The Gulfstream touched down in Belgrade just after midnight, its engines still ticking with heat as John descended into the damp Balkan air. No photographers, no reporters—just a single black sedan waiting at the edge of the tarmac.
Inside was a man with a thick neck, pale eyes, and the kind of face that never smiled.
"Mister Osemwingie," he said in accented English, extending a hand that felt like a slab of stone. "Welcome back."
"Marko," John said evenly, sliding into the seat. "How's business?"
"Better than ever since the war in Ukraine started. Demand everywhere. Supply chains… more complicated." Marko's eyes flicked to him in the dim light. "But nothing we can't handle."
John nodded once. "I have a client in the Gulf who wants his own lines. Small arms, munitions, UAV components. Needs clean serial numbers—no recycled gear, no Russian fingerprints."
Marko chuckled. "And who will pay for this clean work?"
"Someone who can wire two hundred million into escrow without the IMF blinking," John said, his tone flat. "And that's just the start."
---
By morning, they were in a converted warehouse on the outskirts of the city, the floor covered in neat rows of stripped-down rifles, mortars, and drone frames. John moved through the aisles silently, noting the machining quality, the serial number stamps—or the absence of them.
"I'll need exclusive designs," John said finally. "Not just AK variants. Something modern, modular. We'll shift assembly to a secure facility in the Gulf. You provide tooling, training, and the first batch of engineers."
Marko shrugged. "Easy. But discreet export will cost extra."
"It's already priced in," John replied.
---
From Belgrade, John flew to Jakarta, then slipped quietly into a meeting room at the Mandarin Oriental, where two Southeast Asian metals traders waited. The discussion was short: titanium, tungsten, and rare alloys for drone frames. Payment routed through a Hong Kong subsidiary of his hedge fund. Delivery masked as "machinery parts."
By the third day, he was in Khartoum, shaking hands with a Sudanese general in a dimly lit villa, negotiating the use of an abandoned airstrip for "logistics operations." No paperwork, just a handshake, a nod, and a promise of fuel shipments in exchange.
---
Back in Riyadh a week later, John sat in the Crown Prince's office once more.
"The network is in place," he said simply. "Your first manufacturing site will be operational within six months. Prototypes in nine. We can begin controlled field tests in Yemen before the year ends."
The Prince's eyes narrowed with satisfaction. "And you? You'll take your share?"
John's smile was faint, almost tired. "My share is influence. Money only sweetens the deal."
The Prince studied him for a long moment. "You know, Doctor, some men build power through politics, others through armies. You build yours through both."
John looked out the window at the desert horizon. "Empires are built in silence, Your Highness. Noise is for the dying."