is already asking questions about a transaction that vanished."
Kael felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach, an icicle forming in her gut that had nothing to do with the night air. That wasn't a coincidence. It was too fast, too specific. This was Volkov. The Iceberg didn't just sit and wait; he worked the system. He used bureaucracy as a weapon.
"You believe it’s him?" she asked, keeping her voice low, looking at the driver's profile, wishing she had an ounce of Ivan’s quiet paranoia.
"Who else? The man works fast and dirty. He’s closing my network before I even knew he was here. He’s not going for the Professor; he’s coming for us, Kael. For you. He’s making the board smaller."
"Stay safe, Alistair. Go dark. I'll call you from a secure line later." She hung up, her pulse racing, the elegance of the evening evaporating instantly.
She changed the destination of her driver. "Waterloo Station. Make it fast."
The elegant dinner plan was scuttled. She was now off the grid, running on instinct. Volkov’s move was brilliant in its simplicity. He wasn't meeting her force with force; he was removing the ground she stood on. He was trying to isolate the firework so it would burn out alone, without access to supplies, contacts, or money.
Kael smiled, a fierce, determined expression. He had underestimated her. She didn't need a network. She was the network. Her strength was her independence, her ability to adapt and move outside the rigid structures of the CIA and MI6. The Soviet system was built on order; Kael Vance thrived on chaos.
She used a payphone at Waterloo—filthy, sticky, smelling of old cigarettes—to make a series of rapid-fire calls using coded language to set up alternative lines of communication and funding sources. She would move to Amsterdam tonight.
Volkov wanted a methodical, quiet war of attrition. Kael Vance was going to give him chaos, speed, and noise. The hunter was now the hunted, but the thrill of the chase was mutual. The board was set, the first major piece had just moved, and Kael had no intention of playing by his rules.
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