20:24
Heathrow International Airport, UK
The C-02 transport jet touched down on an unusually silent runway. Heathrow — normally alive with thousands of travellers — felt like a ghost town under the shadow of war. With most commercial flights cancelled, only a handful of staff and ground crew moved across the vast terminal.
Sohel, Mitali, and Leon disembarked, their boots echoing against the tarmac as they walked toward the terminal.
Mitali broke the silence. "Liora's in Germany, right? Then why are we in the UK?"
Sohel didn't slow his stride. "We need disguises. To get close to her, we'll need more than firepower. Wartime or not, we can't just attack someone who looks 'innocent'. We gather evidence first—then strike."
Mitali gave a small nod of understanding. The three flagged a waiting taxi and left the airport behind.
21:45
Watson Estate, Crawley, UK
The taxi pulled into the sweeping driveway of the Watson family estate. Floodlights lit the manicured grounds, casting long shadows over the rain-slick stone path. At the front gate, two royal guards stepped forward and saluted.
"Welcome, Major. The princess informed us of your arrival," one said as the gates swung open.
Sohel gave a curt nod, and the squad stepped through. By the time they reached the main doors, an AURA unit was already waiting, bowing slightly before greeting them.
"Welcome, Major. Your product is prepared—you'll find it on the table in the living room. Your change of clothes has been placed in the guest rooms upstairs."
"Thank you, AURA. You're clutch," Sohel replied.
The android's expression brightened with a touch of programmed modesty. The squad moved deeper into the estate.
As they walked, Mitali's voice carried a trace of jealousy. "You and Ann seem… closer than before. Five years is a long time."
Sohel's answer was calm, almost detached. "We went through a lot together. Rough times leave their mark."
In the living room, two small boxes rested on a polished tea table. Sohel picked them up and handed one each to Mitali and Leon.
"From now on, you're not Sergeant Mitali Roy and Flight Lieutenant Leonard Petrov. You're Mitali Roy and Leonard Petrov—personal secretary and bodyguard to Samuel Clark."
Leon arched a brow. "Samuel Clark? As in the R&D Chief of Watson Industries?"
"Yup."
Mitali frowned. "And where is this Samuel Clark?"
Sohel's smirk was sharp. "Standing right in front of you." He produced a weathered ID card, its edges scuffed from use.
Mitali blinked, startled. "You? Then… what happened to the real Samuel Clark?"
"There is no Samuel Clark," Sohel said evenly. "It was me all along. I had the ID forged when I escaped SNA five years ago. Ann offered me a place at Watson Industries—it gave me cover, a way to stay connected without suspicion."
Leon and Mitali exchanged shocked looks. For a moment, the weight of what Sohel had just admitted hung in the air.
But Sohel cut it short. "Enough questions. Time's against us. Get ready."
They disappeared upstairs and minutes later reemerged—military uniforms gone, replaced with crisp black suits and white shirts for Mitali and Leon, while Sohel wore a tailored navy-blue suit.
"Alright," Sohel said as he adjusted his cuffs. "Our jet's waiting at the airfield. Wheels up."
The three of them strode out, shadows stretching across the vast estate as they moved toward their next hunt.
23:52
Private Jet, Airborne over the English Channel
The hum of the engines filled the cabin as the lavish Watson Industries jet stabilized in the night sky. London's scattered lights shimmered faintly through the oval windows before vanishing into the dark sea below.
Leon emerged from the cockpit, stretching his arms before sliding into a seat across from Sohel and next to Mitali. His sharp features softened with curiosity.
"So," he began, fixing his gaze on Sohel, "how do you actually plan to get close to her?"
Sohel leaned back in his leather seat, tapping a file open on the tablet in his lap. His voice was calm and deliberate.
"Ann already ran a full background check. Liora Schmidt. Fiery personality. Her family sought refuge in the UK during the Holocaust and lived there for decades. But during the opening years of World War III, her parents were charged with treason—spying for the enemy. They were caught during a rendezvous by the Russians and executed by firing squad."
He flipped to the next page, the faint glow reflecting in his eyes. "Liora returned to Germany after their deaths. Brilliant economist. Ruthless strategist. She used her talents—along with her body—to build Meridian Finance Group from the ground up. Now she runs one of the most powerful private finance syndicates in Europe. And she's loud about it. Publicly, she rails against the UK and Russia. Calls them hypocrites. Privately, she blames them for her parents' deaths. To her, it's personal."
Leon scoffed under his breath. "Hypocrite."
Mitali, scrolling through her own tablet, chimed in. "Meridian Finance has funnelled billions into Phoenix Company, even after they were sanctioned. Those money trails are all over the files. Isn't that enough to justify an arrest?"
Sohel shook his head. "Not quite. She's got her alibi airtight. Claims her servers were hacked, funds rerouted by Phoenix without her knowledge. Publicly, she plays the victim—smart move, because there's no hard evidence tying her directly."
"Of course," Mitali muttered, sarcasm lacing her tone.
Leon leaned forward, folding his arms. "So what's the plan, then? How do you draw out a snake that well hidden?"
Sohel's lips curled into a small smile. "Simple. We play tennis."
Leon blinked. "…What?"
"Every morning, before going to her office, she plays tennis at her private club in Frankfurt. And here's the catch—she hates losing. It's practically pathological. If someone takes a set from her, she gets… emotional. Rattled. If we push her hard enough, she might slip. One wrong word, one careless crack—that's all we need."
Mitali tilted her head, already pulling up the club's registry. "A high-society tennis match as a sting operation. That's… actually clever." She gave him a wry grin. "Alright then, I'll handle the arrangements. That's what a personal secretary does, right?"
Sohel chuckled, the sound low but genuine. "Exactly. Good luck with the paperwork."
He stood, stretching his shoulders. "For now, let's land and get ourselves a hotel. We'll need to look the part tomorrow, and right now—" he patted his stomach lightly, "I'm starving."
The three of them shared a brief laugh, the tension in the cabin thinning for the first time that night. Outside, the jet soared quietly over the dark waters, carrying them closer to Frankfurt—and closer to the woman who might be their only thread to Kuroshima.