Chapter 2 – Rahmani’s Network
Brussels – Omega Pact Command Centre, 06:15 CET
Imran al-Din Rahmani stood at the wide glass windows of his office, overlooking the flickering lights of dawn across the city skyline. The Omega Pact command centre lay hidden beneath a nondescript logistics tower owned by one of his shell companies.
He sipped thick Arabic coffee from a gold-rimmed demitasse, the bitter taste grounding him as encrypted data streams flickered across the holo-table behind him.
🦅 The Omega Pact
The room hummed with quiet menace. On-screen, tactical feeds showed EU special forces training camps, Horizon refugee-processing sites, and offshore banking transaction logs.
Rahmani turned to his operations chief, a thickset Croatian mercenary with cold blue eyes.
“Status update.”
The mercenary swallowed nervously. “Our Dublin sabotage team failed, sir. One dead, one captured.”
Rahmani raised an eyebrow, his handsome face utterly still. “And the money trails?”
The Croatian quickly flicked to another feed. Multiple transaction chains appeared, each linked to shell corporations across Dubai, Geneva, and Hong Kong. Logos flickered: freight companies, humanitarian NGOs, halal meat exporters, Islamic education trusts.
“All funds are being laundered through layered halal meat export contracts, education grants, and Horizon’s refugee logistics,” the Croatian explained. “No red flags yet. Over €82 million cleaned last quarter alone.”
Rahmani nodded faintly. The halal meat exports carried two meanings for him:
✅ “Blood money” – money earned by betraying his people and enslaving them for EU quotas.
✅ Literal blood money – as each carcass container concealed narcotics, weapons, or trafficked migrants beneath crates of mutton and beef.
He relished both meanings. Blood built empires.
💀 Flashback – Syria, 2020
He remembered crouching over a crying Yazidi boy in Raqqa, AK-47 muzzle pressed to the child’s forehead as his emir looked on approvingly.
“Blood is currency, Imran,” the emir whispered. “Money means power. Blood money is eternal.”
Rahmani pulled the trigger without flinching. The child crumpled. His initiation complete.
🕷️ Back to Brussels
He inhaled deeply, pushing the memory aside. He was beyond jihad now. He was a strategist, a financier, a dealer of death at boardroom scale.
“Begin Operation Emerald Reaver,” he ordered coldly.
The Croatian hesitated. “Sir… that would require activating our sleeper cell in Galway. Irish intelligence may detect—”
Rahmani turned slowly, eyes dark with ancient rage. “Did I ask for your opinion, Nikola?”
Nikola swallowed. “No, sir.”
🗡️ Ireland – Na Fianna Nua HQ, 07:02
Back in Dublin, Salty paced the dim operations room, watching as Niamh Flynn decrypted the captured saboteur’s phone.
“Got something,” she whispered. “Offshore transfers from Geneva to a Dubai halal export trust… and then routed to Rahmani’s Omega accounts. Over €80 million in clean money last quarter alone.”
Salty’s jaw clenched. “Blood money.”
“Literal blood money too,” Niamh said grimly, flicking to a side feed of port manifest leaks. “They’re hiding heroin and trafficked kids under mutton carcasses and goat crates. Horizon taught them well.”
🔥 Salty’s Resolve
Salty slammed his fist onto the table, rattling coffee mugs and loose shell casings.
“Enough.”
He turned to his team, voice steely calm.
“Rahmani thinks he can bleed this country dry for his empire. We’re done playing defence. Get the lads ready. Na Fianna Nua moves at dusk.”
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