CHAPTER ONE: THE EXTRACTION
The first shot missed Nomad by six inches.
He knew because the concrete beside his head exploded before he heard the rifle.
He dropped.
“Contact. North roof.”
The rest of the team moved instantly.
No panic.
No questions.
Nomad rolled behind the remains of a burned-out truck as another round punched through the windshield.
“Rook.”
“Already looking.”
Sergeant Mateo Torres—callsign Rook—shifted behind a collapsed wall and raised his rifle toward the rooftops.
Nomad checked the alley.
Two exits.
One exposed.
One narrow.
The target was still forty metres away.
A man in a grey jacket sprinted from a doorway ahead.
Dr. Emil Soren.
Their extraction package.
Soren looked terrified.
“MOVE!” Nomad shouted.
Soren ran.
A second rifle cracked.
Nomad stepped into the open.
One controlled burst.
The shooter disappeared behind the roofline.
Nomad crossed the alley before the man could reappear.
Soren stumbled.
Nomad caught his vest.
“Keep moving.”
“They found me.”
“No conversation.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Usually true.”
Behind them, Lena Park—callsign Switch—laughed once.
“Still charming.”
Nomad ignored her.
Task Group Atlas had entered the city twelve minutes earlier.
No uniforms.
No flags.
No official presence.
Karad had been collapsing for months under a civil war everyone outside the country pretended wasn’t happening.
Tonight Atlas had one mission.
Enter.
Recover Soren.
Leave.
Simple.
Nomad hated simple missions.
They were usually lies.
They reached the extraction building.
Four floors.
Half the windows gone.
Rook covered the stairs.
Switch moved to the rear exit.
Staff Sergeant Owen Hayes—Doc—pulled Soren into the central room.
Nomad checked the street.
No movement.
Too quiet.
His earpiece clicked.
“Nomad, Atlas Actual.”
Colonel Warren Voss.
Nomad’s commander.
“Go.”
“Status?”
“Package secure.”
“Confirm identity.”
Nomad looked at Soren.
Mid-fifties.
Bleeding above one eyebrow.
Terrified but conscious.
“Confirmed.”
A pause.
Then Voss said:
“Mission update.”
Nomad’s eyes narrowed.
Of course.
“Go.”
“Extraction cancelled.”
Silence.
Rook looked toward him.
Switch stopped moving.
Nomad said:
“Repeat.”
“Extraction cancelled. Package compromised.”
Soren heard.
His face changed.
“No.”
Voss continued.
“Directive Black. Terminate the package and sanitize all materials.”
Doc stared at Nomad.
Soren stepped backward.
“No. No, listen to me.”
Nomad raised one hand.
Not at Soren.
At his team.
Nobody moved.
“Reason for change?”
“Intelligence indicates Soren sold classified systems to hostile actors.”
Soren laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
“He’s lying.”
Nomad kept his eyes on Soren.
“Colonel, original order was live extraction.”
“Situation changed.”
“When?”
“Nomad.”
“When?”
Silence.
Voss’s tone hardened.
“Execute Directive Black.”
Soren looked directly at Nomad.
“If you kill me, you prove everything.”
Nomad stared.
“What everything?”
Voss immediately:
“Do not engage the package.”
That settled it.
Nomad looked at Soren.
“Talk.”
“Nomad.”
Voss’s voice sharpened.
“Execute.”
Soren stepped closer.
“Project Cinder.”
Nobody moved.
Rook frowned.
“What?”
Soren’s voice shook.
“Project Cinder.”
Switch looked at Nomad.
Never heard of it.
Neither had he.
Soren continued.
“Your missions.”
“Karad.”
“Yavik.”
“Helon Province.”
“The convoy bombing six months ago.”
Nomad’s face did not change.
Inside—
something shifted.
He had been in Helon.
They had been told an insurgent cell hit the convoy.
Twenty-three civilians dead.
Atlas spent three weeks hunting the men supposedly responsible.
Soren whispered:
“The attack was ours.”
Doc stared.
“Bullshit.”
“I have proof.”
Voss’s voice came through immediately.
“Nomad, terminate now.”
Soren pulled something from inside his coat.
Nomad raised his weapon.
“Slow.”
Soren froze.
Two fingers.
Small black data drive.
“I copied everything.”
Rook muttered:
“Jesus.”
Soren looked at Nomad.
“They manufacture targets.”
“They create evidence.”
“They bury civilians.”
“They make you kill whoever needs to disappear.”
Nomad’s jaw tightened.
Voss said:
“Your team is being manipulated by a hostile intelligence asset.”
Soren shouted:
“ASK HIM WHAT CINDER IS!”
Silence.
Nomad waited.
“Colonel?”
Nothing.
Soren smiled.
Terrified.
But he knew.
Voss finally answered.
“Directive Black remains active.”
Not denial.
Nomad looked at Soren.
Then at the drive.
“Give it to me.”
Soren stepped forward.
A rifle cracked.
Soren’s head snapped sideways.
He collapsed.
Doc moved.
“DOWN!”
Nomad was already moving.
A second round punched through the room.
