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Chapter Five: Dinner with the Devil
The air in Dubai was heavy with heat and secrets. Sierra stepped out of the sleek black car into the golden dusk, her stilettos clicking against the polished marble of the Fourteenth Sky—an elite rooftop restaurant nestled above the clouds. Here, money silenced questions, and death was often dressed in silk.
She adjusted the cuff of her navy-blue dress, slit high to allow movement, tailored to conceal a narrow thigh-holstered blade. Her hair swept into a low chignon, elegant but strategic. She was no longer Sierra Lancaster tonight.
She was Viper.
And the man she had come to find was already waiting.
Nikolai Vornin.
He sat at the far end of the restaurant, sipping from a glass of wine so red it looked like blood. He hadn't aged much—just enough to seem meaner, more polished. His beard trimmed, his gaze hidden behind designer glasses. But Sierra knew better.
Beneath that charm was the man who had once pointed a gun at her and pulled the trigger.
Her stomach tightened, but her face remained calm.
A maître d' approached her politely, hesitating as he scanned her reservation. She slipped him a small black card. No name. Just a seal.
He paled and stepped aside.
Sierra moved across the floor with the grace of a dancer and the calculation of a killer. When she reached the table, Nikolai looked up—and froze.
His glass paused mid-air.
"Sierra?" he said, voice low and disbelieving. "No. You're—"
"Dead?" she interrupted smoothly. "You were supposed to be, too."
He leaned back, exhaling sharply. "You haven't changed."
"You have. Expensive suit. Expensive wine. And yet… you still smell like betrayal."
A chuckle escaped him. "Sit. If you've come this far, I doubt you're here to finish the job."
Sierra took her seat across from him. Her hand casually rested on her lap, near the sheath.
"I came for answers."
He swirled his wine. "Why now?"
"Because someone used my name to reopen the Program. I found clones, Nikolai. One of them had my face."
His gaze flickered, then steadied.
"Then you already know who's behind it."
"Crestwell."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
"He was supposed to be dead," Sierra said coldly.
"He was supposed to be a lot of things," Nikolai muttered. "But Crestwell doesn't stay buried. He went underground after the collapse. Built something new. Better."
"Better than what?" she asked.
"Better than you," he said, smiling without warmth. "Faster. Loyal. No hesitation."
Sierra didn't blink.
He leaned forward slightly. "You were the mistake he regretted most. You had heart, Sierra. Love. Weakness."
"I survived," she replied coolly.
He chuckled. "Exactly. And that's what makes you dangerous."
She exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Why the letter? Why bring me back in now?"
"Because I knew you wouldn't let it go. You were always curious. Always needing to know the why before you killed." He sipped again, then added, "He's building something global. Intercontinental sleeper assassins. Children. Adults. Even political figures. You're not the only one with a double."
"I want a name," she said sharply. "The buyer. The location."
He tapped the stem of his glass. "I give you that, I vanish. I walk away. You don't hunt me."
Sierra's lips curled slightly. "You think I'm the same woman?"
"No," he said softly. "You're much, much worse now."
He handed her a small data card. "Geneva. Facility's under Mirador Biotech. The name you want? Arlo Crestwell. He's alive. And he's waiting for you."
She took the card without flinching, her gloves brushing against his fingertips. Cold. Intentional.
He stood, gathering his coat.
"One last thing," he added, pausing behind her chair. "He didn't just clone you, Sierra. He cloned your legacy. Your missions. Your mind. There's one model even I couldn't look at without flinching."
She turned slightly. "Why?"
"Because she didn't just move like you. She thought like you."
Sierra's breath caught.
He grinned. "And she hates him even more than you do."
With that, he walked away, disappearing into the glittering skyline of Dubai.
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Later that night, Sierra stood on her penthouse balcony, staring at the flashing lights of the city. The data card lay in her palm, light as air, heavy as history.
She closed her eyes, the wind tugging at her dress, her mind swarmed with the image of a girl in a tank—a clone, a mimic, a ghost.
Her ghost.
And behind it all… Arlo Crestwell.
The man who made her.
The man who tried to erase her.
And the man who would finally answer for everything.
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