The rain hammered against the windows of the Vienna safe house with the persistence of bullets against armor plating. Agent Marcus Stone adjusted his position in the leather chair, never taking his eyes off the street below. Three days of surveillance had taught him the rhythm of this quiet residential district: the baker's delivery at 0630 hours, the postal worker's rounds at 1100, the elderly woman who walked her terrier precisely at 1430. But tonight, something was different.
Stone's secure phone buzzed once. A message from Control.