The storm broke at last, leaving a brilliant cold morning on Blackwood Isle. Sunlight spilled across the rebuilt manor's courtyard where a small convoy of black vehicles stood ready beside a sleek private jet. Technicians checked fuel and cargo; guards moved with quiet efficiency. The entire scene was a blend of aristocratic wealth and military precision.
Inside the manor's war room, the team gathered around the great map table. On the screen behind them a satellite view of Marrakesh rotated slowly, marked with digital annotations: safe houses, supply caches, the kasbah compound Lara had tipped them to.
Theo stood at the head of the table, coat off, sleeves rolled, projecting the calm intensity of an operations officer rather than a duke. Lara leaned against the opposite side, arms folded, eyes scanning the plan with professional focus. Marcus, Sophie, and Alexandra held their stations: soldier, hacker, strategist.
"We have three objectives," Theo began, voice smooth but hard enough to cut through the room's hum. "Confirm the Veil cache exists. Identify or recover any artefacts connected to the Blackwood vault. Leave no digital or political footprint."
Sophie clicked to the next slide: a diagram of the kasbah — high walls, watchtowers, floodlights. "Perimeter cameras, cheap but networked. Internal grid tied to a local power hub we can spoof for maybe ten minutes. Guards: ex-Legion types, AKs, body armour. Not elite but not amateurs."
Marcus tapped the screen with a knuckle. "Main gate's a kill box. We insert through this drainage tunnel here." He traced a line to an old French sewer leading under one wall. "Small, wet, but workable."
Lara smirked. "Classic."
Marcus ignored her. "Once inside, two teams: Sophie stays outside with drone relay; I take rear security and exfil. Theo and Lara push to the vault room."
Theo nodded. "Speed is survival. We get in, grab proof or assets, and out before reinforcements."
Alexandra stepped forward. "Meanwhile I'll ensure no one notices Britain's most mysterious duke has gone missing. Private cover story: humanitarian review in West Africa. Blackwood Enterprises jet file already prepared."
Sophie tossed a small pouch onto the table — comms units the size of shirt buttons. "Encrypted, frequency hopping. Ear only. If they jam, we switch to Morse tap."
Lara arched a brow. "Morse?"
Theo's mouth quirked faintly. "Useful when the world gets loud."
She studied him for a beat, then grinned. "You really were MI6."
"Among other things."
"Good. I hate babysitting rookies."
Marcus muttered, "Good thing he's not one."
Lara pushed off the table and walked around the display, considering. "Compound's roofline here is clay and timber. Easy climb if we need a quick out. Also, souks nearby — plenty of chaos if we need to disappear."
Theo listened, head tilted slightly. "You know Marrakesh well."
"Better than most customs officers," she said. "I've run digs, dodged smugglers, bribed officials. You'll want local gear: plain clothes, no Western armour unless you're itching for attention."
"Noted," Theo said.
For the first time since arriving, she looked him over — not as a curiosity now but as an operational partner. "You move like a soldier. But you don't talk like one."
"I was both," Theo said simply.
"Hmm." Lara smiled faintly. "Could work."
By mid-morning the manor had shifted from quiet fortress to launch pad.
The underground armoury—once an old wine cellar—was alive with motion. Marcus checked weapons with the same reverence some men reserved for fine art: suppressed carbines, pistols, climbing gear, breaching kits, but nothing noisy enough to draw Moroccan military eyes.
Lara wandered the racks like a child in a candy store, running a finger along a matte rifle barrel. "You keep your toys in excellent condition, Your Grace."
Theo was strapping on a low-profile chest rig over a dark travel shirt. "Tools, not toys."
"Semantics," she teased. "Nice suppressor set."
"You'll get one," Marcus grunted, handing her a compact 9mm. "Light recoil. Easy to hide."
She checked it with brisk efficiency, magazine in, slide back, safety test. No wasted motion. Marcus gave a grudging nod of approval.
"Not my first gun," she said dryly.
Sophie swept in holding a case of tech. "Drones: two minis for recon. Comms jam canary. Thermal tablets. And a portable data sucker—plug into any drive or server we find."
Theo glanced over the selection, approving with a single nod. "Keep it lean. We're ghosts, not raiders."
