WW 3.2 coming to an alternate timeline near you, real soon.

Not long now before the quantum bubbles pop and this bad boy slides into our reality via a rupture in the fabric of spacetime. To prepare you for the trauma of having your temporal reality completely borked, I’m going to gradually expose you to this alternative history.

In this, the prologue from World War 3.2, we catch up with a fan-fave character you had all assumed was dead, just because I crashed his plane into a jungle back in Designated Targets. You disgraceful, feckless readers. You don’t deserve Dan Black.

But because I love you. He’s back.

---

Prologue.

Dan Black sat at a small table, hunkered down over a bitter black coffee, in a backstreet café. It was hidden in the dogleg turn of an alleyway in Cairo’s old town that stank of sweat, spices, and diesel fumes. Dan, hidden under a lightweight dishdasha, took a slow sip of the coffee, not looking at the two men seated several tables away, sweating through their masquerade as the afternoon heat pressed down on the city. They were Russians, NKVD for sure. Dark woollen suits that would have been quite comfortable in a cold Lubyanka basement, here grabbed and gripped at dank armpits and ample bellies.

He’d been following them for days, watching them stumble through streets that had been swallowing empires for thousands of years. He recognised their tells now, the way the shorter one habitually tugged at the sweat-stained collar of his shirt, the way his partner’s fingers tapped an unlit cigarette against the table, a nervous metronome marking time until their next mistake. The men were used to shadow work, but not here. Cairo’s ten thousand alleys were often dark, even as the noonday sun baked the city’s rooftops, but darkness, while universal, was also many in its forms, and these fools had blundered for three days through the shadows of a city that was ancient thousands of years before Moscow’s tinpot empire was born.

The taller Russian—bald spot spreading like a stain through what remained of his hair—checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Beside him, his partner hunched over their table like a sparrow sensing a hawk's shadow, eyes darting to the doorway where dust motes danced in the afternoon light. A car horn cut through the café's drowsy murmur, and both men snapped to attention.

The taller Russian dropped a few coins onto the table, not waiting for change as he stepped toward the doorway. His partner followed closely behind, the same nervous energy rolling off him as they pushed through the narrow door into the street.

The sleek black sedan outside waited among Cairo's rusted river of battered vehicles like a diplomat at a dock workers' pub. The rear door opened, and the first Russian slipped inside without a word. The other hesitated for a moment, casting a final glance around the street before climbing in after him.

The car door slammed shut, and the engine revved.

Dan downed the last of his coffee in one bitter gulp. He grabbed his hat, threw a few coins on the table, and rose to his feet, slipping into the close heat of the old quarter. He knew where it would deliver them to the main thoroughfare, and he could cut through the backstreets to intercept at their destination. The Cairo Hilton.

Before him, ancient pathways meandered like the creases of a well-worn map. A stone arch loomed ahead, and as he ducked beneath it, the alley narrowed further, the buildings above nodding toward each other as if sharing confidences about the stranger below. He could hear the distinctive blare of the sedan's horn bouncing off the stone walls and tin roofs, the driver eager to leave the narrow confines of the souk behind and break out onto the wider roads.

He emerged from the narrow alleyway onto a wider street, the buildings giving way to open sky. This was the transition point, where old Cairo began to dissolve into the modern city, where the slums brushed up against the gleaming structures that had risen after the war.

Dan crossed the road quickly, slipping between a donkey-drawn cart and an old delivery truck before turning onto Prince Farouk Avenue. He quickened his pace, reaching the edge of the slum just as the sedan sped past in a dirty blast of hot air and grit. Ahead of him, the Cairo Hilton stood not so much across the road as in another world. The blue glass towers gleamed in the afternoon sun, their angular form suggesting the pyramids of Giza.

Pausing momentarily as the sedan motored toward the hotel's entrance, Dan watched it pull up to the valet station. The Russians joined the stream of vehicles that ferried diplomats, foreign dignitaries, and more than a few covert players to the peace conference at the hotel. He kept to the edges, slipping through the gates on foot, avoiding the staff in their crisp uniforms. Instead, he veered left, moving along the path where palm trees bordered the drive. A few turns brought him to a side entrance, where staff shuffled in and out, carrying trays of food, linens, and other supplies.

Dan glanced over his shoulder, confirming that the Russians had left their car and were approaching the garden party. He kept his distance. The scent of jasmine and freshly mowed grass was strong as he passed through a shaded archway leading to the expansive gardens. White tents billowed gently in the warm breeze, and a soft murmur of conversation floated over to him, voices rising and falling like birdsong, the world pretending, briefly, to be at peace.

He took a moment to observe his surroundings.

A peace conference, they called it.

He moved among the guests as though he belonged. Nobody noticed him. Nobody ever did unless he wanted them to.

The Russians, though, were not doing as well. Stiff-backed and wary-eyed, they cut awkward figures among the diplomats, businesspeople, and well-dressed peacemongers. Dan trailed them at a safe distance, keeping to the fringes of the gathering. Whatever they were up to, it would happen soon enough.

