Chapter 64
2269words
Zurich | Hotel Belvedere | Suite 1107
Morning (CET)
Kristina was toweling her hair dry when Eli’s phone buzzed from the desk.
He was already dressed—black shirt, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned—but barefoot, pacing near the table where their notes from the last briefing were still spread out. He picked up the phone, glanced at the screen, and stilled.
Kristina caught the shift in the mirror. The pause. The subtle drop in his posture.
“What is it?” she asked, voice muffled slightly as she rubbed the towel down her neck.
Eli didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he walked to the window—slow, deliberate—thumb hovering over the phone. Below, the lake caught the gray of an overcast morning, streetcars weaving through a city that looked calmer than it felt.
Then he turned back. “It’s from the Kessler team.”
Kristina stopped toweling. “Already?”
“They want to meet. Today.” He looked down again. “In person.”
She dropped the towel over the chair. “Did they say why?”
“No,” he said. “Just that it’s time-sensitive.”
Kristina crossed the room, standing close enough to read the message over his shoulder. It was short. Too short. No explanation, no attachments, no pleasantries.
Her brow tightened. “That was fast. They’re not due to send the proofs until tomorrow.”
He finally met her eyes. The contact was steady, but his jaw had locked. There was something tight about the way he held the phone—like a part of him expected it to detonate.
Kristina didn’t look away. “You think it’s a trap?”
“I don’t like it. It’s too quiet.,” he said. “And I don’t trust surprises from people who’ve already pulled a gun.”
Her expression shifted, just slightly.
Then she walked to her bag, pulled out her phone. “Lucian will want to be updated.”
“Not yet,” Eli said quickly. “Let’s see what they want first.”
She paused at that.
Then slid the phone back into her bag.
Kristina reached for her watch and clipped it around her wrist with quiet precision. The calm of the morning—the silk robe, the lazy coffee, the way he’d looked at her before the world barged back in—all of it receded like a tide.
This wasn’t a vacation anymore. It never had been.
“They gave a location?” she asked.
“Grand Savoy,” Eli said. “Business suite. Noon.”
Kristina let out a low breath. “Neutral ground.”
Eli gave a humorless smile. “Expensive neutral ground.”
She crossed to the chair, slipped on her boots without looking up. Her fingers moved with practiced calm, but the weight in her eyes had returned. The strategist. The edge.
Kristina stood and reached for her coat. “Then let’s make it worth the cost.”
Zurich | Grand Savoy Hotel
Thursday | Noon (CET)
The Grand Savoy didn’t scream opulence—it whispered it.
In polished brass railings that never lost their shine. In the faint scent of sandalwood and citrus that clung to the air. In the silence—the quiet hum of wealth beneath the walls. The kind that only money old enough to be bored with itself could afford.
Kristina and Eli stepped through the revolving glass doors and into that hush.
Kristina wore black slacks and a soft-structured coat, every line of her as composed as the tailored seams that hugged her frame. Her hair was up, pinned with the same precision that lived in her spine. No jewelry. No distractions. Just the unmistakable edge of someone who was here to listen—and to cut through lies.
Eli walked beside her in a charcoal jacket—unbuttoned, crisp. The kind of sharp that didn’t have to posture. His eyes scanned the lobby like a man who knew which walls might have ears. His pace was even, but grounded. Ready.
The concierge didn’t ask their names.
He just smiled with that quiet, curated discretion, then gestured smoothly toward the elevators. “Business suite floor. They’re expecting you.”
No names. No clipboard. No delays.
Kristina’s eyes flicked once toward the staircase, once toward the exit. Just habit. Then she stepped into the elevator without a word.
Inside, the mirrors gleamed under the soft glow of recessed lights. No music. Just the hush of money still humming through the walls.
Kristina glanced over at Eli. “Tidy little operation.”
“They want to look clean,” Eli replied, hitting the button for the 8th floor. “Even when they’re not.”
She crossed her arms loosely. “Still no hint what this is about?”
Eli shook his head. “Nothing since the message. Just the time, the place, and a polite ‘we appreciate your presence.’”
Kristina’s gaze lifted to the mirrored ceiling, then slid sideways, to him. “They’re up to something.”
The elevator glided up, silent and smooth, then slowed to a soft chime as the doors slid open.