They moved next to the jet hangar built discreetly into the cliffside. A sleek dark Gulfstream sat waiting, Blackwood crest subtle on the tail. Engineers ran final checks; fuel trucks pulled away.
Alexandra oversaw the travel papers — layers of false but traceable identities that would hold up to cursory inspection. "Humanitarian inspection team, architectural firm, and cultural consultants," she said. "Enough truth to pass light scrutiny, enough fiction to burn if we need to disappear."
Theo reviewed them quickly, memorising every alias and passport number.
"Do you ever… not prepare?" Lara asked, watching.
He looked up. "Preparation is survival."
"Spoken like a soldier."
"Spoken like a man who ran out of time once."
Her teasing eased; the glance she gave him now was quiet, respectful. "You were a kid. No preparation would have saved that night."
"Maybe not," Theo said, closing the file. "But the man who came back will never be unready again."
Lara studied him for a beat, then nodded slowly. "Fair."
While the jet fueled, Theo led her outside to the cliff edge. The Atlantic below was calm, silver under a pale sky. Wind pulled at Lara's jacket; she shoved her hands in her pockets.
"You didn't have to warn me last night," Theo said.
"Didn't have to," she agreed.
"Why?"
She took a breath. "Because I know what it's like to be blindsided by these cults. To lose people. And because… you feel like someone who'll actually fight back instead of running."
He looked out to sea. "I've been fighting back for twenty years."
"Alone?"
"Until now."
She smiled sideways. "Well, lucky you. I'm very good at not dying."
Theo almost smiled in return. "Stay that way."
For a moment there was silence but not awkwardness — two survivors recognising something familiar.
Then Marcus appeared at the hangar doors. "Gear loaded. Jet ready."
Theo turned back toward the operation with soldier's focus. Lara followed, grin sharpening. The partnership had shifted subtly — no longer strangers, but two hunters preparing to share a hunt.
The last hour before departure was a quiet ballet of final checks.
Alexandra stood by the stair of the jet, tall and elegant in a slate travel coat, a tablet in one hand. "Political cover in place," she reported as Theo approached. "Your humanitarian review story will hold for at least two weeks. Parliament thinks you're inspecting flood defences in Senegal."
Theo kissed her cheek — rare softness. "Thank you."
"Come back alive," she said simply. Then, lower, only for him: "And don't let vengeance make the choices."
He met her eyes. "I won't."
For a heartbeat the weight of shared loss passed between them — the boy she'd raised and the man he'd become. She let him go.
Sophie jogged up next, waving a tablet. "All digital ducks in a row. Comms bounce through three continents. Jet transponder says we're on a medical-supply mission to Dakar. No one should connect you to Morocco unless they're very, very smart."
"They are," Marcus muttered, checking a final magazine.
"Then we make them work for it," Sophie shot back, grinning.
Theo touched her shoulder briefly — approval, gratitude — then climbed the jet stairs.
Inside the Gulfstream smelled of leather and quiet money but was stripped for function: worktables, encrypted comms, crates of gear lashed down. Marcus took a seat up front with the crew; Sophie settled at a console mid-cabin. Theo and Lara found themselves opposite each other at a small table bolted to the deck.
As the jet engines spooled up, Lara buckled in and studied him openly. "So. Ghost duke, MI6, SAS. That's not your average CV."
"You read files," Theo said.
"I read rumours. Files are harder." She smirked. "You're very good at disappearing."
"I had reason."
Her gaze softened slightly. "The fire."
Theo didn't answer, but the small tightening at his jaw was enough.
Lara leaned back. "I lost my parents too. Not like you did — no cult, no fire. Just… vanished. It still shapes everything."
He met her eyes then — quiet understanding, no pity. "You hunt to fill the space."
"And you?" she asked.
"I hunt to keep it from happening again."
She gave a short nod, something unspoken passing between them.
The jet lifted smoothly, climbing through broken clouds into cold blue. For a while the only sounds were engines and the click of Sophie's keyboard.
Then Lara broke the silence. "The Veil killed your family?"
Theo's eyes stayed on the clouds. "They came for something in our vault. My parents refused to yield. I was ten."
"Any idea what?"
"A Templar reliquary," he said at last. "One of many pieces meant to guard an older truth. They took it. I've been tracking their network since."
