The rain in Marseille hit like needles as Mara Sen stepped off the unmarked transport.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
Interpol had officially suspended her — pending "psychological review," they said. Translation: Stay out of it, or disappear.
But she wasn't staying out of anything. Not anymore.
The leaks Damien Voss had just released on Victor Strand were worse than anything Mara could have imagined. Pictures, financial records, proof of state-sponsored narcotics operations through charity logistics. Names. Faces. Connections stretching from Geneva to Riyadh to Washington.
And it wasn't just politicians.
Actors. Pastors. CEOs.
Everything that made the world look normal — now covered in filth.
The media was in meltdown. Governments were denying everything, but the internet didn't care. The images were burned into the public consciousness now, irreversibly viral. Schools. Universities. Even army barracks were buzzing with it.
It was more than destabilization.
It was infection.
And Mara could feel it like a fever under her skin.
Two blocks away, Damien Voss ducked into a crumbling stairwell, soaked to the bone, his mask tucked into his coat.
His burner phone vibrated once.
Unknown Sender: You just declared war on gods.
He allowed himself a bitter smile.
Good.I intend to kill them.
Somewhere deep beneath London...
Victor Strand didn't look angry.
He looked amused.
While the world tore itself apart above him, he stood in an underground room of black marble and flickering monitors, surrounded by old men in sharp suits and silent women in silk gloves.
The Thirteen.
"Twelve remain," Victor murmured, sipping his brandy. "And one noisy prophet in Marseille."
The others said nothing.
"We've killed messiahs before," Victor said softly. "We can kill another."
On the Marseille rooftops, Asher waited. Rifle in hand. No emotion.
He hated what this was turning into. He signed up to burn the corrupt — not to bring down entire countries.
Damien was starting to scare him. Not because Damien was violent — but because he wasn't. This was something worse:
Faith.
Fanaticism didn't need bombs. It only needed a symbol. And Damien had just made himself one.
Asher clicked the safety off.
If it came down to it, he wasn't sure which side he'd be on.
Mara was moving now. Every step bringing her closer to Damien, to the truth — and to the invisible crosshairs being drawn around her by men with no countries, no laws, and no hesitation.
The fires were lit.
And there would be blood in the wires before dawn.