The hallway was carpeted in a gray so deep it almost swallowed sound. The lights were warm, but dimmed—on purpose. Soft enough not to reveal too much, but enough to keep you from stumbling.
Waiting just outside the business suite was a woman in her early thirties. Blond. Neat. Expensively plain. She stood like someone who had memorized protocol down to her fingertips—back straight, hands folded, jaw motionless.
She offered a small nod.
“Mr. Voss. Miss Alonzo.”
Her voice was as clear as it was unreadable.
“They’re inside. Please, this way.”
She didn’t introduce herself. Didn’t offer coffee. Didn’t ask if they’d like a seat first.
She opened the door.
And smiled—a brief, practiced expression that never touched her eyes.
Kristina and Eli stepped in.
And found that this time, the Kessler Group had brought backup.
Zurich | Grand Savoy Hotel – Business Suite 3A
The moment Kristina and Eli stepped inside, they knew.
It wasn’t just the lighting—muted and deliberate—or the air that felt just a little too still. It was the presence. The arrangement. The way the silence didn’t invite them in so much as warn them they were walking into something curated.
Seven people were already in the room.
Two flanked the door in black suits, silent and unsmiling. Two more stood near the tinted windows, equally motionless. At the long, glass-topped conference table sat three figures: the second man from the Kronenhalle meeting to the left, Lina Rehn to the right, and at the center—
Karl Fischer rose slowly from his seat as they entered. The black wool blazer draped over his frame gave him the false air of diplomacy. But nothing about his posture said peace.
Kristina stopped walking.
Eli did too.
Fischer smiled—cold, thin, rehearsed. “Ah. The golden pair returns.”
Kristina’s expression didn’t move. “This isn’t happening.”
Eli’s voice was clipped. “Fischer.”
Fischer tilted his head slightly, lips curling. “Voss. Still standing, I see.”
Eli didn’t blink. “You’re still hiding—behind suits, hired muscle, and whatever bluff this is.”
Fischer’s smile deepened, just slightly. “Still quick with words, I see.”
Kristina cut in, sharp and clean. “You threatened him with a gun. You’re lucky you’re not doing this from behind glass.”
Lina—now seated off to the side instead of at the center—offered a smooth, practiced reply. “Karl is now Executive Regional Director. The oversight is his.”
Her tone was rehearsed. Corporate. But the shift in table dynamics was telling. Lina had moved. Fischer was in charge now.
Eli’s hands stayed relaxed at his sides, but his posture changed—coiled, alert.
“So, what is this about?,” Kristina said flatly. “Do you have the documents ready?”
Fischer made a vague gesture toward the seats across from him. “Please. Sit.”
Kristina didn’t move.
Neither did Eli.
Lina exhaled lightly. “There’s been a delay. Our route clearance team encountered pushback from two border intermediaries, and—”
Kristina’s laugh broke in, cool and sharp. “So you bring six bodies into a room you chose, in a place you hand-picked, thinking that would intimidate us into letting that slide?”
Fischer’s smile thinned.
She looked him dead in the eye. “You’re empty-handed, and now you think muscle compensates for proof?”
Lina tried again, voice quieter now. “We’re requesting a seventy-two-hour extension. Just enough to finalize transit validation across the Balkan corridor. The new intermediaries required additional customs protocols we hadn’t accounted for—”
Eli exchanged a glance with Kristina. Then they moved—at the same time—walking forward, slow and deliberate. They didn’t loosen their coats. But they sat.
Across the glass, Fischer rested his palms lightly on the tabletop, as if pretending this was a civil, mutual engagement.
Eli’s voice dropped. “Seventy-two hours. To clean the mess you were supposed to deliver tomorrow.”
Fischer nodded, slow and unbothered. “The mess,” he said smoothly, “is functional. It only needs alignment.”
Kristina folded her arms. “Is that what you call it when your house is still on fire, but you’re trying to sell the view?”
The other man at the table flinched. Just slightly.
Lina spoke up again, voice lower now. “You’ve seen our baseline framework. The corridors are legitimate. There’s no deception.”
Eli’s voice was colder now. “Then why bring him?”
Fischer stepped forward—just slightly from his chair. “Because unlike the last negotiation, this time, I won’t be left out of the room.”
