Chapter 39: Island of Knives

Off the Coast of Cape Town, South Africa – Crowne's Private Island

The chopper cut through the ocean winds like a dagger, its blades slicing the salty air as Nora sat hunched near the door, eyes locked on the jagged silhouette of the island ahead. A fortress, almost medieval in design, rose from the cliffs—a private estate surrounded by perimeter sensors and heat-signature jammers.

Beside her sat Major Nyasha Kunda, a retired South African special forces operative and old ally of her mother's. The mission was unofficial, the stakes dangerously personal.

"You're certain this is where Crowne is hiding?" Nyasha asked, voice gruff but alert.

"My mother never forgets a voice," Nora replied. "And he's already started targeting Damien's family. I won't let him do the same to mine."

As the chopper began its descent, Nora's mind flashed back to the encrypted files Damien had forwarded—locations, names, patterns. Archer Grey wasn't just toppling governments anymore. He was orchestrating a systematic erasure of legacies. A global purge of elite bloodlines who once held secret influence.

And Crowne was his knife in Africa.

They landed in a dense thicket at the island's edge. From there, Nora and Nyasha moved silently through the jungle. Infrared glasses showed heat spots: two guards at the back gate, one sniper in the tower, and a canine patrol.

"Three-minute window. We breach the security loop now, or not at all," Nyasha whispered.

They moved like shadows.

Nora, swift and deliberate, used her customized stiletto-blade to sever the power cable feeding the east quadrant sensors. Nyasha neutralized the tower guard with a tranquilizer dart, and together they slipped into the villa.

Inside, it was all marble, mahogany, and menace.

Crowne was a former intelligence director turned mercenary broker—his reputation a blend of state secrets and private vendettas. He had vanished ten years ago after a failed assassination plot on a UN delegation. And now, he was Archer's right hand in Africa.

As they swept through the lower levels, Nora's comm buzzed. Damien.

"Status?" his voice was low, urgent.

"In," she replied. "About to breach the command room."

"Be careful. Crowne was last seen in Lagos two weeks ago. If he's there now, he won't be alone."

"Understood."

Just then, Nora froze—hearing a hum. Not mechanical. Musical.

A piano.

She motioned for Nyasha to stay low and followed the sound to a grand chamber where Benedict Crowne himself sat at a Steinway, playing Chopin with eerie calm.

He looked older—gray streaks in his black hair, a deep scar across his jaw—but his eyes, sharp and serpentine, hadn't aged a day.

"You're earlier than I expected, Nora," he said without turning. "Then again, your mother always trained you to act before others could think."

Nora raised her pistol. "Where are the files on Damien's family?"

Crowne chuckled. "I've seen death approach with less flair."

"I'm not here for flair."

"I never kept the files. Archer did. But he left a trail for you… one I was instructed to protect. And that trail leads not to a city, but to a funeral."

Nora's eyes narrowed.

"A funeral?"

Crowne stood slowly. "Damien's brother. Lysander Cole. He's in Tokyo. And he's next."

Nora stepped forward, ready to demand more, but a sudden explosion rocked the chamber. Plaster fell from the ceiling, alarms blared.

"They've come for me," Crowne said calmly. "Guess Archer doesn't need me anymore."

From the broken wall, masked figures stormed in—Blackridge's own.

"Get to the vault!" Crowne barked to Nora. "Behind the painting—take the chip! Lysander must be warned!"

Nora didn't hesitate. She and Nyasha moved fast, kicking aside a sculpture and ripping the large canvas off the wall. Behind it, a panel blinked open—a single bio-locked vault.

Nora pressed her palm. It clicked open.

Inside: a single data chip and a note.

"To Damien: Protect what remains."

Tokyo, Japan – Rooftop Helipad, Night

Lysander Cole adjusted his cufflinks under the glare of the city lights. A silent shadow stepped out of the darkness.

"Sir, your security detail has been withdrawn. Orders from HQ."

Lysander frowned. "I gave no such order."

The shadow drew a blade.