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Chapter 2: Office Shadows
publish date:
2026-03-03 03:32:29
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THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 33: Island Isolation
The Citation touched down on the short, cracked runway of São Tomé at 03:19 local time, humid night air rushing in the moment the cabin door cracked open. No terminal. No lights except the plane’s landing gear and a single floodlamp on a rusted pole. A jeep waited, engine idling, no driver visible. Damian stepped out first, pistol drawn low, eyes scanning the dark tree line that pressed close to the tarmac.Clear.He nodded once.I followed.The jeep’s keys were under the driver’s seat, engine warm, tank full. No note. No instructions. Just coordinates punched into a cheap GPS unit taped to the dash: 0°20′N 6°44′E. A dot in the Atlantic, forty nautical miles offshore. An island no bigger than a postage stamp on most maps.We drove south along a potholed coastal road, mangroves on one side, black ocean on the other, until the pavement ended and the track narrowed to two ruts in red dirt. The jeep bounced over roots and rocks; Damian kept one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh, st
THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 32: Airborne Assault
The Citation leveled at 41,000 feet somewhere over the Bight of Benin, engines a low, steady hum that vibrated through the cabin like a second heartbeat. We were twenty minutes out of Abuja, climbing toward cruise, when the first warning light flashed on the cockpit panel. The pilot, same man who’d flown us out of Lagos months earlier, swore under his breath and tapped the comms.“Unidentified aircraft, six o’clock high, closing fast. No transponder. Military profile.”Damian was already moving, out of his seat, pistol drawn, eyes on the windows. I followed, heart slamming against my ribs. The collar felt tighter suddenly, the chain cold against my skin.“Horizon remnants?” I asked.“Or worse,” he said. “Eze’s people had deep pockets. Someone bought air support.”The pilot banked hard left, sharp enough to throw us against the bulkhead. Alarms blared. Oxygen masks dropped. Damian grabbed mine, pressed it over my face, then his own.“Hold on.”Through the starboard window I saw it: a d
THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 31: Paternal Pursuit
The estancia had become a grave by the time we returned.Not because anyone had died there, yet, but because the silence that once felt like peace now felt like waiting. We landed back on the private strip at 03:47 a.m. local time, the same Citation that had carried us out of Lagos months earlier. The pilot didn’t speak. Just nodded once as we stepped onto the gravel, then taxied away into the dark. No lights. No farewell.The house looked unchanged, low timber roof dusted with frost, smoke still curling from the chimney where we’d left the fire banked. But the air tasted different. Sharper. Like the wind had carried something across the Atlantic and dropped it at our door.Damian felt it too.He stopped at the porch steps. Hand on the pistol at his hip. Eyes scanning the ridgeline, the lake, the dark shapes of the beech trees.“Inside,” he said. Quiet. Low.We moved fast, door unlocked, lights off, weapons drawn. He swept the living room. I took the kitchen and bedrooms. Clear. No fo
THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 30: Final Showdown
The estancia had become a fortress of quiet by the time the last thread pulled taut.Three months of Patagonia winter had hardened us both. Damian’s shoulder was fully healed, scar tissue pale and flat now, no longer pulling when he reached for an axe or for me. I’d grown leaner, stronger, from riding fence lines and splitting wood. The collar never came off; the platinum chain never unlocked. We fucked in every room of the house, on every patch of grass within sight of the lake, under every sky from storm-black to star-drenched. We spoke less. We touched more. We lived like men who had finally outrun their own shadows.Until the satellite phone rang again.It was 04:22 a.m. local time, deep winter dark outside, wind howling around the eaves. The ring cut through sleep like a blade. Damian answered on the first tone, already sitting up, already reaching for the pistol on the nightstand.“Talk.”The voice on the other end belonged to the same former security chief who’d warned us about
THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 29: Viral Threat
The estancia had no name on any map. No mailbox. No driveway sign. Just a gravel track that branched off Ruta 40 and wound twenty-two kilometers through sheep pasture before dead-ending at the gate. We liked it that way. For three months the only voices we heard were each other’s, the wind, the cattle lowing at dusk, and once, a condor screaming overhead so loud it rattled the tin roof.Damian healed.The shoulder scar faded to a thin silver line. The graze on his ribs turned pale. He stopped favoring the arm. Started chopping firewood again, two-handed swings, axe biting deep into lenga logs with the same precision he used to use on boardroom enemies. I watched him from the porch sometimes, coffee in hand, collar snug around my throat, chain glinting in the cold sun, and felt something settle inside me that hadn’t been steady since Lagos.Peace.Not the fragile kind.The kind that knows it’s earned.We fucked every day.Sometimes slow, on the sheepskin in front of the fire, his hands
THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 28: Ashes and Aftermath
The estancia in Patagonia was nothing like Lagos.No humid weight in the air. No constant pulse of generators or minarets calling across rooftops. Just wind, cold, clean, razor-sharp, scouring the high steppe, carrying the scent of dry grass and distant snow. The house was low-slung timber and stone, built into a hillside overlooking a glacial lake the color of fractured jade. No neighbors for forty kilometers. No roads that weren’t dirt tracks. No cell signal unless you climbed the ridge behind the barn with a satellite phone.We arrived in late autumn, April in the southern hemisphere. The last of the lenga beech leaves were turning copper and falling like slow fire. Damian had bought the place sight unseen through a shell company in Uruguay. Cash. No questions. The previous owner, a retired Argentine rancher, had left behind a small herd of Hereford cattle, a windmill that still pumped water, and a silence so deep it pressed against your eardrums.We needed that silence.The first
THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 20 Fractured Paths
The forest swallowed the echoes of gunfire like a grave. Thornton lay crumpled in the mud—chest heaving one last ragged breath before going still, her pistol half-buried in the dirt. Elliott slumped against me, blood seeping from a gash on his forehead, his gun still smoking in his hand. I held him
Last Updated : 2026-03-22THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 22 Veils of Blood and Betrayal
Elena Thornton’s face haunted my dreams that night—her silver-blonde hair a ghost of her mother’s, eyes cold as the interrogation room mirror. I woke tangled in sheets, Elliott’s arm heavy across my chest, his breath steady against my neck. The accusation hung over us like smoke: murder, framed foo
Last Updated : 2026-03-22THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 19 Siege in the Dark
The bunker alarms screamed—red strobes pulsing like arterial blood across the concrete walls. Jax slammed the inner door shut behind us, deadbolts clanging into place. The monitors flickered to life on their own: grainy night-vision feeds showing the hillside above. Shadows moved—six figures in tac
Last Updated : 2026-03-21THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM Chapter 21 The Daughter’s Shadow
The apartment felt smaller with Reyes standing in the doorway—coat still damp from the rain, face carved from stone. Behind him, two more agents waited in the hall, hands resting near holsters. Elliott moved first—stepping in front of me, body a shield, voice calm but edged with steel.“What exactl
Last Updated : 2026-03-22
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