The Ghost Protocol: A Spy Fiction

The rain hammered against the windows of the safe house with a persistence that reminded Marcus Kane of machine gun fire. He'd heard enough of both to know the difference, but tonight the similarity felt ominous. Through the water-streaked glass, the neon lights of Prague's old quarter blurred into abstract paintings of red and blue, casting shifting shadows across the cramped apartment's bare walls.

Kane adjusted his position in the worn leather chair, keeping his eyes fixed on the street below while his fingers drummed a nervous rhythm against his thigh. Three days. That's how long he'd been waiting for contact from his handler, and in the intelligence world, three days might as well be three years. Dead drops went cold, safe houses became traps, and trusted allies turned into corpses floating in the Vltava River.