CHAPTER 13: UNFINISHED BUSINESS

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  **Munich, Germany – MI6 Safehouse – 9:20 AM**

  The safehouse, an unassuming building tucked away in a quiet Munich suburb, had all the charm of an abandoned office space. Sparse furniture, blinds drawn tight over grimy windows, and the faint hum of outdated ventilation gave it a utilitarian feel. The faint aroma of burnt coffee lingered, mixing with the tension in the air.

  Scott Reeves sat at a battered desk, his suit jacket draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. His eyes, sharp and calculating, were fixed on the financial records glowing on his laptop screen. Dark circles underlined his gaze—a testament to sleepless nights spent piecing together a web of transactions. He leaned back, rubbing his temple, as though physically trying to dislodge the weight of his findings.

  The deeper he dug, the clearer the picture became.

  **Matthias K?nig wasn’t just another victim—he was the one who started it all.**

  The numbers told a damning story, cold and unyielding:

  - €4 million transferred to an offshore account—one week before Richard Langley’s assassination.

  - €2.5 million paid just days later—coinciding with Theodor Krause’s elimination.

  - A third, failed transfer of €2.5 million—canceled in the immediate aftermath of Krause’s death.

  Scott’s fingers drummed a steady rhythm on the desk, his mind racing. “This wasn’t a random contract,” he muttered under his breath. “K?nig ordered both hits.”

  Across from him, Michael Carter slouched on a worn-out chair, the leather peeling at the edges. His gray T-shirt and rugged jeans gave him an air of nonchalance, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed a mind always calculating. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, frowning deeply.

  “So that’s €6.5 million total,” Michael said, his tone thoughtful but edged with frustration. “But the contract was for more, wasn’t it?”

  Scott nodded, the weight of the truth heavy on his shoulders. “He was preparing another €2.5 million transfer—but it never happened. The second transfer failed, canceled immediately after Krause’s death.”

  Scott paused, exhaling sharply. “There might be a chance K?nig’s financial director knows something about this.”

  Michael straightened slightly, the gears in his head turning. “Then did you ask Ward about setting up a meeting with K?nig's financial director?”

  Scott nodded again, his expression grim. “Yes, I did, but Ward said he’ll have to ask the German government about that. But nothing is 100 percent sure.”

  Michael frowned, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Great. So we’re stuck waiting on bureaucracy while our target keeps slipping through the cracks.”

  Scott sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Pretty much. Ward doesn’t want to step on any toes, especially with German intelligence watching this closely.”

  Michael’s lips twisted into a smirk, though his eyes remained serious. “So K?nig paid Renzo to eliminate Langley and Krause… but then backed out of the last payment?”

  Scott’s nod was curt but definitive. “Exactly. And what happens when you don’t pay Renzo?”

  Michael leaned back, crossing his arms. “You end up dead.”

  The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together. K?nig had manipulated events, using Renzo as a weapon to eliminate his rivals.

  Scott sighed again, the weight of it all pressing down on him. “K?nig made a critical mistake. He thought he could outsmart an assassin.”

  Michael scoffed. “So, he really has guts.”

  Scott frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  Michael leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Think about it—he came back to Germany just to kill K?nig after assassinating Richard Langley and Theodor Krause. That takes a special kind of nerve.”

  Before Scott could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—Sir Frederick Ward.

  He answered immediately. “Sir?”

  Ward’s voice was firm and direct. “Find him. K?nig’s financial director agreed to the meeting.”

  The call ended abruptly.

  Michael raised an eyebrow. “What did he say?”

  Scott exhaled sharply, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “K?nig’s financial director agreed to the meeting. Ward wants us to meet him.”

  Michael nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. “Then we better move.

  Inside the office Michael and Scott sat across from Daniel Weber

  --

  K?nig Headquarters – Munich, Germany

  Inside the office, Michael and Scott sat across from Daniel Weber, who looked nervous, adjusting his glasses as he opened K?nig’s confidential business records. His hands trembled slightly as he scrolled through encrypted financial documents.

  “Mr. K?nig was… involved in several sensitive deals before his death,” he said hesitantly.

  Michael leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “Let’s talk about the €4 million transfer to an offshore account last month.”

