Serbia, Belgrade, BEG.
Light snow turning to rain, the weather warming on a tailwind. The terminal's glass curtain wall sliced the sunset into a hundred perfect rhombuses, deep blue and orange-red bleeding through the translucent interior. Jet engines stacked their roar foot by foot; the coarse gray runway blurred flat beneath the observer's own speed.
The touchdown jolt woke Daniel from his snore. John checked his watch, then glanced outside. A black sedan waited beside the disused hangar, flanked by two Aegis contractors in notched-laple trench coats. They spotted the flight number, killed their earpieces, and relayed to the quartermaster inside.
"Those ours?" Daniel Murphy asked, suddenly interested.
"Not necessarily. Aegis doesn't outsource wet work. They're more of a premium service provider." John tapped the cabin window. "Gold-plate a trigger—it still kills."
The stairs dropped. They bypassed the bus line and took the shuttle van. Murphy cadged a light from the ground-crew man in the passenger seat, exhaled smoke, and stared at the frost-heavy sky.
"Hey, Johnny."
His voice cracked in the foreign cold.
"You really scored me a Light Fifty?"
John Hastings tucked his wind-lifted tie inside the collar and settled his tortoiseshell glasses.
"Protocol's in place."
Murphy sat up straighter. "What protocol?"
John rested an elbow on the door, letting the silver ring on his right pinky catch the light. "Self-defense only."
"So?"
"Parisa can't just green-light it through channels?"
John turned his head slowly; shadows gathered in the hollows of his eyes. "I'll pop delayed-fuse illumination rounds to light up the decoys. If you see any guard on Lončar's detail make an aggressive move in your glass, you are cleared to drop him."
Murphy laughed, nearly choking on the Marlboro. "Johnny… you crafty bastard."
The van stopped at the hangar. Two contractors lifted the tarp and waved them through at a crouch.
Behind them the tarp slammed down. Daylight vanished. Overhead, steel trusses and rows of fluorescent tubes lit a cavernous space. At the center stood one long table and three men.
"Mr. John Hastings?"
The quartermaster's southeastern drawl rolled across the concrete. He gestured at the black nylon duffel; all three wore pale-blue nitrile gloves.
"Your shipment."
John and Murphy shed their heavy coats, revealing matching black-and-white cropped suits. The contractors unzipped the bag.
Two gray plate carriers came out first. They were flipped for inspection and handed over.
"PF-M carrier with dual Hesco 4800 lightweight inserts—multi-hit intermediate-caliber protection and top-tier mobility."
John and Murphy shrugged into the vests over their suits and cinched the straps until the armor locked to their torsos with zero play. The silver-gray PF-M lattice hugged the matte-black plates like a second skin; the shields across chest, gut, and spine gave quiet, lethal confidence.
Murphy thumped his vest and nodded. "Haley Strategic carry rig, black custom."
They clipped spare magazines into the retention straps.
"Mr. Murphy—your M82A1, classic configuration, paired with the Sig Sauer BDX rangefinder. Already zeroed."
Murphy took the big waterproof case, unzipped it, and ran a hand along the Barrett's receiver, grinning ear to ear. "Hello, beautiful."
The quartermaster opened the hardened case next and lifted the rifle with both hands.
"Mr. Hastings—your SK-4 semi-auto, 16-inch multipurpose barrel. Competition-grade light-pull straight trigger, Raptor-LT charging handle, QDC suppressor, Aimpoint T-2 red dot—fast-acquisition setup exactly as requested."
John accepted the rifle, palm stroking the cold M-LOK rail. He thumbed the selector, racked the oversized handle twice for feel, then slung it behind him.
"Sidearms are the same choice for both of you."
At a single gesture the contractors parted their coats, drew from chest rigs, and reversed the pistols—grips out—in perfect unison.
"Glock 17 Gen 8 with extended mags. Old reliable, new bottle."
John and Murphy took the pistols and seated them at the waistband.
The quartermaster clapped once. "Armored vehicle is outside. Four-hour drive to Liberland."
They shrugged back into the big coats, hiding the hardware. The quartermaster tossed the keys to John and gave a short nod.
"Well, Gentlemen…good hunting."