The neon shamrock of the Golden Ailm cast a familiar green glow onto the wet pavement of the street. It was late. The pub had been cleared out and locked up after Meeka’s meeting, but Tommy O’Malley wasn’t ready to go home. He sat in Whitey’s old booth, the one Meeka had just occupied, nursing a pint of Guinness. He was still fuming. Meeka was playing games he didn’t understand, moving pieces on a board he couldn’t see. Trusting a Fed. It went against every instinct he had.

  A sudden bang at the front door made him jump. It wasn’t a knock. It sounded like a sledgehammer hitting the reinforced wood. One of the two Saighdiúirs stationed with him, a young kid named Finn, moved to the peephole.

  “Who the feck is there?” Tommy barked.

  Finn’s face went pale. “Boss, I don’t…” Before he could finish, the door splintered inward, ripped off its hinges by a battering ram. Two men in black tactical gear and full-face masks burst in, assault rifles raised.

  The world dissolved into chaos. Tommy reacted on pure instinct, years of street survival kicking in. He flipped the heavy oak table, the wood groaning as it slammed onto its side, creating a makeshift barrier. Finn and the other guard drew their weapons, but they were too slow. The room erupted in a deafening roar of automatic fire. Splinters flew from the old bar. The photos on the wall, a century of O’Malley history, shattered into a thousand pieces. Finn went down with a choked cry, a dark stain spreading across his chest.

  Tommy dropped behind the table, his own pistol in his hand, his heart pounding against his ribs. This wasn't a rival crew settling a score. This was military. Precise, brutal, and overwhelming. The second guard fired a few wild shots before a burst from the rifle stitched him across the torso, slamming him back against the wall.

  Two more figures stormed in. They weren’t looking to rob the place. They were hunting him. Tommy squeezed off two rounds, the kick of the gun a familiar comfort in his hand. One of the masked men grunted and staggered, but his body armor absorbed the hit. They were advancing, their movements disciplined, flanking his position. He was pinned. Trapped. Meeka and her games had brought a new kind of war to their doorstep, and he was the first casualty.

  ***

  The Cairo traffic was a living organism, a relentless river of metal, noise, and fumes. Declan drove the Mercedes with a controlled aggression, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. In the back, Reese sat stiffly, trying to project an aura of calm that he was nowhere near feeling. The crushed listening device sat on the seat between him and Talibi, a tiny monument to his own foolishness.

  Amir Talibi stared out the window, but he wasn’t looking at the scenery. His eyes scanned rooftops, alleyways, and the cars around them. He was a predator in a new jungle, learning the terrain, sensing the threats.

  “Where are we going?” Reese finally asked, his voice tight.

  “To a place Ziyad won’t expect,” Talibi answered without turning. “A coffee house in Khan el-Khalili. Crowded. Public. No place for a clean hit.”

  “You want to meet the man who bugged my room in a coffee shop?” Reese asked, incredulous.

  “He sent a polite warning, not a bomb,” Talibi said. “He wants to talk, to intimidate you into selling. The violence comes later, when you refuse. We’re going to accelerate his timeline.”

  Reese fell silent. He was a lawyer, a diplomat. He moved in a world of contracts and negotiations. This world of threats and accelerated timelines was foreign territory. He was completely dependent on the man he’d despised just an hour ago.

  They turned onto a narrower street, the grand boulevards giving way to a more ancient part of the city. Suddenly, a large fruit truck, its bed overflowing with oranges, pulled out from a side street, blocking their path completely.

  Declan slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching. “What the hell?”

  Talibi didn't need to ask. His eyes were already moving, scanning the mirrors. “It’s a block,” he said, his voice deadly calm. A black SUV screeched to a halt behind them, boxing them in. “Get down!”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when the rear window of the Mercedes exploded inward, showering them with safety glass. Gunfire erupted, a terrifying, percussive sound that hammered at the car. Reese flattened himself on the floor, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, the smell of cordite filling his nostrils.

  Declan drew his weapon, a Sig Sauer, and tried to return fire through the shattered window, but they were hopelessly exposed. “I can’t get a feckin’ clear shot!” he yelled over the din.

  Doors on the SUV flew open. Two men, also in dark gear, began to advance. But Talibi wasn't focused on the men behind them. He was looking forward. The driver of the fruit truck was getting out, a machine pistol in his hand.

  “They’re flushing us out,” Talibi said, his mind working with terrifying speed. He grabbed Reese by the collar of his expensive suit. “When I move, you follow. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just run. Declan, cover our six.”

  Before anyone could argue, Talibi kicked open his door and rolled out, using the car as a shield. He came up with a pistol in his hand, a Glock he must have had concealed the entire time and fired two precise shots. Not at the men, but at the front tires of the truck. They blew with a loud bang. The driver, surprised, ducked back behind his door.

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  It was the opening Talibi needed. “Now!” he yelled.

  He bolted, yanking Reese with him. Reese stumbled, his legs feeling like they were made of jelly. The world was a blur of noise, shouting in Arabic, and the constant crack of gunfire. Bullets whizzed past his head, smacking into the stone walls of the buildings beside them. He could feel Talibi’s grip, a steel band on his arm, forcing him forward into a narrow, winding alleyway.

  Declan provided cover fire, forcing the men behind them to duck, before he turned and followed, his face grim. The alley twisted and turned, a maze of ancient stone and shuttered windows. Talibi didn’t hesitate. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, his steps sure and fast. Reese just focused on keeping his feet moving, his lungs burning.

  They burst out of the alley into a bustling marketplace. The sudden transition from a private war zone to a public square was jarring. The air was thick with the smell of spices, grilled meat, and perfume. Shoppers stared as three Westerners in torn, dusty suits sprinted through the crowd.

