The stolen Czech rail van rattled across cracked asphalt, suspension groaning under years of neglect. Faded maintenance logos clung to its flanks like a half-told lie. Fog licked the Bratislava freight yard in slow waves, blanketing the rusted maze of boxcars, cranes, and derelict cargo lifts in shades of ghost.
Ghost killed the headlights two blocks out. Rolled to a crawl. One gloved hand tapped the dash-mounted drone console.
"Eyes up," he muttered.
Soap deployed two IR drones with a tap. Their rotors whispered as they lifted into the mist, vanishing in seconds. Monitors flickered. Heat signatures painted dull blobs against steel.
Comms crackled—Laswell's voice, low and clean:
> "Silas Varga is in motion. Rendezvous scheduled at Grid Six—central loading bay."
"Copy," Ghost said, already marking approach lines in his head—access ladders, crawl spaces, high-ground choke points.
Soap chambered a round, checked the suppressor. "We bag him quiet?"
Ghost slid his mask tighter, voice flat. "Quiet's dead. This one breathes first."
They parked behind a collapsed gantry. Fog swallowed the van. Static hummed across the drone feed, distant headlights cutting through smoke like searchlights from another war.
Soap shouldered his rifle. "You smell that?"
Ghost didn't glance over. "Yeah."
It wasn't smoke. It was bait. Diesel, gun oil, and betrayal.
He pointed. "Grid Six. Four minutes. We lock this down, or we lose the thread."
Soap nodded, lips thinning.
In the drone's eye, a convoy crept toward the yard.
---
The Audi ghosted in off the east service road—black-on-black S8, no plates, exhaust purring like a threat. It slid to a stop beside the rusted carcass of a flatbed. Fog curled around its tires. No one got out.
"Vehicle match," Laswell said in Ghost's ear. "Thermal says three bodies."
"Copy," Ghost replied. Already clocking them through the drone feed—two shapes in the front, one in the back. Muscles tight, heads on a swivel. Not protection. Containment.
Soap leaned in, eyes narrowing. "They're not watching for snipers."
"They're watching for an exit," Ghost said. "Cleaners."
The drone hovered, silent above. Soap toggled the EMP burst to standby.
"Wait for the birdcage," Ghost murmured. "No sparks till he's boxed."
Movement.
Rear door cracked open. Silas Varga stepped out like he hated the ground. Designer coat, combat boots, twitch in his left hand. Unsettled. But not surprised. He scanned the yard—eyes trained, not panicked.
He ducked into a rusted boxcar marked with mold and Serbian graffiti.
Ghost tapped twice on his rig.
"Cage now."
Soap hit the command. The drone pulsed a microburst—barely a whisper in the air. Ghost watched through thermal as the Audi's lights died, doors locked mid-shift.
The two ex-SRBs outside twitched—moved to draw.
Too slow.
Ghost cut left, silent glide over gravel. Soap mirrored right.
First man never saw the knife—Ghost drove it low into the kidney, hand over mouth. Dead weight sagged as Ghost eased him down.
Second guard spun—Soap's suppressed round caught him in the throat. He staggered, gurgled, clawing at phantom air before dropping to the ballast stones.
Soap stepped over the corpse, voice low: "Varga's alone."
Ghost nodded once, eyes already on the boxcar.
"Then let's knock."
---
The boxcar reeked of rust, piss, and old oil. Inside, shadows clung to the corners like mold. Varga stood near the rear hatch, back to the door, speaking into a burner.
Ghost didn't knock.
He breached fast—boot slammed the door inward with a steel-on-steel crack. The burner hit the floor. Varga spun, hand going for his belt.
Too late.
Ghost surged in. Elbow crashed into Varga's throat—cut off the scream. The courier folded, gagging. Ghost stepped through him, drove a knee into the gut, then wrenched him down by the collar.
Zip ties hissed around Varga's wrists. Tight. Blood welled under the plastic.
Soap entered behind him, rifle sweeping corners. "Clear."
"Legs," Ghost barked.
Soap moved in, cuffed ankles with practiced speed. Varga groaned, trying to twist away. Soap yanked him upright by the coat collar.
The courier spat, breath wheezing. "You have no idea what you're doing."