Lara whistled softly. "Heavy."
"They believe certain artefacts can influence belief itself," Theo said. "Control faith, rewrite myth."
"That's… terrifying."
"It's power."
She watched him for a long moment. "You sound like a man with unfinished business."
"I am."
Something flickered in her face — recognition. "Then maybe we make a good team."
Theo looked at her at last, and there was the faintest wry smile. "If you can keep up."
She laughed quietly. "Try me."
The hours passed in a rhythm of quiet planning.
Marcus dozed in his seat but one hand stayed near a sidearm; Sophie worked steadily at her console, stringing digital misdirection through a dozen servers; Theo and Lara pored over maps, the glow of tablets painting them in cold light.
As dusk bled across the Mediterranean, the jet dropped to refuel at a discreet private airfield in southern Spain. No terminal, no press — just a concrete strip, a small hangar, and a tanker truck. The crew moved with military economy, topping tanks and checking seals while Marcus walked the perimeter.
Lara stretched on the tarmac, watching Theo walk a slow circle around the aircraft as if inspecting it himself. "You really don't trust anyone, do you?"
"I trust people," he said without looking up. "I verify everything."
She smirked. "Old spy habit?"
"Old survivor habit."
She leaned on the stair rail. "Fair. For what it's worth — I don't plan on stabbing you in the back."
Theo paused and studied her, silent a long moment before a small nod. "For what it's worth — I'll try to believe that."
Her laugh was low and genuine.
Back in the air, the desert began to appear below: vast dark plains peppered with scattered lights. Sophie pulled up final satellite shots. "Compound's here." She pointed to a glowing dot north-east of Marrakesh. "No new movement in last six hours. Guard pattern: four towers, two rovers."
Marcus leaned in, grunting approval. "We'll hit the drainage tunnel at 0300 local. No moon. Less traffic."
"I'll pilot the minis," Sophie added. "If they jam, I'll fall back to dead-drop relay."
Theo nodded. "We keep the footprint small. Quick in and out."
Lara buckled her harness and leaned forward, grin sharp with anticipation. "Sounds like a date."
Marcus groaned. "God help me."
Theo's eyes stayed on the map but there was the faintest edge of a smile.
The jet began its slow descent toward a remote Moroccan airstrip — an old colonial field now privately leased by one of Alexandra's shell companies. City lights of Marrakesh shimmered in the distance, a mirage of gold against the deep desert night.
Theo stood, fastening his gear and checking his weapon. He moved with quiet efficiency; Lara mirrored him, calm but thrumming with the energy of a hunter before the chase.
Marcus finished a last radio check. "Ground transport waiting — two locals I trust enough. From the airstrip we ghost to the souks, then overland to the drainage entrance. No noise."
"Perfect," Theo said.
Sophie closed her laptop, pulling on a compact tactical vest. "Ghost network running. Any surveillance that tries to ping our gear will chase us into a digital swamp."
Alexandra's voice came softly over secure comms from Blackwood Isle — she had stayed behind to run interference. "Theo."
"I'm here," he said.
"Good hunting."
He hesitated just long enough to say, "Thank you," then cut the line.
Lara glanced sideways at him. "You've got people who believe in you."
"They believe in the mission," he corrected, but quietly.
She smiled. "Same thing."
The wheels kissed tarmac with a muted thud. Engines whined down. Heat from the desert night rolled over them as the cabin door swung open.
Theo stepped onto the stairs first — a tall, black-clad figure silhouetted against the Moroccan lights, every inch duke and soldier fused into one. Lara followed, adjusting her pack. Marcus and Sophie came behind, alert and ready.
Two dusty Land Cruisers waited, engines idling. Local drivers nodded once, eyes carefully averted; they'd been paid well not to remember faces.
Theo looked out across the distant glow of Marrakesh and beyond it, the darker shadow where the Veil's kasbah hid. Wind carried scents of spice and sand.
He tightened the strap of his pack and said quietly, mostly to himself:
"Time to hunt."
Lara caught it and grinned. "Finally."
They climbed into the vehicles. Engines growled, and the convoy rolled into the night — toward the ancient city and the first real strike in Theo Blackwood's war.