Oslo Airport - A bad start
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The airport buzzed with the constant hum of activity. Planes roared overhead, and travelers hustled through the terminal, their footsteps a rhythmic cacophony. Mathis, used to the chaos but not particularly fond of it, navigated the serpentine lines at the baggage check-in with practiced ease. After enduring the labyrinth of security checks, he sought refuge in a bar that promised a brief respite from the frenzy.
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The bar exuded old-world charm, its ambiance defined by the soothing strains of classical music that drifted through the air. The walls were adorned with sepia-toned photographs, capturing moments from a bygone era. Elegant red fabric draped the sofa booths, each paired with dark mahogany tables that gleamed under soft lighting. The bartender, a young man with an impeccably groomed mustache and a courteous demeanor, approached Mathis with a polite nod.
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"What can I get you, sir?" he asked.
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Mathis scanned the menu briefly before responding, "A glass of whiskey, please."
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The bartender nodded and disappeared behind the counter. As Mathis settled into a booth, he slipped off his jacket and laid it across the back of the couch. The rich aroma of aged whiskey filled the air as the bartender returned with his drink. Mathis took a slow sip, savoring the warmth that spread through him. The moment felt almost nostalgic, reminiscent of the excitement he used to feel as a child anticipating Christmas Eve. He leaned back, his gaze drifting over the myriad faces and bustling activity in the terminal.
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He observed the hurried pace of some travelers while others moved with deliberate slowness. His attention was drawn to a young couple, their children trailing behind them with innocent laughter—a fleeting reminder of simpler times. As Mathis lost himself in these reflections, he noticed a figure entering the bar—a younger man dressed entirely in black, his shaggy hair and round black sunglasses creating an aura of unease.
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Mathis's instincts went on high alert. The man seemed out of place, a stark contrast to the otherwise serene environment. Mathis's unease deepened when he saw the same man later as he glanced through the window while boarding the plane. The man's presence was inexplicably disquieting, setting Mathis on edge.
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As the plane rolled to a stop and the seatbelt sign flicked off, the cabin erupted into motion, with passengers hastily unbuckling and reaching for overhead compartments. Mathis, however, remained still, his mind whirring. He had learned long ago that the most dangerous enemies often moved in the quiet moments, when everyone else's guard was down. He glanced around the cabin once more, eyes sharp, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. The man wasn't among the first to disembark. That, in itself, was telling.
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Mathis finally stood, moving deliberately as he retrieved his bag from the overhead compartment. Every move was calculated, giving him time to observe and analyze. His senses remained on high alert as he filed into the aisle with the other passengers. He knew this airport well—Nice was an international hub, a place where wealthy tourists, businesspeople, and covert operatives like himself could blend into the crowd with ease. It was the perfect place for someone to hide or to follow someone without being noticed.
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As he descended the jet bridge, Mathis noticed the faint hum of the Mediterranean sun against the glass walls of the terminal. The heat was already palpable, even inside the climate-controlled airport. His footsteps echoed lightly on the polished floor as he stepped into the terminal, eyes flicking to the crowd gathered at the arrival gates. Tourists and locals alike waited, some with signs, others with welcoming arms. But Mathis wasn't looking for familiar faces. His focus remained on spotting that man.
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He didn't have to wait long. As he rounded a corner toward the baggage claim, Mathis spotted him—or, rather, the man's reflection, caught in the wide glass windows that lined the corridor. He was standing near the exit, his posture casual yet too still, too precise. It was as though he was waiting for something—or someone.
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Mathis's pulse quickened, though his face betrayed nothing. He couldn't afford to be seen reacting. Instead, he kept moving, his gait calm, his expression neutral. If this man was a threat, Mathis had no intention of alerting him. He needed to figure out who he was dealing with first.
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His mind raced through the possibilities. Could this be someone from another agency? It wouldn't be the first time they had eyes on him. They were notorious for sending operatives who blended seamlessly into the background, shadowing their targets until the right moment to strike. But there was something else about this man—something that didn't quite fit the profile. If he were a professional, he wouldn't have been so conspicuous at the airport gate. Mathis had noticed him almost immediately. That could mean two things: either the man was a decoy, or he was someone far less skilled but still dangerous.
