The Abu Dhabi Incident

There are men you call when things go bad.

Then there’s the man you call when you want the bad to disappear.

Cain Taggert didn’t wear a badge. Didn’t answer to politics, flags, or codes.

He answered to the quiet rage behind his eyes — and to a ledger soaked in names that were better off dead.

The job didn’t come through channels. It never did.

It came through a woman named Allegra, naked on a bed in Madagascar, with lips like silk and eyes that didn’t blink. She said it was pleasure before business.

But Taggert had seen enough velvet traps to know when steel was waiting underneath.

Still… he listened.

Someone had taken the Spanish President’s wife and daughter in Abu Dhabi.

Someone bold. Stupid. Suicidal.

Because when that kind of power gets embarrassed, it doesn’t call the cops — it calls Cain Taggert.

The mission was clear:

Find them.

Rescue them.

Burn down whoever thought they could pull this off and live.

He lit a cigarette and looked out the window.

Storm clouds moved over the Indian Ocean like bruises on the sky.

There was blood in the wind.

And Taggert was already halfway to war.