The rain in Mumbai didn't wash away the filth; it just made it slicker.
Agent Zara "Viper" Khan crouched on top of the rusting shipping container, the cold metal biting through her tactical gloves. The air smelled of diesel, rotting fish, and the metallic tang of impending violence.
"Ghost One to Command," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the drumming rain. "Eyes on target. Sector 4 is clear."
"Copy, Viper," the comms crackled. "Green light. Secure the package."
Zara signaled with two fingers. Below her, five shadows detached themselves from the darkness. Ghost Squad. The best covert unit in the Asian sector. They moved like smoke, silent and lethal. They had done this a hundred times. Breach, kill, extract. Home by breakfast.
She dropped down, landing silently in a puddle of oil. She raised her suppressed HK416, the red dot sight dancing on the chest of a guard standing by the warehouse entrance.
Phut.
The guard's head snapped back. He crumpled without a sound.
"Too easy," muttered Ghost Two, a sniper named Jax, moving up beside her.
Zara frowned. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. It was too easy. The Syndicate was moving a biological weapon worth billions. Where were the elites? Where was the heavy security?
"Check the corners," she ordered, her grip tightening on her rifle. "Something feels wrong."
They breached the main doors. The warehouse was cavernous, lit by flickering halogen bulbs that buzzed like dying insects. In the center sat a single, black crate.
Zara approached it, her heart rate steady at 60 beats per minute. She scanned the perimeter. Nothing. Just shadows and dust.
"Open it," she commanded.
Ghost Three popped the latches. The lid hissed open.
Empty.
"It's a decoy!" Jax shouted.
CLANG.
The warehouse doors slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing like a gunshot. The lights died.
"Ambush!" Zara screamed. "Defensive perimeter! Night vision, now!"
Green light flooded her vision as her goggles activated. But before she could acquire a target, a scream tore through the comms.
"CONTACT! LEFT FLANK! THEY'RE—"
CRACK.
The sound of a spine snapping was wet and loud. Ghost Four's icon on her HUD went flatline instantly.
"Open fire!" Zara roared.
Muzzle flashes strobed in the dark. She saw them then. Three figures running along the catwalks. They didn't move like soldiers. They moved like spiders—jerky, unnatural, terrifyingly fast.
Jax fired a three-round burst. Thud. Thud. Thud. Center mass on the leading figure.
The figure didn't even stumble. It kept running, leaping twenty feet from the catwalk to the ground, landing in a crouch right in front of Jax.
"What the hell?" Jax whispered.
The figure stood up. It was a man, stripped to the waist. His skin was pale, translucent, but his veins were black, pulsing with a sludge-like substance. His eyes were entirely black. No whites. No iris. Just void.
Jax pulled his combat knife. "Get back!"
The Hollow caught Jax's wrist mid-swing. There was no struggle. No contest of strength. The thing just squeezed.
Snap.
Jax screamed as his wrist shattered. The Hollow didn't pause. It drove a fist into Jax's chest. The impact sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef. Jax's ribs collapsed. He was dead before he hit the floor.
"Jax!" Zara screamed. Rage, hot and blinding, flooded her veins. "Kill them! Aim for the heads!"
She unloaded her magazine into the monster that killed Jax. Bullets tore into its face, ripping away chunks of flesh. Black blood sprayed the floor. But the thing just smiled—a ruin of a smile with missing teeth and shredded lips. It didn't feel pain. It didn't care.
"They aren't human!" Ghost Five yelled, panic breaking his discipline.
"Hold the line!" Zara dropped her empty rifle and drew her dual pistols.
She was the Viper. She was the apex predator of the Agency. She would not die in a dirty warehouse.
She engaged the second Hollow. She was faster, more skilled. She ducked under a haymaker punch that cracked the concrete pillar behind her. She spun, driving her knee into the thing's groin, then fired two rounds point-blank into its eye socket.
The Hollow stumbled back, twitching.
Finally.
But before she could finish it, a hand grabbed her tactical vest from behind.
She was lifted off the ground like a doll.
Zara gasped, twisting in the air, driving her elbow back into her attacker's throat. It felt like hitting a steel beam.
She was slammed into the concrete floor. The air left her lungs in a wheezing agony. Her vision swam. Taste of copper. Blood in her mouth.
She tried to crawl, but a heavy boot crushed her hand.
"Agh!" She choked back a scream.
She looked up. Standing over her was a man in a long trench coat. He wasn't a Hollow. He was human. He held a lit cigarette in one hand and a heavy pistol in the other. Around him, the slaughter was over. Her entire squad—five of the best killers in the world—were piles of broken meat.
The Hollows stood still, panting like dogs, black blood dripping from their wounds.
The man in the trench coat crouched down, exhaling smoke into Zara's face.
"Ghost Squad," he said, his voice like gravel. "Disappointing."
Zara spat blood at him. "Go to hell."
He chuckled. "We are already there, Agent Khan. You just didn't notice."
He stood up and holstered his gun. "I could kill you. But the Director needs to know."
"Know... what?" Zara wheezed, clutching her crushed hand.
"That the old world is dead," he said, turning to walk away. "The Hollows are the future. Tell Elena Cross that her time is up."
He snapped his fingers. "Leave her in the ashes."
The man walked out. One of the Hollows kicked a fuel drum over. Another lit a flare and tossed it.
Fire roared to life, hungry and fast.
Zara dragged herself across the floor, the heat blistering her skin, the smell of burning flesh—her friends' flesh—filling her nose. She crawled into the rain outside, gasping, broken, and alive.
She looked back at the inferno. She had lost everything.
"I need..." she whispered to the rain, her consciousness fading. "I need a weapon."