Chapter Two: Black Entry

The rain didn’t fall.
It attacked.
It hammered the concrete like a bad conscience, loud and relentless. Somewhere in the industrial outskirts of Tangier, a warehouse breathed darkness and bad decisions. Inside it—terrorists. Armed, paranoid, and stupid enough to think they were invisible.
Richard Kinston watched the place through night-vision optics.
“Smells like piss and bad ideology,” he muttered.
“Focus,” came the calm French voice in his ear. Luc Moreau. Legionnaire. The kind of man who could smile while killing you and still sleep well after.
The Cobra Squad was already in position.
No flags.
No mercy.
No witnesses.
Richard flexed his fingers slowly. Krav Maga wasn’t about strength. It was about ending things fast. Dim Mak—that was something else. A secret. A last argument. Tonight, he hoped he wouldn’t need it.
Hope was usually wrong.
“Movement inside,” whispered Zara Kovács, the team’s explosives and sabotage specialist. “Six targets. Maybe more. They’re nervous. One of them keeps checking his phone like it owes him money.”
“Good,” Richard said. “Fear makes them sloppy.”
The plan was simple:
Enter.
Erase.
Leave.
Plans rarely survived contact with idiots carrying AKs.
They breached from the roof.
Silent charges. A soft thump. Then darkness swallowed the team as they dropped like shadows with bad intentions.
The first terrorist didn’t even have time to blink.
Richard closed the distance, grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted, and drove an elbow into his throat. Cartilage collapsed. The body hit the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.
Another one turned—too slow.
Luc’s knife flashed once. Just once. Clean. Efficient. Almost polite.
“Two down,” Luc whispered. “They really should invest in better security.”
Gunfire erupted from the far side of the warehouse.
So much for silent.
“Contact!” Zara shouted, already moving. She slid behind a crate, planted a small device, and grinned. “I call this one surprise environmental awareness.”
The explosion ripped through stacked barrels. Fire bloomed. Someone screamed. Someone stopped screaming very fast.
Richard moved through the chaos like a surgeon with anger issues.
A terrorist lunged at him with a machete.
Bad choice.
Richard stepped inside the arc of the blade, smashed the man’s knee sideways, then struck two fingers into a pressure point beneath the jaw. Dim Mak—controlled. Not lethal.
Yet.
The man dropped, twitching, eyes wide with terror.
Richard leaned close and whispered,
“Don’t look at me like a dusty rat and a deer desperate because of the ecological situation.”
Then he snapped the neck.
“Four down,” Zara said. “Two running.”
“They always run,” Luc replied. “Like cockroaches with beliefs.”
The last two tried to escape through a side door.
They didn’t make it.
One tripped. The other turned to help him.
That was their final mistake.
Two suppressed shots. Two bodies. End of ideology.
Silence returned—thick, heavy, deserved.
Richard exhaled slowly.
“Package secured,” Zara said. “Hard drives, cash, weapons. Same old garbage.”
“World’s a little cleaner,” Luc added. “Still smells, though.”
Richard looked around the warehouse. Blood. Smoke. Broken dreams.
This was just one cell. One small infection.
There were more.
Always more.
He tapped his comm.
“Cobra Squad, exfil. This was only the beginning.”
And somewhere far away, someone important felt a sudden chill—
without knowing why.
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