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Keeping his movements fluid, Mathis headed toward the baggage claim, using the glass panels to track the man's position. He didn't appear to be following yet, but Mathis knew that could change at any moment. He needed to get a better read on the situation.
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As he reached the conveyor belt, waiting for his luggage, Mathis subtly scanned the area. The terminal was bustling with activity—families reuniting, travelers hustling to catch their connections. It was chaotic, and yet in that chaos, Mathis could feel the rhythm, the patterns. He had spent years navigating these kinds of environments, where a single out-of-place movement could mean the difference between life and death.
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His bag came around the carousel, and Mathis retrieved it with practiced ease. Without breaking his stride, he made his way toward the exit, blending into the flow of people moving through the terminal. His senses were on high alert, his training kicking in as he prepared for whatever might come next.
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As he approached the sliding glass doors leading to the pickup area, he caught sight of the man again, now in his periphery. He was still watching, though his expression remained unreadable. Mathis didn't break pace or show any sign of recognition. Instead, he stepped out into the warm Mediterranean air, the sun hitting his face as he joined the stream of travelers spilling onto the curbside.
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The man had followed him out of the terminal, that much was clear. But what wasn't clear was why. Mathis could feel his pulse quickening, the familiar adrenaline surge he had come to rely on in moments like this. He had two options: confront the man directly or disappear into the city and wait for him to make the next move.
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His eyes were drawn to a store showcasing sunglasses, and he paused to try on a pair. As he adjusted the frames, he caught sight of the man from the bar in the mirror's reflection. The man's presence was unmistakable—he was still following Mathis.
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Mathis ducked into a public restroom, scanning the space for potential threats. An older man, oblivious to the tension, exited one of the stalls and moved to the sink. Mathis washed his hands, his gaze flicking toward the door, his nerves on edge.
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The dark-clad man entered, his movements deliberate and unsettling. Mathis's instincts screamed that something was amiss. The man's gaze never left Mathis, his eyes darting with a dangerous intensity. When the older man finally left, Mathis dried his hands and turned his back on the intruder, watching his reflection in the mirror as the man approached.
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The attacker pulled out a knife, the blade gleaming menacingly under the restroom's fluorescent lights. Mathis's heart raced, but he was ready. With swift precision, he blocked the man's arm, redirecting the knife's deadly trajectory. The struggle was intense, Mathis's training kicking in as he delivered a sharp knee to the attacker's stomach. The man gasped, winded.
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Mathis quickly moved behind him, using his strength to wrap the man's arm around his neck in a chokehold. The man's desperate gasps grew more frantic as Mathis tightened his grip. "Who sent you?" Mathis demanded. "Who do you work for?"
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The man's only response was pained gasping. Mathis loosened his grip slightly, hoping to force an answer. Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed outside the restroom. Realizing time was short, Mathis tightened his hold once more, and the man lost consciousness.
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He dragged the attacker into one of the stalls, quickly adjusting his own appearance to blend in. Mathis exited the restroom, his mind racing with questions. How had the assailant known he would be at the airport? The implications were troubling—there was an intelligence leak, and someone was feeding information to the enemy.
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As Mathis approached the airport's main exit, he heard a female voice call his name.
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"Mr. Kristensen! Over here," a feminine voice called, cutting through the crowd's noise.
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Mathis turned toward the sound, his hand instinctively brushing the edge of his jacket. A slim, beautiful woman stepped forward from the mass of travelers. She moved with graceful confidence, her hips swaying slightly as she approached. Her innocent smile was disarming, but her eyes caught Mathis's attention—sharp, sparkling blue, and far from innocent. There was something in her gaze that suggested she was more than just a pretty face.
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Her brown hair, soft and wavy, danced in the light breeze wafting through the terminal's open doors. She wore a light-colored blouse; the top two buttons teasingly undone, revealing a hint of cleavage that was enough to draw attention without seeming unprofessional. Her skirt hugged her curves, accentuating her athletic figure, and her high heels clicked purposefully on the polished floor as she closed the distance between them.
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"Hi, Kristensen. My name is Eva," she said, extending her hand. Her voice was smooth, with a hint of an accent Mathis couldn't quite place. "I'm here to help you with your investigation. Come with me; I'll take you to the hotel where Mr. Bram stayed. The car is over here."
