Talon's private jet cut through the slate-gray Moscow morning with a force that seemed almost violent, its engines roaring through the cloud cover like a war cry after years of silence. Beneath the window, snow-dusted runways and industrial stretches of frozen ground flashed by in blurred bands of white and steel as the aircraft descended through the heavy winter sky. The moment the wheels struck the tarmac, Talon was already reaching for the buckle at his waist, every line of his body drawn taut with the feral, disciplined urgency of a man who had waited far too long and no longer had the patience to pretend otherwise.
Purpose burned in his mismatched eyes with a brightness that made the rest of the cabin feel dim by comparison.
"Alpha Team…"
He snaps the moment the cabin door opens.
"I want all available footage from Moscow airports over the last five years. Start cross-referencing immediately."
