Zurich was bleeding.
Smoke rolled across Bahnhofstrasse. Fire alarms echoed off the sleek walls of wealth. The skyline — so perfect, so safe — was now just jagged shadows against burning clouds.
Inside the ruined top floor of the Global Central Reserve, Damien Voss ducked behind the shattered conference table, breath sharp, pistol empty.
Asher was beside him, pressing a torn sleeve against his arm, the blood flowing fast but not fatal. Yet.Mara Sen crouched on Damien's other side, reloading, shaking, furious.
"You said this was surgical," she snapped. "This isn't surgical, this is a goddamn WAR."
"It was surgical," Damien replied, eyes locked forward. "They escalated."
The Grey Wolves were everywhere — rappelling down glass, flanking through executive hallways, thermal optics cutting through the smoke.
And Emil Hartmann?
Just a wet smear behind the desk now. One down.
Twelve to go.
If they survived the next fifteen minutes.
"I'm out," Asher grunted, tossing his empty rifle aside.
"I've got three mags left," Mara said. "That won't get us out of the parking garage, let alone Zurich."
"Who said we're going to the parking garage?" Damien murmured.
He looked up at the ceiling, just visible through the bullet-torn skylights. Beyond that?
The helipad.
A single emergency evac rotor, reserved for the bank's most precious executives. The rich don't run to streets. They ascend.
And tonight, so would Damien.
Meanwhile, across Zurich, encrypted comms buzzed.
"Wolves, converge on the top floor. Target is priority black. Authorization: Absolute Silence."
Absolute Silence — meaning no prisoners. Not even charred teeth left behind.
But there was another voice crackling through now — weak, distorted, breaking through military channels.
"Damien… it's me."
Asher blinked. "Who the hell is that?"
"It's Koslov," Damien whispered, cold creeping down his spine. "It's Koslov."
The old rebel, thought dead in the monastery massacre years ago, was alive.
"Zurich's locked down, Damien. Wolves everywhere. But you've got one route."
"Talk fast."
"Sub-levels. Old tunnels beneath the Reserve. From before they built the glass towers. No security feeds. The old bankers used them to escape the Bolsheviks."
Damien's heart was ice.
"Can you get them open?"
"Already done."
The tunnels were legend. Smuggler routes buried by history. And Koslov, that bastard, had just handed Damien a loaded gun against the whole world.
"Mara," Damien said, standing. "Change of plan."
"Oh, I love when you say that," she snapped.
The route to the tunnels started with fire.
Damien ripped open the emergency gas main beside the glass stairs, flicked a lit flare down the stairwell, and WHOOMPH — fire chased oxygen like a demon on all fours.
The Wolves screamed below.
Confusion. Delay. Exactly what they needed.
Asher led, his knife out again, cutting throats when necessary, grunting with each step like he was dragging his own grave behind him.
"How far?" Mara demanded, coughing from the smoke.
"Northwest wing," Damien said, memory clicking into place. "Under the antique vaults. Hidden door behind the old estate records."
"Because of course you know that," Mara muttered.
They reached it.
The door was hidden behind a false panel. Ancient iron. Smelled like mold and betrayal.
Koslov's voice guided them in their ears:
"Fifteen Wolves on your heels. You'll have about sixty seconds once you're inside before they figure out where you went."
The door shrieked open.
Darkness.
"Ladies first," Asher wheezed.
They plunged into blackness lit only by Mara's phone flashlight. Cracked stone walls, ancient symbols, water dripping.
The passage was death and history combined.
Behind them: the sounds of boots. Fast. Precise.
"They're close," Mara hissed.
"They don't know this place," Damien said softly. "We do."
Koslov's voice: > "South exit leads to the Limmat River. I've got a boat. Silent. Black hull. Swiss authorities won't see a thing."
"Why help now?" Damien growled.
"Because London is watching. And Strand's already making his next move."
They reached the water gate.
Heavy chains. Rusted locks.
BANG. BANG.Wolves in the tunnels behind them, flashlights cutting through the dark like electric knives.
Asher didn't hesitate. He shot the lock twice, kicked the gate open, and fresh night air flooded in.
"Go," Damien ordered.
They exploded out onto the narrow pier, the black boat idling in the water.
Koslov was there — older, thinner, face lined with the kind of sorrow you only earn from watching continents betray you — but alive.
"Get in," Koslov barked.
The Wolves burst from the tunnel mouth, weapons raised — but Koslov was faster, pulling a concealed RPG from under a tarp and firing.
BOOM.
The tunnel entrance collapsed in stone and flame.
As Zurich howled behind them, the black boat slipped into the silent Limmat, carrying three fugitives into the deeper shadows of Europe.
"Where to now?" Asher asked between gasps, one hand clutching his side.
Damien stared at the stars over the black water.
"London," he whispered. "It's time to take the head off the snake."
Across the channel, Victor Strand sat in his council chamber, pouring another drink.
His private terminal buzzed with a single update:
"Hartmann: DECEASED. Zurich: COMPROMISED. Wolves: Partial Casualties. Voss: Escaped."
Victor smiled.
"Let him come."
Behind him, twelve seats. One for each remaining member of the Thirteen.
Soon, they would all gather.
And soon, Damien Voss would either be a martyr...
...or the butcher of the modern world.