Chapter 1
SHADOWS OF THE PAST
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered vineyards of rural France. James "J.D." Delaney stood at the window of his rustic stone cottage, the chill of winter creeping through the glass panes. The landscape outside was picturesque, a postcard of serenity that belied the storm brewing within him. He had built this life of seclusion ten years ago, a deliberate choice to escape the ghosts of his past, yet the shadows of those memories still lingered like spectres in the corners of his mind.
J.D. turned away from the window, his gaze falling on the shelves lining the walls of his modest living room. Each bottle of vintage French wine, meticulously collected over the years, stood as a testament to his resolve against indulgence. He had long since made peace with the fact that he could no longer trust himself with vices. The last time he had allowed himself to indulge—years ago in a dimly lit bar in Kiev—had ended in chaos and bloodshed. He shivered at the thought.
As he moved to the small kitchen, the scent of fresh bread filled the air. He had taken to baking as a form of therapy, a way to ground himself in the present. The loaves were golden brown, a stark contrast to the cold outside. He pulled one from the oven, its warmth wrapping around him like a comforting embrace.
But as he sliced into the crusty exterior, his thoughts drifted back to that fateful mission in Ukraine. The faces of those he had lost haunted him: colleagues, innocents, and the one person who had mattered most—his brother. J.D. had been the analyst, the linguist who had misinterpreted a critical piece of intelligence, leading to a botched operation that cost lives. The guilt had driven him to this isolated life, away from the world of espionage that had once thrilled him.
He placed the bread on the table and poured himself a cup of dark coffee, his hands shaking slightly. The tranquility of his surroundings was abruptly shattered by the distant sound of a car approaching. He frowned, peering through the frosted window. A sleek black vehicle glided to a stop at the end of his driveway. J.D. felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Visitors were rare in this part of the world, and he had gone to great lengths to ensure his privacy.
He set down his coffee, moving cautiously to the door, the Luger P08 already in his hand—a relic from his Berlin days, meticulously oiled. Through the frosted glass, he could see a figure stepping out of the car—tall, poised, and unmistakably confident. The figure moved with purpose, a stark contrast to the rustic charm of his cottage.
The knock came at 5:47 a.m.
Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks. A KGB cadence, outdated but deliberate. Delaney’s pulse didn’t quicken. He’d rehearsed this moment for years.
Through the rain-streaked window, he sees her: a silhouette sharp as a scalpel, trench coat cinched tight. Ice-blonde hair glints beneath the porch light. Russian, he thinks, but not Moscow—something colder. Siberia, maybe. Grozny.
He hesitates. Not out of fear, but ritual. Ten years ago, he’d have barricaded the door, fled through the root cellar. Now, he straightens his sweater—gray wool, frayed at the cuffs—and breathes in the scent of bergamot and impending storm.
Showtime.
(through the door, in French)
–“We’re closed. Try the bakery in town. Their lies are fresher.”
–“I prefer stale truths, Mr. Delaney. Open the door.”
He does. Rain gusts into the cottage, carrying the smell of wet earth and diesel exhaust. Her eyes—pale blue, like Arctic ice—flick to the Luger in his hand. She doesn’t reach for her own weapon.
–“I’ve been waiting for you. What took so long?”
Standing before him was a woman, sharp and striking. Irina Volkova. He recognized her immediately, despite the years that had passed since their paths had last crossed. The scar across her jawline told stories of battles fought and survived, and her piercing blue eyes held a fierce intensity that sent a chill down his spine.
“Delaney,” she said, her voice smooth yet edged with steel. “We need to talk.”
J.D. took a step back, instinctively placing a hand on the doorframe for support. “What do you want, Irina? I’m not involved in any of this anymore.”
“Not involved? You’re the only one who can help me,” she replied, her tone unyielding. “I know you have it.”
He studied her for a moment, the memories flooding back—shared missions, whispered conversations, and the tension that had crackled between them. But that was a lifetime ago.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to maintain his composure.
Irina’s expression shifted, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t lie to me, J.D. I know you speak perfect Russian, and I know you’ve been living under an alias. The list you stole—it’s not just a rumor. The Kremlin wants it back.”
His heart raced, and he felt his pulse quicken. The classified list of deep-cover Russian spies was a ghost he had hoped to bury forever. It was a relic of his past life, one that had nearly cost him everything.