Ghost leaned in, voice like gravel and broken ice. "We're your ride. You don't talk—you'll wish you stayed with Spectre."
He didn't wait for a reply. Drew the syringe from his vest pouch—stabbed it into Varga's neck, thumbed the plunger. The adrenaline blocker hit bloodstream in seconds. Varga flinched like he'd been burned.
"Pain's gonna talk first," Soap said, checking the restraints.
Ghost grabbed Varga's face, forced eye contact. "Let's get inside his teeth."
They dragged him out of the boxcar. Varga stumbled, coughing. The fog swallowed their exit.
---
The customs shed stank of mold, iron, and old sweat. Windows were painted black from the inside—old contraband days. Ghost made it worse.
Arc lamp, bolted to the ceiling beam, flickered once, then held—its blue-white glare painted the room in hard shadows. The steel chair, welded to a drainpipe, looked more execution site than seat. Chain wrapped around the backrest like a leash. Bucket of dirty water under it, oily, half-frozen.
Varga hit the chair hard, dragged by the shoulders, legs buckling.
Soap lit the acetylene torch. Blue flame flared. He dropped to one knee, sealed the shed door shut with a short, dirty weld.
The lock hissed closed. No exits now.
Varga bled from one nostril, mouth slick with it. He coughed something halfway between a curse and a sob.
Ghost stepped into the lamp's circle. "Start talking."
Varga spat blood toward his boot. "You don't scare me."
Soap didn't speak. Just crossed the space and slapped him—fast, sharp, hand like a hammer. Varga's head snapped sideways. Blood flicked off his lip.
Ghost leaned forward, resting one gloved hand on the chair back. "You know Spectre's real name?"
Varga grinned, teeth pink. "I know his silence. You don't come back from what you did to him."
A long pause. The arc lamp buzzed.
Ghost's voice dropped lower than breath. "Neither will you."
Varga's smirk faltered. He looked left, then right, as if the room might change.
It wouldn't. Ghost made sure of that.
---
The taser clicked once before contact. A sharp crack, like a snapped bone.
Varga jerked in the chair—back arched, jaw clenched, eyes wide with silent agony. No scream yet. That came second jolt in.
Ghost held the probes tight, the current flowing long enough to cook muscle, not kill it. When he stepped back, the stink of scorched nylon and piss clung to the air.
Soap tilted the diesel jug. The runoff sloshed dark into the bucket—black sheen across the water. He dragged Varga's head back, forced the rag over his mouth. No ceremony.
"Breathe in," Soap muttered. "Or drown slow."
Varga fought like a pinned animal—legs kicking, chair clanking against the chain. Ghost knelt beside him, whispering through the noise.
"You're not dying. Not yet. But the next hour's going to beg for it."
Rag up. Coughing, retching. He puked pink water onto his shirt. No defiance now, just panic chasing every breath.
Ghost stepped in again, this time holding a small field speaker.
> "Spectre to Cargo: You're expendable, Silas. Burn it down if they grab you."
The voice was unmistakable. Cold, precise. A killer's tongue wrapped in command.
Varga stared at the speaker like it was a ghost. Then he broke.
"Alright! I'll talk—I'll f***ing talk—just shut it off."
Ghost clicked the speaker silent.
"Names."
Varga gasped. "Spectre's not solo. He's got a handler—NATO side. Special Recon Group, Tier Zero. British command. Callsign: Bishop."
Soap looked up sharply. "Say again."
"Bishop. Old blood. Supposed to be buried years ago. He's not. He's feeding Spectre intel—clean routes, black channels, disavowals. Whole goddamn cell's still active."
Ghost didn't speak. Just stared. The mask didn't blink, didn't move, but something behind it shifted. A stillness that said the world just tilted.
Laswell broke through on comms—crackled like glass.
> "Bishop's been dark since Basra. Confirmed KIA. You're telling me he's back in play?"
Varga shook his head. "He never left. He just changed sides."
---
Varga's head sagged like wet laundry, breath shallow and rasping through cracked lips. Blood traced the edge of his ear, vanished into the collar of his coat. Ghost leaned in again—not with a strike, but a trade.
"Location for freedom. One shot. You lie, you don't die quick."
