VIKTOR
The private jet was a silent predator against the Dubai night, a matte-black shape swallowing the light from the private terminal. The air here already tasted different—hot, dry, tinged with jet fuel and excessive money. I threw my duffel into the cabin, the weight of my tools a familiar anchor.
Elena Rostova waited inside, a sculpture of cold efficiency in a cream linen suit. The cabin smelled of her perfume and expensive leather.
"Sit," she said, not looking up from her tablet.
I took the seat opposite. The hatch sealed with a pressurized sigh, locking us in.
"The contract is in Dubai," she began, her voice as crisp as the data on her screen. "Three weeks. A client of ours, a financier named Raj Al-Farsi, has become a liability. He facilitated the movement of capital for a group our principals now deem… adversarial. He knows faces, account routes, shell companies. He's a living ledger."
