The Fortress Assault

At twelve-thirty in the morning, Karlštejn Castle stood beneath the winter clouds in deceptive, ancient stillness. Along the outer curtain walls, eight Red Raven sentries in heavy winter parkas were smoking cigarettes beneath the stone crenellations, laughing and celebrating the supposed demise of Vassili Danilov and their impending multi-million-euro payout from the Council of Seven. They believed they had won. They believed the Velvet Reaper was frozen at the bottom…