  Weber stiffened. “I… I don’t have authorization to discuss—”

  Scott placed a classified MI6 folder on the desk and slid it toward him. “You do now.”

  Weber swallowed hard, his eyes flicking between them before nodding. “Mr. K?nig ordered Richard Langley’s assassination.”

  Michael exchanged a glance with Scott. They had suspected it—but now it was confirmed.

  “K?nig and Langley were business rivals,” Weber continued, his voice lower now. “They fought over military contracts. K?nig knew that if Langley was out of the picture, he could take control of key deals.”

  Scott nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “And Krause?”

  Weber hesitated, looking even more uneasy. “After Langley’s death, Krause the chairman take over the control. But K?nig wanted full control of the market, so… he arranged for Krause to be eliminated too.”

  Michael’s jaw tightened. “And he hired Renzo for both jobs?”

  Weber gave a slow nod. “Yes.”

  Scott exhaled. “And then K?nig refused to pay.”

  Weber shifted uncomfortably. “After Krause was killed, K?nig got nervous. He canceled the remaining €2.5 million transfer. I told him it was a mistake, but he refused to listen. He thought he could get away with it.”

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  Michael let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, well… that didn’t work out for him, did it?”

  Scott smirked slightly, shaking his head. "No, it didn’t. Renzo doesn’t do charity work."

  ---

  MI6 Safehouse

  The secure connection stabilized, displaying Sir Frederick Ward and Victoria Lane at MI6 headquarters in London on one end, while Scott Reeves and Michael Carter appeared from a safehouse in Munich, Germany on the other. Ward’s expression was as rigid as ever, while Victoria watched with quiet intensity.

  Scott wasted no time. “It’s confirmed—Matthias K?nig ordered both assassinations. Langley was his biggest rival in military contracts, and after his death, Krause took over. K?nig wanted complete control, so he had him eliminated too.”

  Michael leaned forward. “Renzo carried out both hits. But when K?nig refused to pay the remaining €2.5 million, Renzo killed him in retaliation.”

  Victoria’s lips curled slightly. “No surprises there.”

  Scott nodded. “Weber, one of K?nig’s financial managers, gave us the intel. He’s nervous, but everything checks out.”

  Before Ward could respond, the door to his office swung open. A young MI6 analyst entered, holding a tablet. He hesitated at interrupting but quickly composed himself.

  “Sir, we have something. We identified the bullet used to kill Theodor Krause.”

  Ward gestured for him to continue. The analyst placed the tablet on the desk, bringing up the ballistic data. “It’s a custom round—high-density tungsten core, polymer-coated casing. Designed for extreme accuracy and long-distance travel. Not something you find on the market.”

  Victoria leaned forward slightly. “Where did it come from?”

  The analyst hesitated before answering. “Black market and We checked our database. Cross-referenced the specs with known suppliers. Only one name came up—Adrien Moreau. High-end weapons dealer, based in Marseille."

  Scott exchanged a glance with Michael. This was a major lead.

  Ward’s voice was sharp. “Moreau isn’t just some arms dealer, is he?”

  The analyst shook his head. “No, sir. He’s one of the best. He deals exclusively in high-grade weapons for mercenaries, assassins, and covert operatives. If Renzo got his bullets from Moreau, it means Moreau might know something about him."

  Michael exhaled. “Then we need to have a conversation with Mr. Moreau.”

  Ward nodded. “Find him. If Moreau supplied Renzo, he might be the key to tracking him down.”

  ---

  Operation: Iron Hunt :

  Michael Carter stepped off the private MI6 jet at Marseille Provence Airport, the warm Mediterranean air a sharp contrast to the cold tension in his mind. A black SUV was waiting on the tarmac, headlights slicing through the darkness. Beside it stood Agent Connor Shaw, one of the MI6 operatives assigned to the mission.

  “Carter,” Shaw greeted with a firm nod, opening the door.

  Without a word, Carter slid into the passenger seat. As they pulled away from the airport and onto the highway, Marseille’s city lights faded behind them.

  Shaw kept his eyes on the road. “The team is ready. Moreau’s location is locked in. We move as soon as you give the word.”

  “Good,” Carter replied.

  They veered off onto a deserted road, cutting through the dense forests outside the industrial district. Eventually, they pulled into a clearing where three more MI6 operatives stood near another SUV, checking their weapons and gear.