There was a pause. Then—subtle, but intentional—Fischer shifted his jacket, revealing a sidearm. The guards moved, subtly—like they’d rehearsed it.
Eli gave a low, dry laugh. “Really? That’s your move? You think pulling the same stunt again is going to work? It didn’t before. And it sure as hell won’t now.”
Kristina’s eyes flicked once toward the jacket, unimpressed. Her voice was ice.
“I thought you asked about me. Eli told me.” She leaned slightly forward, not blinking. “Guess you didn’t learn enough about who I am.”
No one moved.
She let the silence stretch, then added—calm, measured, deliberate:
“Let me make it easier: I don’t respond to threats. And I definitely don’t get rattled by half-baked dramatics in a glass room with bad lighting and worse ideas.”
Fischer said nothing. But his hand moved away from his lapel.
Lina offered, quieter this time. “We’re willing to adjust compensation for the delay. Ten percent increase over the previous cut, retroactive—”
Eli cut her off. “You think this is about money?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the glass. His voice was quieter now—but far more dangerous.
“It was never about money. It’s about trust. About liability. And right now, you’ve got zero credit on both.”
The man on the left tried to speak—“Perhaps we can propose a revised—”
Kristina didn’t even look at him. “You had your timeline. You had your chance. And instead of showing up with proof, you brought six more people and a gun.”
She stood.
Eli rose with her.
Kristina looked Fischer dead in the eye. “You’ve got twenty-four hours. Not seventy-two. Twenty-four. And next time, bring more men if you think it’ll help. But just a heads up—if you understood me at all, you’d know men like you don’t shake me.”
Fischer studied her. “Noted.”
They didn’t shake hands. They didn’t wait for a reply.
Without another word, they left. Neither of them looked back.
Stillness clung to the room.
And not a single one of them looked victorious.
The door shut behind them with a soft click.
Silence lingered in their wake.
Karl Fischer didn’t move for several seconds. He stood there, one hand still resting lightly on the edge of the conference table, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the spot Kristina had just vacated.
Lina Rehn finally spoke, voice tight. “That didn’t go well.”
Fischer said nothing.
One of the suited guards by the window shifted slightly, waiting. The man seated to Fischer’s left—Matthias Keller, Regional Strategy—cleared his throat.
“She’s not what we expected,” Keller muttered.
“She never was,” Lina replied quietly. “But this… this is something else.”
Fischer finally turned.
His voice was low. “Pull everything we have on her.”
Keller blinked. “We already did that. After the Zurich approach—”
“Then pull more,” Fischer said, sharper now. “Everything. From before the intel drop. Before Voss. I want records. Associates. Prior clearances. Access points. Real affiliations.”
Lina glanced sideways. “You think she was placed?”
“I think,” Fischer said, eyes narrowed, “we were arrogant. We thought we had a profile. A temperament. But that woman just walked into a room full of guns and told us to bring more.”
He exhaled once, slow and thin.
“Start from scratch,” he said. “New clearance sweep. I want eyes on her contracts, her previous employers, every file touched by her name. I want to know who trained her.”
Keller hesitated. “And if we find nothing?”
Fischer turned away from the table, already pulling his phone from his inner pocket.
“You’ll find something.”
He paused, then added, more to himself than the room: “Because no one like her comes from nowhere.”
Lina watched him carefully. “You think she’s still tied to an active outfit?”
“No,” Fischer said. “I think she’s tied to something older.”
The screen on his phone blinked to life. He tapped quickly, pulling up an encrypted access request and spoke to no one in particular.
“Find out if she’s ever been flagged under Harrow.”
A beat of silence. Then Keller blinked. “Black Harrow?”
Even the guard by the door shifted at the name.
Lina frowned. “That’s… rumor.”
Fischer looked up. “So was she.”
He didn’t wait for argument.
“Search it,” he said coldly. “If there’s even a trace—any tie, any code name, any buried asset signature—I want it. Tonight.”
Keller nodded, slower this time. “Yes, sir.”
The room settled into movement again. Keyboards, murmured confirmations, secure lines opening in the background.
But Fischer stood still.
And for the first time in years, he felt it: not fear. Not panic.
But something sharper.
To be feared is easy. To be underestimated is strategy.
—To be continued.
