“The Quicksilver Protocol”
The safehouse stank of cordite and betrayal. My contact lay slumped over the table, a single bullet hole between his eyes—too neat for amateurs. “Well, scheisse,” I muttered, flipping the bloodstained dossier. The pages were coded in a cipher even my scarred hippocampus couldn’t parse. The window shattered. No gunshot—just the phut of a suppressed round embedding itself in the wall beside me. I dove behind the couch, palming my Walther. “You’re getting sloppy, Schakal,” a voice purred from the shadows. Vienna accent. Her. My ribs ached where she’d slipped a stiletto last time. “Missed you too, Liebling,” I growled. The lights died. Game on.