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The safehouse smelled of stale coffee and ozone. Rain lashed against the boarded windows of the derelict Bucharest textile factory. In the center of the room, under a single bare bulb, two envelopes sat on a rusted spool table.

“You’ve been a fascinating puzzle,” Dragomir said, a pistol resting on his knee. “The chip in your neck doesn’t transmit to London. We checked. It transmits to a garage in Ploiești. A garage registered to a ghost named Elias Cole.” secret mission undercover agents never back down repack

He reached the cistern at minute fourteen. Anya was unconscious, her lips blue. The water level was rising. He smashed the control panel, drained the cistern, and pulled her out. The safehouse smelled of stale coffee and ozone