The office was shrouded in the dim glow of monitors, their flickering light casting sharp, angular shadows across Harrington’s face. The faint hum of machinery filled the air as he sat motionless, staring at the blacked-out feed from the black site. His hands rested on the desk, fingers steepled in contemplation.

It had been hours since the last transmission. The compound in Iraq had gone dark, and the silence was more telling than any report could have been.

A faint beep interrupted his thoughts. Harrington pressed a button on his desk, connecting the secure line. The voice on the other end was clipped, tense.

“Sir, we’ve confirmed multiple intrusions. Perimeter defenses failed almost immediately. Internal reports suggest precision strikes—minimal alarms, no external chatter.”

Harrington’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Casualties?”

“Significant. We’ve recovered partial footage from backup systems before the blackout. They breached the basement and freed the prisoner.”

Harrington’s fingers tapped lightly against the desk. Marcus had already proven himself a dangerous anomaly, but this—this was different. A coordinated assault like this wasn’t the work of a lone man.

The voice hesitated before continuing. “Sir, there’s something else.”

“Spit it out,” Harrington snapped.

“We believe it’s… the Horsemen.”

Harrington froze. The name wasn’t one spoken lightly. In his circles, it was whispered with a mix of reverence and fear. The Four Horsemen were legends—ghosts of a bygone era. He had studied them during his rise to power, pouring over classified dossiers and mission reports that read more like myth than reality. An unstoppable team that moved as one, dismantling operations with surgical precision and terrifying efficiency.

Death. Conquest. War. Famine.

And if they came here, that must mean the prisoner was one of them.

Harrington leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. If the Horsemen were active again, it could only mean one thing: the prisoner wasn’t just fighting for vengeance. He was calling on the very men who had once turned war into an art form.

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“Are you certain?” Harrington asked, his voice dangerously calm.

“The MO fits,” the voice replied. “Stealth entry, coordinated strikes, high-value target extraction. Survivors describe a level of precision we’ve only seen in—”

“In them,” Harrington finished, his voice a low growl.

He closed his eyes briefly, his mind flashing to the reports he had read years ago. The Horsemen didn’t just eliminate enemies—they dismantled entire organizations, leaving no trace of their targets behind. And now, they were coming for him.

Harrington opened his eyes, his expression hardening. “Deploy every asset we have in the region. I want surveillance, boots on the ground, drones in the air. If they’re riding again, I need to know where they’re going.”

“And if we find them?”

Harrington’s lips curled into a cold smile. “You don’t ‘find’ the Horsemen. You survive them—if you’re lucky.”

---

Kessler sat in his dimly lit office, the weight of the past week pressing heavily on his shoulders. The amber glow of his whiskey bottle was the only light in the room, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk. His secure phone buzzed, its vibration cutting through the silence.

He answered without hesitation. “Kessler.”

“It’s me,” the Harbinger’s voice came through, steady but sharp.

“What’s the situation?”

“They’ve reached Marcus. He’s free.”

Relief surged through Kessler, but it was short-lived. “And Al-Ra’ib?”

“Still breathing,” the Harbinger replied. “But not for long if Marcus has his way.”

Kessler closed his eyes, the tension in his chest tightening. “Harrington?”

“Already moving,” the Harbinger said. “He knows it’s them.”

Kessler’s jaw tightened. “The Horsemen?”

“Who else could it be?” the Harbinger asked. “This isn’t just a rescue—it’s a declaration of war. Harrington’s not going to let this slide.”

Kessler leaned forward, gripping the edge of his desk. “He can’t prove we’re involved. Not yet.”

“Not yet,” the Harbinger agreed. “But it’s only a matter of time. The Horsemen don’t operate quietly—not for something like this. When Harrington realizes the scope of what’s happening, he’ll burn everything to find them.”

Kessler rubbed a hand over his face, the enormity of the situation pressing down on him. “You think Marcus knows?”

“About Harrington’s full operation? No,” the Harbinger said. “But he’s getting closer. If they take Al-Ra’ib alive, it’s only a matter of time before the rest unravels.”

Kessler sighed heavily. “If Harrington moves too quickly, he could expose himself. That’s the only advantage we have right now.”

“And if he doesn’t?” the Harbinger asked.

“Then we’ll be facing more than just him. His backers won’t hesitate to burn us all to the ground.”

The Harbinger’s voice softened. “You knew this risk when you sent them in.”

Kessler’s grip on the desk tightened. “I sent them because Marcus needed them. Because this needed to be done. But if Harrington catches wind that we pulled the strings—”

“He won’t,” the Harbinger said firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Kessler exhaled slowly, his voice heavy. “See that you do. And make sure Al-Ra’ib talks. We need leverage before Harrington makes his next move.”

The call ended, leaving Kessler alone in the silence. He reached for the whiskey, pouring another glass as his thoughts spiraled. The Horsemen were riding again, but the storm they were unleashing threatened to consume them all.