For Sinbad

Malik stepped over the body and kept moving, circling the camp.

He proceeded to take out the guards one by one, lobbing off their heads.

To them, he was no different than a ghost.

Not a single one saw him coming.

A quick slash, a stab to the kidney, a blade across the throat—silent, efficient, brutal.

By the time he was done, the outer edges of the camp were littered with bodies, and no one inside had a clue.

"Fourteen."

Malik wiped the blood off his blade and turned his attention to the heart of the camp.

The tents, the cages, the smugglers, and the slavers who thought themselves as safe.

A slow, cold smile spread across his face as he started to close in.

'You're next.'

Malik crouched, hiding behind one of the outer tents for a short moment.

Each breath he took was purposeful, measured—like a predator preparing to strike.