  Carter stepped out, surveying his team—Miller, Jacobs, and Evans. Professional, experienced, and ready for action.

  Shaw made the introductions. “Solid team. No weak links.”

  Carter gave a sharp nod. “We hit the factory hard and fast. Moreau is priority—we take him alive.”

  No one hesitated.

  “Gear up,” Carter ordered. “We move in five.”

  The MI6 team advanced through the woods under the cover of darkness, their weapons at the ready. The abandoned factory loomed ahead, its skeletal remains swallowed by overgrown vegetation. Rusted pipes jutted out like broken ribs, and shattered windows gleamed under the moonlight.

  Carter raised his fist. Hold.

  He scanned the area. No movement. No sounds. But something felt off.

  “Stay sharp,” he murmured into his comms. “Moreau won’t make this easy.”

  With a final glance at his team, he gave the order.

  “Go.”

  The MI6 operatives surged forward, weapons raised, ready to bring Moreau down.

  The MI6 team moved swiftly, staying low as they approached the abandoned factory’s perimeter. The structure was crumbling—rusted metal beams, shattered glass, and thick vines consuming what was left. The only sounds were the distant chirping of insects and the faint rustling of leaves in the wind.

  Carter signaled to his team. Jacobs and Evans covered the west entrance, while Shaw and Miller secured the east. Carter himself took point at the main entrance.

  He pressed his earpiece. “Alpha Team, in position. Bravo Team, status?”

  Shaw’s voice came through. “Set. No movement.”

  Carter exhaled. “We breach on my mark. Three… two… one—go.”

  Breach and Ambush

  The teams moved in. Boots crunched against broken glass as they swept through the dark corridors of the factory. Inside, the place was a maze of rusted machinery, broken catwalks, and stacks of old shipping crates. A faint chemical smell lingered in the air—gunpowder, oil, metal.

  Then—click.

  “Trap! Move!” Carter shouted.

  A deafening explosion erupted from the floor ahead, sending a fireball through the hallway. The shockwave threw Carter backward, slamming him into a rusted steel beam. His ears rang as dust and debris clouded his vision. His body screamed in pain, but he forced himself up.

  Then came the worst part.

  “Man down!” Evans’ voice crackled through the comms.

  Carter’s gaze darted forward—Miller lay motionless, his body caught in the blast radius. Blood pooled beneath him.

  Carter clenched his jaw. One dead. Mission still on.

  Through the smoke, faint clatters and crashes echoed deeper inside—Moreau was destroying evidence.

  “Move! Moreau knows we’re here,” Carter barked.

  They pushed forward. Moreau wasn’t just running—he was firing back. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark factory as bullets tore through the air.

  Carter and his team returned fire, ducking behind metal crates.

  Then—another shout of pain.

  “Jacobs is hit!” Shaw called out.

  Carter’s heart pounded. Jacobs had gone down, blood soaking his vest. He was still alive, but barely.

  “Evans, get him stable! Shaw, on me!”

  Moreau was almost at the exit, his figure illuminated by the moonlight spilling through a broken doorway.

  Moreau darted through the broken doorway, emerging into the open night. His breath came in sharp gasps as he sprinted toward a black SUV parked just beyond the tree line. He yanked the driver’s door open, jumped inside, and slammed his foot on the accelerator.

  The tires screeched against the dirt as the vehicle lurched forward, kicking up dust and leaves.

  Inside the factory, Carter was already moving. He burst through the exit, rifle raised, eyes locked on the fleeing SUV.

  “Shaw, take position!” Carter barked as he dropped to one knee, leveling his weapon.

  The SUV tore down the dirt road, weaving through the trees. Moreau was desperate, but Carter had one shot to end this chase before it began.

  He took a breath. Steadied his aim.

  One shot.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The suppressed rifle barked, the high-velocity round cutting through the air in an instant—slamming into the SUV’s rear tire.

  The impact sent the vehicle swerving violently. The back wheel shredded apart, rubber peeling as the SUV veered off the road.

  Moreau struggled for control, but it was too late.

  The vehicle slammed into a tree, the front end crumpling on impact. Steam and smoke hissed from the engine as the siren-like wail of the bent metal filled the night.