Varga blinked slow. The diesel rinse still stung his eyes. "Warsaw," he croaked. "Safehouse on Wronia Street. Third floor. Gray stone, no signage. You'll know it by the cameras—painted to match the walls."
Ghost stayed silent.
"They cycle locations weekly," Varga added, licking his split lip. "But they haven't moved yet. Last op launched from there—less than a week ago."
Soap keyed up the feed for Laswell. "You get that?"
> "Confirmed," Laswell said. "Wronia's flagged. Polish Intel ran a wiretap six months ago—Spectre's ghosted it since. This fits."
Ghost pulled out a burner and set it on the floor, screen lit with a blank extraction grid.
"You want out?" he said, tone flat. "Mark your route. Clean, low profile, no handlers. You step wrong, we'll know."
Varga tapped the screen with a shaky finger, marked three exit options—train station, embassies, a Catholic mission known for laundering IDs.
Soap studied the list. "He's still hedging. No way he trusts any of those fully."
Ghost stood, kicked the burner away. "Doesn't have to."
He glanced at Soap. "We move now, we catch someone. He's not lying. He's leaking."
> Laswell cut in again, voice sharp now: "Get in, get the intel, level the rest. No traces, no second chances."
Ghost nodded once. "Warsaw it is."
Varga slumped back in the chair, a man trying to believe he'd bought time. He hadn't.
---
The cold hit different after a job. Soap zipped up his jacket, gloved hands tight around a thermos he didn't drink from. Snow floated down slow, fat flakes catching on rusted rail lines and pooling around the abandoned customs shed like the yard itself wanted to forget what had just happened inside.
Ghost didn't speak. He lit a smoke, one drag deep, then flicked it into the snow.
Soap glanced sideways. "Laswell want him extracted?"
Ghost didn't answer. He just looked at the shed—flaking tin roof, busted doorframe Soap had welded shut less than an hour ago.
Soap tried again. "We could bag him. He's got more—Spectre didn't feed him the whole deck."
Ghost pulled his thermite charge from a pouch on his thigh. No ceremony. Just a slow walk back toward the shed, boots crunching ice, gait deliberate.
"Spectre burned his own man," Ghost said.
Soap's breath clouded in front of him. "You think that means Varga's compromised?"
"I think it means Spectre's cleaning house. Varga's a loose end."
"So are we," Soap muttered.
Ghost paused at the door, pressed the charge under the frame. Thumbed the fuse.
Inside, Varga screamed. Short and sharp. Maybe he saw the sparks. Maybe not.
The thermite hit hard—white-hot flare muted by steel walls. The scream cut off. Smoke curled up through broken windows.
Neither of them moved.
Soap exhaled slowly. "He talked."
Ghost stared at the smoke. "And then he shut up."
No more questions. Just snow, and silence, and a long walk back to the van.
---
The flat overlooked the Vistula—top floor, glass walls, zero warmth. A steel-framed shadow stood in the window, watching the city turn orange under streetlamps. No expression. No motion, save the flick of a thumb across a burner phone.
One message.
> They're coming. Prepare the fireworks.
No reply. None needed. The asset slid the phone into a glass of whiskey. Let it drown.
—
The NATO helo carved across the Polish border under radar, rotors humming steady against the black sky. Inside, Soap sat hunched, eyes locked on the Warsaw dossier glowing on his lap. Maps. Heat signatures. Photos of a drab residential block dressed up to look boring.
Too boring.
Soap scratched his stubble. "You see this safehouse?" he asked. "Not a single exfil tunnel. No counter-surveillance. No fallback grid. Place doesn't even have a second exit."
Ghost checked the mag on his rifle. Didn't look up. "Could be Spectre got lazy."
"Spectre doesn't do lazy," Soap muttered. He tapped the page. "Feels like a showroom. Like it's staged."
Ghost finally glanced over. "You're thinking bait?"
Soap shut the folder, leaned back against the cold steel bulkhead. "I'm thinking we're not walking into a killbox."
Ghost's voice dropped, dead flat. "No?"
Soap met his eyes. "I'm thinking we're the kill."
The helo banked hard. Warsaw lights flared beneath them.
Ghost didn't blink. "Then let's not disappoint."