Chapter Seven: The Man Who Left Bait

The tunnel smelled like rust, old water, and bad ideas.
Richard Marchenko hated tunnels. Not because they were dangerous—but because they forced people to think they were safe once they controlled the entrance.
That was usually when they died.
“Movement ahead,” Ghost whispered through the comms. “Single target. Slow. Confident.”
“Confident people are either stupid or prepared,” the Legionnaire muttered.
Richard raised a hand. “Let’s find out which.”
They moved like shadows, boots barely touching the damp concrete. The tunnel opened into a wider chamber—collapsed rail tracks, broken lamps, graffiti in three languages, all of it screaming temporary hideout.
A man stood in the middle.
Hands visible. No weapon drawn. Smiling.
“That’s new,” Ghost said. “He wants to talk.”
The man spread his arms. “Richard Marchenko,” he said calmly. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”
Richard tilted his head. “How’s the horse?”
The man blinked. “What horse?”
Richard smiled. “The one that bit you.”
For a split second, the man hesitated.
The Legionnaire chuckled. “Got him.”
The man recovered quickly. “You Cobra boys think jokes make you unpredictable.”
“No,” Richard said. “They make us relaxed.”
The man stepped closer into the light. His face was a roadmap of scars—old cuts, burns, something that looked like it had once been stitched by someone who hated him.
The Legionnaire whistled. “That guy’s so ugly and scarred that if you tied him with a rope to a bridge, the rope would give up first.”
Even Ghost snorted.
The man laughed too. That was the problem.
“You’re funny,” the man said. “That’s why I left you bait.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t leave bait.”
“Oh, but I did.” The man tapped his temple. “I left time.”
The lights went out.
Gunfire erupted.
Not wild. Controlled. Professional.
Richard moved on instinct—one step, twist, strike. His elbow found a throat, his fingers followed pressure points that shut bodies down without ceremony. Dim Mak. Fast. Final.
The Legionnaire went loud on the right. Ghost cut the lights back on for half a second—just enough.
Too late.
The man was already gone.
Only blood on the floor. Not enough to be fatal.
Ghost cursed. “He planned this. He wanted us here.”
Richard stared at the empty tunnel. “He wanted to see how we move.”
“And?” the Legionnaire asked.
Richard picked up something from the ground—a small metal token, deliberately dropped.
“He wanted us angry.”
Silence settled.
Then Richard straightened. “Good.”
Ghost frowned. “Good?”
“Yes,” Richard said coldly. “Because now he’s hunting us.”
The Legionnaire grinned. “And that never ends well.”
Far above, in a clean room with clean screens, the man watched feeds flicker out.
He touched his scars and smiled.
The bait was taken.