Chapter 2: The Drone Assassination Attempt on Trump

Donald Trump sat in the Trump Tower penthouse, the New York skyline stretching out like a conquered territory beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. The Iran bombing campaign raged on television screens mounted on gold-trimmed walls, jets slicing through desert skies. He sipped black coffee from a china cup, the bitter steam curling up past his red tie. Viktor Solov had come and gone that morning, his proposal hanging in the air like bad cigar smoke. Narcotics funded by war profits. A deal too dirty even for these times.

"It's a loser, Viktor," Trump had told him flatly, leaning back in his leather chair. "Drugs? In my house? No. We're in arms, resorts, real estate. Tremendous stuff. Stick to that or walk."

Solov had smiled, that scarred cheek twitching, gold pinky ring catching the light as he raised his glass. "Trust is currency, Don. But suits you." He'd left with a nod, affable as ever. Now Trump turned to Ivanka across the mahogany table, her tablet glowing with contract figures. Eric paced by the window, knuckles cracking. Zara sat quiet, coffee cup in hand, eyes on her phone.