“That’s suicide,” said , the team’s muscle. “Mid-air boarding? On a moving jet?”
“Target: Julian Croft. Intelligence broker. He’s spent thirty years selling our side’s secrets to anyone with hard currency. Tomorrow at 0800 Zulu, he boards a private jet from Caracas to a non-extradition country. Once he’s wheels up, he disappears forever.”
No witnesses. No mercy.
“So don’t fail.”
He stood up.
“What you’re about to hear doesn’t exist,” Vance said, voice flat as a winter road. “If you’re captured, we will deny you. If you’re killed, we will bury someone else’s name. Do you understand?”
She slipped the photo into her vest.
“Six minutes now,” Vance said, glancing at his watch. “You’ve been listening for one.”
Handler Vance slid a manila folder to the center of the table. No names, no flags, no digital fingerprints. Operation- Endgame