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Mathis took her hand, noting the firmness of her grip. She was stronger than she looked. "Eva," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to her than met the eye. "Lead the way."
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They walked together through the crowded terminal, weaving through the masses of travelers. Mathis kept his pace measured, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings, alert to any sign of danger. Eva moved with equal caution, her body language betraying that she was just as aware of the potential threats around them.
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A black BMW came into view when they stepped outside into the bright Mediterranean sun. Mathis raised an eyebrow, impressed by its sleek lines and glossy finish. "Nice car you have," he commented.
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Eva's expression faltered briefly before she smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, but this isn't the car. It's this one," she said, pointing to a small, yellow Fiat 500 parked a few spaces away.
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Mathis nearly smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he saw the tiny vehicle. "Well, that's a sweet car fit for a sweet woman."
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Eva's smile tightened, and she let out a small sigh. "You misunderstand, Kristensen. Your company chose this one for you."
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He arched an eyebrow, suspicion creeping in. "Wait a minute, Miss."
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Before Eva could respond, Mathis noticed a familiar sign nearby: Rent-A-Car. His skepticism deepened as he glanced between Eva and the sign. He turned abruptly and walked toward the rental shop, replacing the playful tone he had used with Eva with a more serious one.
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Inside, the familiar scent of new cars and polished leather greeted him. A few customers were scattered around, browsing brochures or talking with attendants. Mathis approached the counter, where a slim man with a thin mustache and a slightly mischievous grin stood waiting. Mathis recognized him instantly.
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"You didn't like the car chosen for you, Agent 13?" the man asked with a hint of sarcasm, his voice dripping with feigned innocence.
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Mathis turned to face him, his broad smile now fully formed. "G. It's nice to see you again. I should have known you'd be behind this little stunt. So, where's my car?"
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Mr. G's grin widened as he beckoned Mathis to follow. "Come with me, Agent 13."
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They walked through the shop and into a warehouse at the back—a dimly lit space lined with rows of cars under protective covers. Mr. G led him to one vehicle, a large shape hidden under a tarp. With a flourish, he pulled the tarp away, revealing a sleek, new Lexus RC-F in black and gray.
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Mathis whistled softly, impressed. "Yeah, this is more my kind of car."
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Mr. G leaned against the car, tapping the roof with his fingers. "The all-new Lexus RC-F. 472 horsepower, accelerates from zero to sixty in under four seconds. Bulletproof, of course. Now, what kind of insurance do you need for this trip?"
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Mathis grinned with a touch of humor. "Well, accidents do happen."
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Mr. G's expression shifted to one of exasperation. "Accidents happen to you, Agent 13. Can't you return a car in good condition for once? Sit down, and I'll give you some instructions."
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Mathis approached the car, running his fingers over the smooth lines before opening the trunk to stow his luggage. The satisfying click of the trunk echoed in the warehouse as he moved to the driver's side. Opening the door, he noticed a slim, black gun case sitting on the passenger seat.
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A small smile played on his lips as he started the engine, the powerful rumble filling the space. He glanced back at Mr. G, who was scratching his head in irritation.
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"Wait, wait! You need to read the instructions!" Mr. G exclaimed, frustration creeping into his voice.
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Mathis flashed him the wide smile that had both charmed and infuriated his colleagues for years. "G, have I ever disappointed you?"
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Without waiting for a response, he fastened his seatbelt and closed the door. The engine growled as he shifted into gear. The tires squealed as they gripped the ground, propelling the car forward with lightning speed. The thrill of acceleration sent a jolt through Mathis, reminding him why he loved this line of work.
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As he exited the warehouse, the car's sleek form gleaming in the sunlight, Mathis spotted Eva standing by the yellow Fiat. He pulled up alongside her, lowering the window.
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"Do you need a ride, Miss?" he asked, his tone teasing but with an underlying seriousness.
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Eva smiled, her earlier irritation replaced by admiration. "I thought you'd never ask," she replied, quickly sliding into the passenger seat.
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As they sped off together, the tension in the air seemed to dissipate, replaced by a shared understanding of the danger they were heading into. But for now, with the engine purring and the road stretching out before them, there was a moment of calm—a brief respite before the storm.
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