Chapter Two: No Saints in the Shadows

Istanbul never slept.
It just learned how to hide its nightmares better.
Rain washed the streets like it was trying to erase sins that had already settled too deep into the concrete. Richard Kinston lay flat on the rooftop, motionless, rain sliding down his jacket, his breathing slow and controlled.
Waiting was the worst part.
Not because it was boring — but because waiting gave people time to do something stupid.
And stupid usually came armed.
“Visual confirmed,” Ghost’s voice whispered through the comms.
“Warehouse confirmed active. Heat signatures inside. At least six.”
Richard adjusted his grip on the rifle.
“Any surprises?”
A pause.
“Military-grade encryption. Professional funding. Someone important doesn’t want this place found.”
Richard smiled thinly.
“Then let’s disappoint them.”
The side entrance was guarded by two men. Cigarettes glowing in the dark. Hands shaking just enough to betray inexperience.
Amateurs pretending to be soldiers.
The first suppressed shot sounded like a dying man clearing his throat.
The guard collapsed before the cigarette touched the ground. The second turned, eyes wide, reaching for his weapon—
Too late.
Richard was already there.
Knee to the thigh. Elbow to the jaw. A short, dry crack echoed softly.
Silence returned.
“Sometimes people look at me,” Richard muttered, dragging the body aside,
“like a dusty rat and a deer traumatized by environmental collapse.”
A quiet laugh crackled in his ear.
“Focus, philosopher,” Mila said. “Movement inside.”
The warehouse smelled like bad decisions: cheap gun oil, sweat, and fear.
“Cameras are blind,” Ghost said. “You’ve got ninety seconds before backup reroutes.”
“Ninety is generous,” Richard replied.
He moved inside like a shadow with weight — slow, deliberate, lethal.
A man stepped out from behind a crate, rifle half-raised. Richard closed the distance in two strides, redirected the barrel, and drove his fingers beneath the jaw.
Dim Mak.
The man froze.
Eyes wide. Body locked. Heart forgetting its rhythm.
He collapsed silently.
“Five left,” Ghost said.
“Four,” Richard corrected.
Gunfire erupted from the far end of the warehouse.
Too loud. Too desperate.
Fear disguised as aggression.
Richard rolled behind a stack of crates as bullets tore into metal. He came up on one knee and fired twice.
One body dropped. Another screamed.
Richard didn’t wait.
He advanced.
A blade flashed in the low light. A sharp cut to the leg. The man fell, clutching his thigh, screaming prayers to gods who were already busy elsewhere.
A single shot ended the prayer.
“Two left,” Ghost said.
“They’re running,” Mila added.
“Bad habit,” Richard replied.
The last two men bolted toward the back exit.
One didn’t make it past the doorway — a round through the spine dropped him instantly.
The other stumbled, tripped, and crawled, sobbing, blood smearing the floor.
“Please,” the man begged. “I don’t know anything.”
Richard approached slowly, boots echoing.
“Everyone knows something,” he said calmly.
The man shook violently.
“I just guard. I swear.”
Richard crouched.
“I’m not killing you,” he said softly.
“You’re just standing in the wrong place.”
A light touch.
Pressure.
End.
The body went still.
“Clear,” Richard said.
“Copy,” Mila replied. “Exfil in thirty seconds.”
Richard scanned the warehouse. Weapons. Documents. Names.
Ghost’s voice hardened.
“These names… this isn’t a local cell. This is a network.”
Richard’s jaw tightened.
“Good.”
“Good?” Ghost asked.
“Yes,” Richard said. “It means this wasn’t the end.”
The explosion came moments later.
Violent. Final. Unapologetic.
Fire tore through the warehouse, rising into the night like a warning no one would listen to.
Cobra Squad vanished before the sirens arrived.
No witnesses.
No mercy.
No saints.
Richard lit a cigarette as they disappeared into the rain-soaked streets.
“Second city this week,” he said quietly. “I’m starting to feel nostalgic.”
Ghost replied after a pause.
“There are more names on the list.”
Richard exhaled smoke and smiled.
“Good.