Shadow OPS:BLOOD DEBT

Chapter 1: Extraction Gone Sideways

Location: Helmand Province, Afghanistan

Time: 0430 Hours

The desert didn’t make a sound. That’s what always unnerved Gabriel Knox. In warzones, you came to expect a certain noise: engines, distant gunfire, the hum of life waiting to die. But here, in the thin silence before dawn, the only sound was his own breathing.

He lay prone on a rocky ridge, M4A1 rifle fitted with a suppressor and ACOG scope tucked into his shoulder. The compound below was a disjointed sprawl of tin roofs and broken mud walls, lit by a weak lantern in the courtyard. Knox adjusted his thermal optics.

He saw her.

Jessa Ward, CIA field asset. Her wrists were zip-tied. Blood matted her blond hair, and her khaki blouse was torn at the shoulder. Two men dragged her into a steel shack at the north end of the compound, laughing.

Knox’s jaw clenched.

“Bravo Team, confirm position,” he whispered into the mic embedded in his throat plate.

“Northwest ridge. No movement from exterior,” replied Sergeant McCray, steady as always.

Knox clicked once for acknowledgment. Then he switched to command frequency.

“Command, this is Ghost Actual. Visual on HVT. Ward is alive. Preparing for silent breach.”

There was a pause.

“Stand by, Ghost,” came the voice of Captain Reeve, all red tape and protocol. “We’ve got air support in ten minutes. Do not engage.”

“Ten minutes is too long,” Knox replied. “They’re beating her. Interrogating or worse.”

“Sergeant Knox,” Reeve snapped, “you are not cleared for unilateral action. That’s a direct order.”

Knox stared down his scope. One of the men lit a cigarette and held it near Jessa’s face.

Then he heard the scream.

He clicked his comms off.

0435 Hours – Outer Perimeter

Knox moved like a wraith, fast and quiet in the gloom. He kept low, knife in hand. A guard near the gate scratched his neck lazily. Knox came from behind, arm hooked around the man’s jaw, the knife kissing his carotid. One jerk. Silent collapse.

Another sentry patrolled the south wall, smoking.

Knox counted the seconds. When the guard turned, Knox stepped from the dark and drove his blade under the man’s chin. The soldier spasmed, then crumpled.

Two down. No alarms.

Knox adjusted his tactical vest. Every movement had a purpose. Every kill was a promise kept.

0440 Hours – Inside the Compound

The tin-roofed shack stank of sweat and gasoline. The door was padlocked. Knox used a breaching tool—a silent hydraulic jack. He heard three voices. One spoke English with an accent. The others shouted in Dari. Jessa groaned.

Three seconds. Breach. Clear. Kill.

He kicked in the door.

Gunfire erupted—AK-47s spitting wild. Knox dove low, fired twice. One man dropped. A second raised a pistol—Knox shot him in the throat.

The third reached for Jessa, grabbing her by the hair.

Knox fired. A single shot between the eyes.

Then silence.

Jessa blinked up at him, dazed. Her face was a mask of bruises. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Good thing I’ve got commitment issues,” Knox muttered, cutting her bonds.

She winced. “Vance said you were out.”

Knox paused. “Vance?”

She nodded. “He said if I ever saw you again, you’d be dead or lying.”

Knox stiffened.

They moved.

0450 Hours – The Escape

Knox led her through the eastern corridor of the compound. Gunfire erupted near the far ridge—Bravo Team was under fire.

He toggled comms. “Bravo, status?”

Static.

“McCray?”

Nothing.

They reached the clearing—where the Blackhawk was supposed to be.

Gone.

In its place: silence, spent brass, and an odd glint of metal half-buried in the sand.

Knox knelt and uncovered it—a battered sat phone. It vibrated in his hand, screen blinking.

“You’re burned. Run.”

Behind them, a buzz. Drone.

Knox yanked Jessa down. The drone dropped a small payload—a motion-triggered mine. He recognized the make: American.

Knox’s blood ran cold. “This wasn’t a failed op.”

Jessa coughed blood. “They’re erasing us.”

From the ridge came a voice—amplified by megaphone, but unmistakable.

“Should’ve stayed in the shadows, Knox.”

Silas Vance.

The man who’d trained him. The man who’d disappeared two years ago after black ops went sideways in Mogadishu. Knox had seen the files. Vance was dead. Burned.

But his voice was alive—and filled with menace.

“This is what happens,” Vance continued, “when ghosts try to breathe.”

Gunfire opened from the ridge.

Knox grabbed Jessa, dragging her into cover.

As bullets tore the dirt around him, one thought anchored in his mind:

He wasn’t on a mission.

He was in a trap.

And someone at the top wanted him dead.