The air in Baghdad was thick with heat and dust, the sun low on the horizon as Marcus stepped off the plane. He moved quickly through the airport, blending into the crowd with practiced ease. It had been years since he’d walked in these kinds of shadows, but every instinct, every habit honed in his past life, came back to him with unsettling familiarity.

Outside, a plain black SUV was parked along the curb. A man leaned against the hood, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. He was average height, sturdy, with the kind of look that screamed military precision. He nodded slightly as his eyes locked onto Marcus and waved him over.

“Marcus Thompson,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Hale, Kessler’s contact. Let’s not linger here. Follow me.”

Marcus shook Hale’s hand and got into the passenger seat. They drove in silence for several minutes, weaving through the busy streets before Hale finally pulled into a nondescript garage on the edge of the city. He parked, gesturing for Marcus to follow him inside.

The garage was empty save for a table at the back, covered with gear—guns, ammo, maps, and a few unmarked black bags. Hale motioned toward the table, giving Marcus an appraising look.

“We’ve got everything here Kessler thought you’d need,” Hale began, pulling out a tablet and tapping a few screens. “First, though, let’s talk about your targets. The brothers who led the attack back in the States belonged to a local group. They call themselves ‘Ashaar al-Haq’—the ‘Heralds of Truth.’ Small, but they’re well-funded and well-trained. Mostly locals from Mandali, operating close to the borders where they get support from… unofficial channels.”

Marcus studied the tablet as Hale brought up pictures of the brothers. The grainy photos showed two young men, stern-faced and proud, standing beside what looked like makeshift weaponry. Hale swiped to the next screen, which showed a map of Mandali, the city where they were based.

“These two are connected to several ex-ISIS fighters who fled across the border into Syria after their last major defeat,” Hale continued. “Your two targets—the brothers—were radicalized early, but they stayed under the radar until recently. They’re relatively unknown in the larger intelligence community, mostly because they haven’t hit major targets. You, however… that changed things.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Tell me about their operations,” Marcus said, his voice a low, even rasp.

Hale pointed to a cluster of red dots on the map, marking locations in Mandali. “Their main areas of influence are here, near the outskirts. They’re not hiding in caves; they’ve got support from the locals. They’re hard to pin down because they blend in, moving between homes and safe houses. They operate almost like a guerrilla network, but their funding sources are better hidden. Whoever’s backing them has deep pockets.”

Marcus absorbed the information, his mind already mapping out possible approaches. “And equipment?”

Hale gestured toward the table. “Kessler sent everything he thought you’d want: suppressed Glock 19, M4 with custom optics, lightweight body armor, NVGs, and more ammo than you’ll need. There’s also tactical gear in that bag, including coms. I’ll be on your channel if you need intel updates.”

Marcus moved to the table, his hands passing over the equipment. He picked up the Glock, checking the magazine and feeling the familiar weight settle in his hand. Hale watched him with a hint of respect, noting the cold precision in Marcus’s movements.

“They’re not going to see you coming, are they?” Hale asked quietly.

“No,” Marcus replied, slipping the gun into a holster and checking the rifle. “They won’t.”

Hale nodded, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your targets won’t know what hit them. But remember, this is their home turf. They know the terrain, they know the people. They’re as much ghosts here as you are.”

Marcus gave a slight nod, acknowledging the warning. But he knew his mission wouldn’t be about outsmarting them on familiar ground. This was about something far simpler—ruthless, surgical elimination. He had a list, and he wouldn’t stop until every name on it was crossed off.

Hale handed him a map with marked safe houses and known movement routes. “You’ll start here,” he said, pointing to a building on the edge of town. “It’s one of their last known safe houses. Locals say they come and go at night, but it’s usually the hub for their communications. Get in, clear it out, and see what intel you can extract. It might lead you to the people backing them.”

Marcus folded the map, slipping it into a pocket as he gave a final look at the table, ensuring he had what he needed. Hale nodded, seemingly satisfied, and held out his hand.

“Good luck, Marcus. Kessler said you’d be back like this eventually. Just didn’t think it’d take something like this to bring you out of retirement.”

Marcus’s gaze hardened, his jaw set. “Luck’s not a factor. This is personal.”

With one last look around the garage, he turned and walked toward the exit, his steps steady and deliberate. Behind him, Hale watched as the door shut, a slight shiver running through him. There was something about Marcus’s presence that felt less like a man and more like a force unleashed.

The hunt had begun.