"The Slap That Burned an Empire"

Julian found Marcus in a dimly lit dive bar on the edge of the city, nursing a bruised ego and a bruised ribcage from the warehouse debacle. Marcus’s men were spooked; three of them had quit, refusing to fight an enemy that controlled the board so thoroughly.

Julian slid into the booth across from the mercenary. He didn't have a corporate checkbook anymore. He pushed a heavy velvet bag across the sticky table. It contained two million dollars in untraceable conflict diamonds he had kept in a private, unlisted safe.

"I don't want a defensive detail anymore," Julian said, his voice raspy, the wires in his jaw having been removed just hours prior. His face was a haunted, hollowed-out mask of desperation. "I want her dead. I don't care if you have to do it in broad daylight. I don't care if it makes the evening news. Take the leash off, Marcus."

Marcus opened the bag, the dim light catching the raw, glittering stones. He looked at Julian, seeing a man who had absolutely nothing left to lose. That made Julian dangerous, but it also made him reckless.

"She’s heavily guarded," Marcus warned. "The ghost you saw... he's elite. Ex-syndicate, maybe intelligence. He doesn't make mistakes."

"Everyone makes mistakes," Julian growled, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. "She's enjoying this too much. She’s getting close to watch us bleed. Find her blind spot and put a bullet in it."