Switch dropped behind the wall.
Rook fired toward the opposite building.
“Shooter east!”
Nomad grabbed Soren.
Blood everywhere.
Doc dropped beside him.
He checked.
Then looked up.
“Gone.”
Nomad stared at the wound.
Angle.
Window.
Long-range.
Professional.
Not the rooftop shooter from earlier.
This one had waited.
For Soren to speak.
His radio clicked.
Voss.
“Confirm package status.”
Nomad looked at the dead man.
Then quietly took the data drive from beneath Soren’s hand.
He palmed it.
Nobody saw except Switch.
Her eyes met his.
She said nothing.
Nomad answered.
“Package terminated.”
A pause.
“By your team?”
“No.”
“Clarify.”
“External shooter.”
Silence.
Voss said:
“Recover all materials from the package.”
Nomad looked at the drive in his gloved hand.
Then slipped it into a hidden pocket beneath his plate carrier.
“No materials present.”
Switch’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Still silent.
Voss replied:
“Understood.”
Nomad didn’t believe him.
Three vehicles entered the street.
Unmarked.
Wrong direction.
Rook looked through the broken window.
“Not ours.”
Nomad stood.
“Move.”
Doc grabbed his medical pack.
“What about Soren?”
“We can’t take him.”
Rook looked toward the incoming vehicles.
“Who are they?”
Nomad checked the rear exit.
“People who know we’re here.”
Switch joined him.
“Insurgents?”
Nomad looked at her.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Too fast.”
The first vehicle stopped.
Men stepped out.
Black tactical clothing.
No insignia.
Professional movement.
Nomad’s expression hardened.
Atlas-trained.
Or close enough.
“Rear exit.”
Rook understood.
“Friendlies?”
“No.”
“Hostiles?”
Nomad looked back as the men entered the building.
“Ask later.”
They moved.
The rear alley opened onto a market street.
Empty at this hour.
Nomad led.
Switch behind.
Doc.
Rook rear security.
Their extraction vehicle waited eight blocks away.
A burst of gunfire followed them.
Rounds punched the corner.
Rook fired back.
“Definitely not friendly.”
Switch said:
“Strong analysis.”
They crossed the road.
Nomad saw movement in a second-floor window.
He changed direction instantly.
“Left.”
Rook didn’t ask.
The window erupted with fire half a second later.
They entered a laundromat.
Through the back.
Over a courtyard wall.
Into another building.
Nomad knew the city from satellite maps.
Had studied every block.
Every alley.
Every possible route.
That was why they called him Nomad.
He could be dropped almost anywhere and find a way out.
Tonight someone knew that too.
Someone had placed teams along every likely extraction path.
Nomad stopped.
Looked at the street.
Then turned around.
Switch frowned.
“Vehicle is north.”
“Which is why we’re going south.”
Rook smiled faintly.
“They’ll expect us at the car.”
“Yes.”
Doc stared.
“So what are we doing?”
Nomad pointed toward the river.
“Stealing a boat.”
Switch smiled.
“There he is.”
They reached the river six minutes later.
A small maintenance vessel sat chained beneath the bridge.
Rook looked at it.
“You know how to drive that?”
Nomad shot the chain.
“Yes.”
Switch jumped aboard.
“You say yes to everything.”
“No.”
“When have you ever said you couldn’t do something?”
Nomad climbed aboard.
“Marriage.”
Silence.
Switch looked at him.
That was more personal information than he had given the team in three years.
Nomad immediately regretted it.
Rook started laughing.
Doc followed.
Nomad started the engine.
“Forget that.”
“No chance,” Rook said.
Switch grinned.
“You were married?”
“Apparently not anymore.”
Rook laughed harder.
Nomad drove the boat into the darkness.
Behind them—
men reached the riverbank.
Too late.
Thirty minutes later, Atlas helicopter lights appeared over the water.
Nomad watched them carefully.
Their own extraction.
Supposedly.
Switch sat beside him.
Quiet now.
Rook and Doc were farther forward.
She leaned closer.
“You took something.”
Nomad did not look at her.
“No.”
“I saw.”
“No, you didn’t.”
She studied him.
“You lied to Voss.”
Nomad turned.
Her face was serious.
“If you’re going to accuse me of something, do it.”
“I’m not.”
“Then?”
She looked toward the approaching helicopter.
“I’m deciding whether I saw anything.”
Silence.
Nomad looked at her.
“Decision?”
Switch stood.
“I saw Soren die.”
Nothing else.
She moved away.
Nomad watched her.
Then slipped one gloved hand beneath his vest.
The drive was still there.
Project Cinder.
Whatever it was—
someone had killed Soren to keep it buried.
And Atlas command had ordered Nomad to do the same thing seconds earlier.
The helicopter descended.
Rope ladder dropped.
Rook climbed first.
Doc after.
Switch looked down.
“Coming?”
Nomad looked back toward the dark city.
The mission was over.
But for the first time in seventeen years—
Nomad did not trust the people waiting to debrief him.
He climbed.
And beneath his armour—
the dead man’s evidence came with him.