  Talibi didn’t slow down. He shoved his way through, dragging Reese behind him, Declan close on their heels. He made two more sharp turns before ducking into a small, unassuming rug shop. An old man behind the counter looked up, startled.

  Talibi spoke to him in fluent, rapid-fire Arabic. The old man’s eyes widened, and he nodded, gesturing frantically toward a curtained doorway at the back of the shop.

  “Go,” Talibi ordered, pushing Reese and Declan through the curtain. “Up the stairs. All the way to the roof.”

  As Declan and Reese scrambled up the dark, narrow staircase, Talibi turned back to the old man. He pressed a thick wad of American bills into his hand. “Tell anyone who asks you saw nothing,” he said in Arabic. “Your family will be taken care of.”

  The old man nodded again, his eyes wide with fear and gratitude. Talibi gave him one last look before disappearing through the curtain.

  ***

  Back in Boston, the gunfire at the Golden Ailm stopped as abruptly as it began. Tommy risked a glance over the top of the upended table. The attackers were gone. The pub was a wreck, smoke hanging in the air like a foul mist. His ears were ringing. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky. His two men were dead.

  His first thought was Meeka. His second was rage. He pulled out his phone, his hands slick with sweat, and hit a number on his speed dial.

  “Gema,” he choked out. “They hit the Ailm. It was a professional team. Military. My men are down.”

  There was no surprise in Gema’s voice, only cold confirmation. “Understood. Caitlyn’s unit is two minutes out. Stay put.”

  Tommy didn’t have to wait two minutes. He heard the squeal of tires outside, and seconds later, Caitlyn Doherty burst through the ruined doorway, a compact rifle in her hands, two of her best Saighdiúirs flanking her. Her eyes took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance, the dead guards, the bullet-riddled bar, the shell casings on the floor.

  Her gaze landed on Tommy. “You hit?” she asked, her voice a low growl.

  “No,” he said, his voice raw. “They were… feckin’ efficient.”

  Caitlyn knelt by one of the shell casings, picking it up with a gloved hand. She studied it for a moment. “5.56mm. Standard NATO issue. But not American made. European.” She looked up at Tommy, her eyes like chips of ice. “This wasn’t a message. This was an execution that failed.”

  She stood up and keyed the comms unit in her ear. “Gema, it’s Caitlyn. Command, this is Angel of Death. Be advised, we have a confirmed hostile action at the Golden Ailm. Multiple KIAs on our side. The opposition used foreign-made military-grade hardware. This is Red-level alert. Full Clann mobilization. I want every asset in the city on high alert. Now.”

  ***

  The air on the Cairo rooftop was hot, but it felt blessedly clean after the suffocating confines of the alley. Reese leaned against a low wall, gasping for breath, his suit ruined, his hands trembling. Declan stood watch at the rooftop access door, his own pistol drawn, his face a mask of grim determination.

  Talibi was already working. He had pulled a small, satellite-based communication device from his duffel bag, not a phone, but a hardened, military-grade unit. He was ignoring Reese, his focus entirely on his task.

  For the first time, Reese looked, really looked, at the man who had just saved his life. Talibi’s face was smeared with grime, his jacket was torn, but his eyes were alive, burning with an intensity Reese had never seen before. This was not the broken, disgraced agent Meeka had described. This was a man in his element. A man reborn in a crucible of violence.

  “They knew we were moving,” Reese said, his voice raspy.

  Talibi glanced up from his device. “The bug in your room wasn’t just for listening. It had a GPS tracker. They knew exactly which car you were in.” He paused, then held up a small, flat piece of metal he’d pulled from the sleeve of his own jacket. It was a bullet. He’d been grazed. “Hollow-point. Designed to fragment on impact. They weren't trying to kidnap you, Kavanah. They were trying to kill you.”

  The finality of the statement hit Reese like a physical blow. The polite warnings from Ziyad, the bureaucratic games, it was all a prelude. Aethelred had just tried to assassinate him.

  The comms unit chirped. Talibi put an earpiece in. He listened for a moment, his expression hardening. “Copy that,” he said into the small microphone. He looked at Reese, his dark eyes grim.

  “Get your sister on the line,” Talibi ordered. “Use this. It’s a secure channel. No one is listening.” He handed Reese a second earpiece.

  Reese fumbled with it, his fingers still shaking. A moment later, Meeka’s voice came through, sharp and clear. “Reese? What’s your status? Gema said your trackers went dark.”

  “We were ambushed, Meeka,” Reese said, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. “They tried to kill us. Talibi…” He trailed off, not knowing how to explain what had just happened.

  Before he could continue, Gema’s voice cut in, routed through the same channel. Her tone was flat but laced with an undercurrent of emergency. “Meeka, incoming report from Caitlyn. Sit-rep Boston.”

  “Go ahead, Gema,” Meeka commanded.

  “We have a simultaneous hostile action here,” Gema reported. “A fireteam hit the Golden Ailm. Tommy was the target. Two of his lads are dead. The attackers used European hardware. It was a coordinated, the gowls tried to hit us at both ends.”

  A dead silence hung on the line. Reese felt a cold dread wash over him, a dread that had nothing to do with the bullets that had nearly taken his life. He looked at Talibi, who was staring back at him, his face a grim mask. The pieces clicked into place for everyone at the same instant.

  It wasn't just about Cairo. It wasn't about scaring them.

  This was a decapitation strike, aimed at crippling the O’Malley leadership in two cities at once. The war hadn’t just come to their doorstep. It had just begun