  Moreau’s head slammed against the steering wheel, leaving him momentarily dazed.

  Carter and Shaw rushed forward, weapons drawn. Carter yanked the driver’s door open and grabbed Moreau by the collar, yanking him out of the wreckage.

  The arms dealer groaned, his face bloody from the crash. He tried to struggle, but Carter slammed him against the side of the car.

  “End of the line, Moreau.”

  Moreau coughed, his dazed eyes locking onto Carter’s. He knew he had nowhere left to run.

  Shaw secured his wrists with handcuffs, pressing him against the hood of the wrecked SUV.

  Carter exhaled, glancing toward the wreckage before tapping his comms.

  “Target secured.”

  With Moreau secured, Carter turned back toward the factory. His team wasn’t leaving anyone behind.

  “Evans, status on Jacobs?” he asked, moving quickly.

  Evans was kneeling beside Jacobs, who lay on the ground, his face pale from blood loss. His vest had taken most of the impact, but the wound on his side was deep. He was barely conscious, his breathing shallow.

  “He’s bad, but stable for now,” Evans reported. “We need to move, or he won’t make it.”

  Carter nodded. There was no time to wait for medevac. They had to extract now.

  He turned his gaze toward Miller’s body, which still lay near the remains of the explosive trap. The air smelled of burnt metal and blood, a grim reminder of the price they had paid tonight.

  Carter’s jaw tightened. They wouldn’t leave him behind.

  “Shaw, get Moreau in the vehicle. Evans, help me with Jacobs. We’re taking Miller, too.”

  With quiet efficiency, they carefully lifted Miller’s body into the SUV alongside Jacobs, covering him with a tactical blanket. Moreau, still dazed, was shoved into the seat beside Shaw, his hands zip-tied behind his back.

  Carter slid into the driver’s seat, gunning the engine. Dust and gravel kicked up as the SUV sped away from the wrecked factory, disappearing into the darkness of the forest roads.

  The MI6 safehouse was a cold, functional building, tucked away in an industrial complex on the outskirts of Marseille. It wasn’t meant for long-term stays—just a place to regroup, treat the wounded, and plan the next move.

  Inside, Jacobs was immediately taken to the medical area, where the field medics worked to stabilize him. His breathing was still shallow, but he was hanging on.

  Shaw and Evans carried Miller’s lifeless body to a separate room, placing him on a secure table and covering him with a tactical blanket. His death weighed on all of them, but they had no time to mourn.

  Meanwhile, Carter and Shaw dragged Moreau into a reinforced holding room, locking the door behind him. Moreau didn’t resist—he knew there was nowhere to run.

  Carter stepped into the communications room, activating the secure satellite link back to MI6 headquarters in London. Within seconds, the faces of Sir Frederick Ward and Victoria Lane appeared on the encrypted screen.

  Ward’s sharp gaze landed on him. “Report.”

  Carter kept his tone professional. “Moreau is secured. However, we took heavy losses. Miller is dead. Jacobs is badly wounded but stable for now. We’re at a safehouse, but we can’t stay here for long.”

  Ward’s expression hardened, but his voice remained even. “Understood. You did what you had to.”

  Victoria’s gaze flickered with a brief hint of something—concern, perhaps—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Moreau is a valuable asset. We need him alive and well for interrogation, but that will happen in a secure facility. Your priority now is getting the team back to the primary safehouse once Jacobs is stable enough to move.”

  Ward nodded in agreement. “Lock Moreau down. Keep him under strict watch. Once your team is ready, extract to the main safehouse for debriefing.”

  Carter nodded. “Understood, sir. We’ll hold position until Jacobs can be transported.”

  The screen went dark.

  Carter returned to the main area, where Shaw stood guard outside Moreau’s holding room.

  “Orders?” Shaw asked.

  “We stay put until Jacobs is stable enough to move,” Carter said. “Once he’s good, we take Moreau to the primary safehouse for interrogation.”

  Shaw exhaled, rubbing his temple. “It’s been a long night.”

  Carter glanced at the door behind him—the one leading to Miller’s body. Too long.

  “Get some rest,” Carter said. “We’ll need it.”

  For now, all they could do was wait.

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  End of chapter 13