The flight into Zurich touched down under a slate-gray sky, the Alps cutting jagged lines across the horizon. The cold air hit me the second I stepped off the plane, crisp and sharp enough to bite. Switzerland — land of neutrality, chocolate, and the most impenetrable banks on the planet.
And tonight, one of those banks would be my battlefield.
The mission brief was simple on paper: infiltrate the Helvetia Bank, locate a numbered account belonging to arms dealer Anton Greger, and extract a copy of the ledger tying him to illegal missile sales. In reality, Helvetia was a fortress. No windows at ground level, security tighter than Langley, and clientele who would slit your throat for glancing at their balance sheet.
My cover was ready. The tuxedo fit snug, tailored to make me look like I'd been born rich and never told no in my life. In my pocket, a falsified portfolio marked me as Charles Carmichael, international tech consultant with money to burn and friends in dangerous places.
As I approached the glittering casino adjoining the bank, the Intersect sparked. Flash. I saw the floor plans, the rotating guard patrols, the access points buried beneath marble and steel. My pulse quickened, but my face stayed calm. Confidence was Carmichael's currency.
Inside, the casino was a temple of excess — chandeliers dripping light, champagne glasses clinking, roulette wheels spinning in perpetual motion. Men in thousand-dollar suits, women in gowns sharp enough to draw blood, all pretending fortune was just another game.
I slipped into the current, ordering a martini at the bar with a smooth smile. "Shaken, not stirred," I said out of habit — then grimaced. "Actually… just stirred is fine."
The bartender didn't blink. Good.
My eyes scanned the room. At the baccarat table sat Anton Greger, a barrel-chested man with a scar slicing across his cheek, his laugh booming as he raked in another pile of chips. His bodyguards flanked him, silent, eyes sweeping the crowd.
Flash. Intel rushed in — Greger's scar was courtesy of a failed coup in Belarus, his guards ex-Spetsnaz. He carried a biometric key card that opened his bank vault. Perfect.
I slid into a seat at the table.
"Mind if I join?" I asked smoothly.
Greger's eyes flicked to me, suspicious, then amused. "Only if you can afford to lose."
I smiled. "Losing isn't really in my vocabulary."
The cards fell. I played carefully, Carmichael confident, Chuck underneath sweating bullets. But the Intersect fed me probabilities, card counts, tells. Within three hands, I'd doubled my chips. Within five, Greger was frowning.
"Beginner's luck?" he growled.
I leaned in slightly, voice low. "Or maybe I just don't believe in luck."
His eyes narrowed. He shifted in his chair — just enough for me to brush against his jacket, fingers grazing the edge of the biometric key card clipped inside. A practiced motion, a little too MacGyver for James Bond, but it worked. The card slipped into my cuff.
"Excuse me," I said, standing with a winning smile. "I think I'll cash out while I'm ahead."
The vault was three floors below, hidden behind a corridor of laser grids and motion sensors. Fortunately, the Intersect didn't care much for odds. Flash. The security pattern lit up in my mind — step left, duck right, pause four seconds, then roll.
I moved like a man who'd practiced it for years, even though I'd only just learned it.
At the final door, the biometric reader blinked red. I slid the stolen card into place. The lock hissed open.
Inside, the vault gleamed. Safety deposit boxes lined the walls, each one worth more than the GDP of a small country. But it was Box 731 I wanted.
Flash. Combination. Sequence. Done.
The box clicked open, revealing the ledger — neat, leather-bound, filled with coded numbers. Proof of Greger's dealings with missile brokers in the Middle East.
I slid it into my tux jacket just as the alarm shrieked.
So much for quiet.
I ran, vault doors slamming behind me, guards shouting in German. Bullets sparked against the marble walls as I dove through the corridor, rolling under the final laser grid as it reset.
The emergency exit burst open into the night air. Ahead, the Alps loomed like jagged teeth, the slopes powdered in fresh snow.
And parked at the edge of the service road — two snowmobiles.
"Thank you, Intersect," I muttered, sprinting.
I jumped onto the first sled, twisting the throttle as guards spilled out behind me. Engines roared, headlights cut through the darkness, and suddenly I was flying across a frozen slope with armed men on my tail.
Shots cracked past my ears. I leaned low, weaving between trees, the cold air slicing my lungs. One snowmobile drew close, a guard raising his rifle.
Flash. Weak point: the suspension strut under the left ski.
I grabbed a broken tree branch as I swerved past, jamming it into the strut. The guard's snowmobile flipped, cartwheeling across the ice in a shower of sparks.
Two more behind me. The slope narrowed, cliffs yawning open on either side. I veered left, then cut hard right at the last second, sending one pursuer tumbling into the gorge.
The last guard pushed closer, gun raised. I ducked low, yanked the emergency flare from my sled, and fired it backward. The flare streaked like a comet into his windshield, exploding in a blinding burst of sparks. His machine spun out, crashing hard into the snow.
And then it was just me, tearing across the slope, the ledger safe inside my jacket.
Mission complete.
Back at the rendezvous, the Agency's clean-up team collected the ledger with curt nods. "Nice work, Carmichael," the lead agent said. "Didn't think you had it in you."
I smiled faintly, tugging off the tuxedo jacket. "Neither did I."
But inside, adrenaline still roared. For the first time, I understood what it felt like to be Charles Carmichael — the man I was pretending to be. Smooth. Confident. Dangerous.
And maybe, just maybe, I wasn't pretending anymore.