Chapter Three – The First Task

The SUV waited at the curb like a black shark — sleek, armored, and silent.

Ayla stepped into it under the cold morning sun, flanked by two men in tactical black. No introductions. No explanation. Just a nod and a weapon holstered visibly beneath a coat sleeve.

Lucian didn’t ride with her.

Of course not.

This wasn’t a negotiation. This was a test. One she wasn’t supposed to pass — just survive.

As the doors locked behind her, she clutched the folder tighter. Inside were the details of a shell company fronting as a humanitarian non-profit. Donations in. Weapons out. Her job was simple: confirm the shipment location, verify the money trail, and report back.

But simple never meant safe. Especially in his world.

---

They drove through downtown Manhattan and out toward the warehouses hugging the Jersey docks. Fog rolled thick across the bay, casting the port in a soft gray silence that felt all too familiar.

It reminded her of the night her father died.

Ayla clenched her jaw. No time for that.

The vehicle stopped. One of the men turned to her. “You go in alone. Five minutes. No phones. No comms. Get what you need and come back out. If you’re not out in six, we assume you flipped. Or died.”

He handed her a black satchel. Inside: a small flash drive, a bug, and a burner phone with a single number saved — Lucian.

“Is this your idea of a pep talk?” she muttered.

Neither man smiled.

Ayla stepped out into the mist, her boots crunching gravel. She made her way toward the low concrete building with a flickering red security light near the door.

No guards. No cameras she could see.

But she knew better.

---

Inside, it smelled like damp metal and mildew. Rows of empty crates lined the far wall, and in the center was a single laptop plugged into a satellite modem.

No passwords. No encryption. Almost too easy.

That was the first red flag.

Still, she moved fast. Plugged in the flash drive, pulled up the shipment logs, and scanned the entries.

Three shipments. Disguised as food aid. Two to Nigeria. One to Poland. All linked to the same dummy firm. And all routed through a private airstrip registered to a shell entity based in Switzerland.

She copied the files and paused.

Something about the third shipment code didn’t match the rest.

She isolated the number. Looked closer. Her breath caught.

This wasn’t just laundering.

This was linked to a weapons exchange between two rival syndicates.

If Lucian didn’t know, he would. If he did know… she’d just become part of something far more dangerous than she’d agreed to.

She finished the extraction and slipped the bug beneath the desk, just in case.

As she turned to leave, the warehouse door creaked open.

Her blood iced.

Footsteps.

Not heavy, not fast. Calm. Intentional.

A tall man in a navy coat stepped inside, hands in his pockets, face obscured by shadow. But she didn’t need to see his face to feel it — danger clung to him like a second skin.

“You’re not staff,” he said casually. Russian accent. Smooth. Lethal.

She played it cool. “Neither are you.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “You don’t belong here, girl.”

“Just taking inventory,” she replied, stepping sideways toward the shadows near a support pillar.

The man stepped forward. “And who sent you? Lucian D’Argento?”

She froze.

He chuckled. “I thought so.”

Ayla reached slowly for the burner in her coat pocket — and realized her mistake.

The pocket was torn. The phone was gone.

Her heart thundered.

The man took a step closer. “Tell him this: the East isn’t playing nice anymore. And if he sends little lambs like you into the wolves’ den again… we’ll stop being polite.”

He tossed something toward her feet.

Her burner phone. Crushed.

A warning.

And then he turned and walked out without another word.

---

Ayla stood frozen for a full five seconds before bolting back toward the SUV.

She jumped in, breath short, adrenaline rushing.

“What happened?” one of the guards asked.

“I made a new friend,” she snapped, tossing the flash drive into his lap. “Drive.”

They didn’t ask again.

---

Back at the tower, Lucian was waiting.

This time in his private lounge — bookshelves of rare first editions, an untouched decanter of scotch, and a couch that looked barely used.

He was seated behind a chessboard, sipping something dark. He didn’t even look up.

“Well?”

She tossed the flash drive onto the table. “Everything you asked for.”

“And the bug?”

“Placed.”

“And the warning?”

He looked up then. His expression unreadable.

Ayla blinked. “You knew they’d be there?”

Lucian swirled the liquid in his glass. “I wanted to see what you’d do.”

“You used me as bait.”

“You passed.”

A chill ran down her spine. “One wrong move and I’d be dead.”

Lucian leaned back in his chair, gaze fixed on her. “Yet here you are.”

There was something in his voice. Not admiration. Not quite trust. But something colder. Like he was measuring how much further he could push before she cracked.

She stepped closer, anger simmering beneath her calm. “You sent me in without backup.”

“I needed to know if you’d freeze or fight.”

“I’m not your soldier.”

Lucian’s eyes flickered. “No. You’re a weapon.”

---

She hated how calm he was.

How his words sunk under her skin like glass.

But she hated more that she hadn’t turned and run.

Because deep down, part of her — the part forged from loss and betrayal — wanted to be the weapon.

And Lucian saw it.

Before she could speak again, he slid the chessboard toward her. “Play.”

Ayla hesitated. Then sat. And moved her first pawn.

Lucian smiled, just slightly.

“You’re beginning to understand the game.”