The air that defined my life smelled of high-octane jet fuel, stale coffee, and a distinct hint of expensive American perfume.
My name is Kaelen Vance. My friends call me Kael, if I let them get close enough. I was technically retired from the CIA, but the world had a way of pulling you back in with the lure of a challenge and a fat consultancy fee.
I was in my Georgetown apartment in D.C., a slick, glass-walled space that overlooked the river. It was cluttered with contemporary art and empty takeout containers. My phone, a state-of-the-art secure line, rang at 3:00 AM. I answered on the second ring, already awake, running on adrenaline and four hours of sleep spread across three days.
"Vance here."
The voice on the other end was clipped and sharp—William 'Bill' Donovan, my former handler, now the Director of Operations.
"Kael, the Helsinki extraction was a clean sweep. Zhivago is safe in Langley. You nailed it."
"Don't get cocky. The Brass is ecstatic. But the other side is quiet. Too quiet."
"Ivan Volkov," I said, leaning against my kitchen counter, pouring a fresh cup of coffee that would likely keep me buzzing until tomorrow. "The Iceberg."
I smiled, a sharp, predatory expression reflected in the dark glass of the window. I thrived on chaos. I believed in the power of the individual sprint. My America was a place where you could build your own destiny, where initiative was rewarded, not suppressed by a gray, faceless bureaucracy.
"Let him come, Bill. I need a new project."
A rush of adrenaline—the good kind, the kind that reminded you you were alive. "Told you I could do it, Bill. The man practically ran into my arms once he saw the embassy sign."
"Exactly. We think he's been tasked with the cleanup operation. He won't be coming for the Professor. He'll be coming for you, Kael. A message job."
I hated what the Soviets represented: a massive, gray machine that ground the color out of the world. Ivan Volkov was the epitome of that machine.
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