Chapter Six: Ashes Don't Stay Cold

Ashes were supposed to cool down.
They didn’t.
Richard Marchenko watched the replay for the third time. The explosion bloomed exactly where Ghost had predicted, clean and precise, like a surgeon’s cut made with dynamite. The target compound vanished into fire, dust, and broken concrete.
Textbook.
Too perfect.
“Replay it again,” Richard said.
Ghost sighed. “That’s the fourth time.”
“Fourth time’s when you notice what you missed,” Richard replied.
The room went quiet except for the hum of machines and the distant rattle of coffee cups that hadn’t been washed since yesterday. Or the day before that.
The French Legionnaire leaned closer to the screen, squinting. “There,” he said, tapping the glass. “Pause.”
The frame froze.
A heat signature flickered on the edge of the blast radius—barely visible, almost shy.
Richard smiled thinly. “Ashes don’t stay cold.”
Ghost frowned. “You’re saying someone walked away from that?”
“I’m saying,” Richard answered, “someone crawled.”
The Legionnaire crossed his arms. “Or someone planned it.”
That earned a few low chuckles. The kind people laughed when things were already bad and getting worse.
Two hours later, Cobra Squad moved.
The terrain was ugly—rocky, uneven, hostile in the way only forgotten places could be. The kind of land that didn’t care who won the war.
The Legionnaire adjusted his rifle. “I still feel like a rhinoceros in an electronics store.”
Richard glanced at him. “You said that last time.”
“Yes,” the Legionnaire replied calmly. “And last time, things exploded.”
“Fair point.”
They advanced in silence, boots crunching softly over gravel and burnt debris. The air smelled wrong—chemical, metallic, with a hint of something sweeter underneath.
Ghost’s voice crackled in Richard’s ear. “I’m picking up residual signals. Weak. Whoever survived is bleeding tech.”
“Desperate people leave fingerprints,” Richard said.
“Desperate people also do stupid things,” Ghost added.
Richard smirked. “That’s why we’re here.”
They found the survivor near a collapsed wall, half-buried under rubble and bad decisions.
The man tried to raise a weapon.
Tried.
Richard stepped forward and hit him once—clean, fast, surgical. The man folded, choking, eyes wide, swallowing air like a python that had just tried to eat a tram.
The Legionnaire whistled softly. “Efficient.”
“Polite,” Richard corrected. “He tried to stand.”
They dragged the man into the shade. Blood seeped into the dust, dark and slow.
Ghost’s voice came back. “Confirming ID. This one’s not just a courier. Mid-level coordinator. Knows routes. Names. Probably regrets a few life choices.”
The man coughed. “You… you don’t understand…”
Richard knelt. “You’re right. I don’t understand why people keep thinking fire solves everything.”
He leaned closer. “But I do understand pain.”
The man swallowed. Hard.
Minutes later, Cobra Squad pulled back.
No unnecessary noise. No trophies. Just information and a growing sense that something bigger was moving under the surface.
Back at the operations room, Ghost laid out the data.
“This wasn’t random,” he said. “They burned one cell to distract us from three others.”
Richard rubbed his temples. “A shell game.”
“A bad one,” Ghost added. “They reused encryption keys. Sloppy.”
The Legionnaire smirked. “Nervous people.”
Richard finished the thought. “Make mistakes.”
Silence settled over the room.
Then Richard straightened. “We go public with nothing. Move with everything.”
Ghost raised an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”
“That’s always the plan.”
The Legionnaire picked up his helmet. “Then let’s remind them.”
“Of what?” Ghost asked.
Richard smiled, slow and dangerous. “That fire spreads.”
Outside, night fell over the base.
Somewhere far away, someone stared at a screen and realized Cobra Squad was closer than expected.
Ashes didn’t stay cold.
They waited.