Amir Qadir, known to the world as Al-Ra’ib, stood in the command center at the heart of the camp, his piercing eyes fixed on a bank of monitors. The feeds displayed the camp’s perimeter and key areas, but something was wrong. Two guards were missing from their patrol, and the west side of the camp had gone dark.

“Where are the western patrols?” Amir asked, his voice calm but commanding.

A subordinate scrambled to check the monitors. “No response, sir. Their comms are down.”

Amir’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Then they are here.”

He turned to face the room. His lieutenants stood nearby, their faces tense. They were hardened men, veterans of countless battles, but the events of the past weeks had shaken even them. Entire cells had been dismantled, safe houses wiped out, and now their sanctuary was under attack.

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“Sound the alarm,” Amir ordered. “All units to high alert. They are inside the camp.”

The subordinate hesitated. “Should we evacuate—”

“No,” Amir said sharply. “We’re not running. Whoever this is, I want them alive.”

The room buzzed with activity as the guards moved to secure the camp. Amir stepped closer to the monitors, watching as the camp mobilized. Floodlights swept the compound, and the guards formed defensive positions.

“Sir,” one of his lieutenants asked hesitantly, “if this is the same persons who hit Mandali, Albu Kamal, and Dehloran—”

“I know,” Amir interrupted. “And that’s why I want atleast one of them alive. They are not just a threat—they are a message. Someone sent them. I want to know who.”

The lieutenant nodded and left to oversee the defenses. Amir remained at the monitors, his mind racing. This was no ordinary infiltrators. Whoever was coming for him was trained, disciplined, and relentless. But Amir wasn’t afraid. He had faced worse—and survived.

He adjusted his jacket, his fingers brushing against the small device in his pocket. A direct line to someone far more powerful than the men outside.