He slowed as the Russians neared the far edge of the garden, where the crowd thinned. Dan watched from beneath the swaying palm trees as they threaded their way deeper into the garden. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, but he remained motionless as they moved with purpose, shoulders stiff, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for someone.

And then Dan saw her, walking down from the hotel.

Recognition came not with shock, but with the sick awareness of a man who had just read the last page of a book he meant never to pick up again, let alone finish.

Julia Duffy appeared in the distance through a gap in the crowd, and for a second, the noise of the garden party faded to nothing. Ten years folded in on themselves, time and space physically compressing in a violent collapse. He’d known she was here in Cairo. With Harry, of course. That was part of his briefing packet on Skarov. But the NKVD man—not his former lover—was why he’d flown to Egypt, and Dan had resisted the temptation to see her, even from afar.

He shoved down hard on the surge of raw feeling that came at him. His eyes flicked back to the Russians. He couldn't lose sight of them.

The taller of the two NKVD agents paused for a beat, glancing in Julia's direction. It was a subtle movement, but enough for Dan to recognise with accelerating dread what was happening. The Russians had target locked on her. His jaw tightened as he saw the taller of the two nudge his partner, murmuring something.

Without another word, they peeled off from the party, their course shifting toward Julia, and their intent clear. Dan remained still. His eyes tracked every move as the Russians split up to flank her. She seemed unaware of the danger, lost in her own thoughts, her focus entirely on whatever assignment had brought her here. The conference, he presumed.

Dan's pulse quickened, and his fingers brushed the grip of his pistol, concealed beneath his jacket. The Russians were getting closer to her, their pace quickening without any apparent effort. This, at least, was something they knew how to do.

He kept to the garden's edge, blending into the shadows cast by the towering palms. The taller Russian, his hand reaching casually inside his jacket, was already positioning himself on her blindside. The shorter one lagged slightly, blocking any potential retreat.

Julia faltered, and the lead Russian was on her in an instant, slipping in close and muttering something into her ear. His partner closed the gap from behind, seizing her arm in a quick, practised grip.

Dan moved, his heartbeat quickening.

They steered her toward a black sedan coming down the driveway, the one he’d followed from the old town. Julia walked with them, her head turning slightly, as if assessing her captors. As the taller man pushed her toward the open door, she twisted her body and screamed at him before slamming the heel of her boot into his shin. The Russian’s grip loosened just long enough for Julia to rip her arm free and drive her elbow back into his face.

Dan kept moving, closing the distance but staying low. He hadn't expected her to fight so well after all these years, but she moved swiftly, with no wasted motion. She drove the first man's head into the corner of the car door with a wet crunch that Dan could hear from thirty meters away. Blood sprayed across the white gravel driveway and her bright, cream tank top.

Christ, she hasn't lost a step.

The second man was already closing in, but Julia was pivoting, hands coming up in defence. The blade caught her across the small of her back. Dan saw her arch, saw the line of red appear on her torn silk blouse. He was running now, no longer caring about cover or mission protocols. The Russian with the knife was bigger than Julia, heavier, and she was bleeding, but as he watched, she deflected the strike, caught his arm, and broke it at the elbow.

She stripped the blade and drove the stiletto into the bigger man's eye. He went down screaming, clawing at his face. But his partner was back, reaching for her. Julia stepped up to him and drove the knife up under his chin. His weight carried him forward, knocking her down beneath his falling bulk.

Dan was ten meters out when the driver climbed from behind the wheel, pistol in hand. The man's face was sickly green as he surveyed the carnage, but his gun hand was steady enough. He barked orders in Russian, telling Julia to get in the car. Dan dropped to one knee and put three rounds into his centre mass before the Russian could squeeze his trigger.

Hotel staff were already running toward the scene, shouts in Arabic and English peeling through the garden as they rushed to Julia's aid. She had slumped to the ground, and he started to withdraw. She couldn't know it had been him.

He’d been dead for at least ten years.

Dan holstered his pistol and slipped away into the chaos behind him. Guests and conference attendees scrambled for cover. Some hotel staff ran toward the commotion, their faces pale with fear, while others simply froze, unsure what to do.

A man barked orders in Arabic, gesturing for other men to secure the area. Dan stayed low, watching as she knelt beside the bodies, checking for signs of life. His security men fanned out to secure a perimeter. Julia, still dazed, wiped at her face with shaking hands. For a half-second, her gaze seemed to linger on him, but then it moved on, her focus shifting to the security chief who was kneeling beside her.

Dan’s heart rate steadied as he watched a knot of hotel staff gather around her. A woman in a Hilton jacket gently took her by the arm, guiding her toward the main entrance, and she let them, her legs shaky beneath her.

Satisfied but shaken, Dan Black turned and retreated into the afternoon heat, unseen and unknown.