In an unmarked office deep within Washington, D.C., two men sat in a room illuminated only by the soft hum of a desk lamp. The walls were bare, the space devoid of personality. It wasn’t meant to be remembered. Conversations here were meant to die in the air.

The first man, dressed in an impeccable dark suit, leaned forward, his steely gaze fixed on the older man across from him. His fingers tapped against the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Tell me it’s under control.”

The older man, his weathered face etched with years of clandestine work, remained composed. He was dressed in a casual jacket and slacks, but his eyes carried the weight of authority. “It’s not,” he admitted. “Mandali, Albu Kamal, and now Dehloran—completely compromised. Someone’s dismantling the entire network.”

The younger man’s fingers stopped. “Dismantling,” he repeated coldly. “The group in Mandali was meant to be the scapegoats. That was the plan. They were supposed to draw attention. Give the FBI someone to chase while the rest of the operation stayed invisible.”

“And they did,” the older man said evenly. “For a time. The Bureau is still focused on their leads, trying to piece together the attack. But this? This is something else entirely. Mandali wasn’t just eliminated—they were wiped out. And whoever it is didn’t stop there. Albu Kamal’s node was next. And now Dehloran.”

The younger man leaned back, his expression dark. “Dehloran was supposed to be untouchable. Invisible. The assets there weren’t even connected to the Mandali cell. Nobody was supposed to know about it, let alone act.”

The older man nodded slowly. “That’s what makes this concerning. This isn’t random. Whoever’s doing this is working with surgical precision. They know exactly where to hit.”

“Albu Kamal wasn’t supposed to be touched for months,” the younger man muttered, his voice tight. “That operation was still being set up. No one was even supposed to know it existed.”

“Exactly,” the older man said. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Which means someone’s either extraordinarily lucky or extraordinarily informed. And I don’t believe in luck.”

The younger man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying we’ve been compromised?”

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

“No,” the older man said firmly. “If we had, they’d be here, not in Iraq. This isn’t someone working off insider intel. It’s someone methodically unraveling the threads. Someone with skill.”

“Then who?” the younger man pressed. “A rival group? Another nation?”

The older man shook his head. “It’s not a rival. The locals don’t have the capability for this kind of operation, and the usual players wouldn’t make their moves this openly. This is personal. Someone’s dismantling the network for a reason.”

“And the Bureau?” the younger man asked. “What’s their status?”

“Still fumbling in the dark,” the older man replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They’ve just started surveillance on the Iraqis. They’re chasing breadcrumbs, trying to follow trails we set months ago. They’re nowhere near uncovering the deeper layers.”

“That’s the point,” the younger man said sharply. “We built those layers to be untouchable. To buy us time while the New York operation burned itself into their headlines.”

“And it worked,” the older man said. “They’re chasing ghosts. But this shadow player? They’re working outside the Bureau’s scope. Independent, efficient, and very, very dangerous.”

The younger man rubbed his temples, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. “So, what do we do? Let them keep cutting through our infrastructure?”

“No,” the older man said, his tone like steel. “We monitor. If they’re methodical, they’ll make their next move soon enough. We’ll be ready when they do.”

“And if they find a way here?” the younger man asked, his voice quieter now.

The older man’s eyes hardened, his presence suddenly more imposing. “Then we remind them that we don’t just control the board—we own it. Let them come. They’ll learn the cost of meddling in things they can’t comprehend.”

The room fell silent, the air between them heavy with unspoken truths.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” the younger man said after a moment, almost to himself. “The scapegoats were supposed to hold the attention. Albu Kamal and Dehloran… they weren’t even in play yet.”

“They weren’t supposed to be,” the older man said, standing slowly. “But plans change. And so do the players.”

The younger man watched him carefully. “And you think this one’s different?”

The older man paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “I don’t think. I know. And that’s what makes them dangerous.”

With that, he exited the room, leaving the younger man alone with his thoughts. For a long moment, he sat in silence, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound.

Somewhere, someone was cutting through the careful layers they had built to hide the truth. The scapegoats had been set up to take the fall, but this unknown player wasn’t following the script. They were burning through the shadows, heading straight for the heart of the operation.

The younger man’s jaw tightened as he reached for his phone. It was time to shift the game.