'Every op has a plan. But the moment it feels perfect, that's when someone's already sold you out.' Unknown.
--
Ashmark knelt in silence, one knee pressing into the coarse grit, eyes locked on the black silhouette of the compound ahead. His heartbeat was steady—measured. Like a metronome. He'd already counted twenty-seven seconds between patrol rotations. No visible IR sensors. Roof guard blind spot on the north side. Perfect breach route.
Too perfect
He shifted his weight, slow and deliberate. The butt of his rifle rested in the crook of his shoulder. Black polymer, matte finish, zero reflection, just like the rest of his gear. He wore no markings. Not even a name. Names were for men. And Ashmark hadn't been one of those for a long time.
"Bravo-Three, confirm visual on rooftop," came the whisper through comms.
He answered with a whisper of his own. "Confirmed. Two guards. Staggered patrol. They've got ISR dead zones on the corners. Sloppy."
"Hold for green."
He didn't need the order. He was already waiting. Listening.
Even the wind sounded off. No idle chatter from inside. No low music. No background hum of generators. Just the sterile stillness of a controlled kill box.
Ashmark tapped his earpiece twice.
"Bravo-Three, what are you doing?"
"Shut up and listen," he muttered. "This place smells wrong."
A pause
Static
Then: "Say again?"
But Ashmark was already moving. Three paces left. Body low. He flattened against the crumbling concrete wall that circled the compound perimeter, bootsteps muffled in the sand. The shadows welcomed him. He disappeared into them like smoke.
His eyes flicked toward the distant snow-carpeted mountains, silent ridges lit faintly by moonlight.
To someone else, they might seem beautiful.
To Ashmark, they were a coffin lid.
"Too quiet," he muttered.
Then he saw it.
A glint on the far roof. Not from the compound—beyond it. Hilltop. Movement. Lens shimmer.
"Sniper nest," he whispered. "West ridge, 400 meters. They're watching us."
That's when the world caught on fire.
BOOM!!
The entire east wall of the compound erupted into a wave of light, sound, and pulverized stone. The force knocked him sideways, slammed his head into the dirt. Dust poured into his lungs like acid. He rolled instinctively, shielding his rifle, then sprang back into a crouch.
The second explosion followed a heartbeat later, north window, upper floor. Precise. Calculated. No alarm, no shouts. Whoever hit them knew the layout.
Ambush!
Ashmark didn't curse
He didn't scream
He moved
Dropped behind a rusted-out truck shell, flipped to secondary comms.
"Ashmark-1 to Command. Immediate contact. We are compromised. Repeat—op is burned. Suspected PMCs. Not local militia. Request--"
Static
He already knew they weren't coming.
Figures emerged from the smoke, silent, tight formations. Professional gait. No comm chatter. No hesitation.
Ashmark took aim.
Two shots. Clean. Center mass.
The third ducked, returned fire. Rounds peppered the truck shell, tearing rusted metal into metal roses.
Ashmark shifted left, broke into a sprint toward the alley gap. Barely avoided a burst to the chest. Rolled hard behind a toppled barrier.
Gun up. Another hostile rounded the corner, hesitation in his step.
Big mistake
Ashmark put two in his throat and moved before the body hit the ground.
He'd memorized the layout of this compound an hour before insertion. The map wasn't perfect. But it was close. Enough to navigate under fire.
He entered a side room, empty and scorched. Blood on the wall. Not fresh. Someone had died here days ago.
Wrong again
They were never here to extract anyone
This wasn't a rescue
This was a fucking execution
He dropped into a half-collapsed basement stairwell and yanked the emergency flare off his belt. Lit it without hesitation.
Red glow filled the space.
He pulled a tablet from his drop-pouch and booted a secure hardline protocol.
Screen blinked twice. Password accepted.
He uploaded the latest feed logs. Combat profiles. Shot groupings. Movement rhythms.
Then a voice answered him
Not the Command voice
Not even military
It was smoother
Cleaner
Almost amused
"Hello, Ashmark. We've been watching."
He froze
He knew that voice
"Cipher-6?" he whispered.
No answer
His fingers tensed around the weapon. The tablet flickered, then died.
Seconds later, the room above him exploded.
He woke lying on his back. Ears ringing. Blood in his mouth. Shoulder numb.
Two men stepped through the smoke. One held an assault rifle. The other, a silenced sidearm.
The one with the sidearm stepped forward.
Ashmark's vision swam, but he saw the patch on the wrist.
Not U.S
Not private sector
Something worse
Eyes met
Recognition flashed
The man didn't speak. Just pointed the weapon.
Ashmark smiled
"Still using SIGs," he rasped.
Then came the shot