Seven days later.
In the outskirts of Andrews Joint Base in Washington D.C., the iron gray sky hung low, pressing against the dark green pine forest at the end of the runway.
An unmarked Gulfstream G650 roared as it landed, the tires screeching sharply against the runway.
The cabin door opened, and Mossad Director Levin was the first to descend the ramp.
Following closely behind was the head of MI6, "Ms. M," her dark gray tailored suit and cold gaze seeming to shut out the damp air around them.
An unremarkable black Chevrolet Suburban slid to a stop in front of them, its windows tinted dark like a massive mobile cage.
The car's interior was filled with the cold scent of high-quality leather and cleaning agents.
Levin looked out at the monotonous scenery flying past the window, his fingers unconsciously tapping the leather armrest, each tap carrying a suppressed ferocity.
"Shame... utter and complete shame!"
He growled, his voice buzzing in the enclosed space.
