Every war leaves behind ghosts. Kabri needed warriors.---The desert wind swept through the ruined outskirts of Rabat like a warning from the old gods. Where once sand had buried empires, now shadows moved in silence—men and women without allegiance, without homes, without mercy. Kabri stood at the helm of something reborn, something the old world would never see coming.The rogue cell was more than an idea. It was a response to every betrayal he had suffered. To every comrade he had buried. To every illusion of loyalty shattered beneath Fred’s empire and Yusuf’s treachery.And it began in the hollow shell of an abandoned textile factory.---By sunrise, it buzzed with the rhythm of new blood.Satellite dishes scraped the morning sky, power generators roared to life, and armored trucks sat under tarpaulin like sleeping beasts. Kabri—still answering only to “Saeed Al-Rai”—watched the transformation unfold from a high catwalk, a worn keffiyeh wrapped loosely around his face.He had sen

Beneath towers of gold and silence, blood whispered in code.The heat in Dubai never truly slept. Not in the daytime sun that scorched the marble tiles of the Burj Khalifa's helipad, and not in the night’s artificial chill behind tinted bulletproof glass. But this was no ordinary night.Kabri—now known as Saeed Al-Rai to the world—stood under the belly of a Falcon 900EX parked at the eastern hangar of Al Maktoum International. His eyes narrowed behind carbon-tinted lenses. He wore a tailored dishdasha, trimmed in gold, but the man beneath the fabric was forged not in luxury—but in vengeance.Two hours earlier, a tip from Evelyn had come through an encrypted signal: Fred’s crypto handoff was happening in Dubai. Russian buyers. Bitcoin-for-weapons deal. No security but timing.And if timing was everything, then Kabri would be their end.The exchange was scheduled to take place aboard a floating villa off the Palm Jumeirah—one of those absurd properties shaped like paradise but run like

Marrakesh.The city moved like smoke—sweet with spice, bitter with secrets. Beneath the veil of its souks and ancient alleyways, Kabri had built a fortress not of concrete, but of loyalty and encrypted silence. The base was tucked behind an abandoned tile factory off Rue Ibn Aicha, disguised as a Moroccan artisan's warehouse. It was Kabri's first true home since Jamil’s death. The walls were not made of love, but of purpose.But fire has a memory.And Marrakesh was about to burn.At 04:37 a.m., Reem's monitor flashed blood-red."Heat signature spike—back courtyard!"Kabri was still asleep in his private quarters, dreaming not of war, but of Evelyn’s hands on his scars. He stirred only when the first blast shook the foundation of the villa. The ceiling cracked above him, glass from the arched window exploded inward like shrapnel.He was on his feet before the sirens began.“Status!” he barked into the comms as he yanked open the door.“Rear access breached!” Reem’s voice snapped throug

Thessaloniki, Greece.Dawn clawed its way over the rooftops, throwing long shadows across the port city. The air smelled of sea salt and sweat, thick with stories spoken in low Balkan whispers. Somewhere in the maze of concrete alleys and rusting fishing boats, a man who had once been invisible now lived in fear.Kabri had come to silence him.His name was Ivan Neziri. A former Kosovo sniper turned mercenary. Codename: Lupo. Known for only one thing—clean kills from over a mile away. But Fred had used him not for range. Not for glory.Fred had used him for Hollow Bridge.Kabri stood still inside a stolen warehouse off Egnatia Street. Cold air curled around him. The burner phone in his pocket buzzed once—Yusuf’s signal.“Neziri is here. Second floor. Warehouse D. West dock.”Kabri didn’t reply. He no longer did. Words had grown heavy. Silence was his new grammar.He slipped the phone into his coat, his fingers brushing the scar over his ribs. It pulsed. Not in pain, but in memory. The

The wind across the Algerian hills howled like an open wound. Kabri stood at the edge of a limestone ridge, overlooking the crumbling remnants of a French colonial outpost buried in dust and memory. His eyes tracked the convoy approaching from the west—three SUVs, one armored truck, all black, all unmarked.Inside them was Reda Tazoul, the one man who could confirm what Kabri now feared to believe.He tightened the strap on his holster, checked the transmitter Yusuf had given him, and muttered a single line:“Let’s see if the puppet knows his strings.”---Two Days Earlier – Tripoli SafehouseThe flash drive had revealed what Kabri didn’t want to know. The last frame of Jamil’s conversation, stored in a hidden folder marked “Obsidian Cross,” contained a short audio fragment—a voice, distorted but chillingly familiar.“Execute target V-7. Confirm detonation at Hollow Bridge.”It wasn’t Fred.It wasn’t a Pale Committee handler.Kabri ran the waveform through his old laptop's decoding so