Chapter 8: Phantom in the Night.
They called him The Shadow Walker.
No one knew his name. No one saw his face twice. A ghost with a vendetta, a soldier turned shadow. Rumors painted him as a myth, a whisper sewn between bullet holes and broken empires. But tonight, in the outskirts of northern Somalia, the myth was very much alive—and armed to the teeth.
The warehouse stood like a fortress swallowed by sand. It was nestled deep within an abandoned industrial sector long forgotten by governments, but not by the underworld. Its rusted roof curled like metal fangs, and floodlights hung from steel rods, scanning the barren dunes with slow, mechanical sweeps. Stacked around it were crates stuffed with unmarked rifles, shoulder-launched missiles, tactical vests, and narcotics branded in counterfeit European logos. The air reeked of oil, dust, and deceit.
Inside, two titans of crime stood in a tense standoff.
Marco "The Wolf" Lazzari, an Italian arms broker known for shipping death in steel containers, paced restlessly, flanked by twelve loyal men—each ex-military, each armed with cutting-edge firepower.
Across from him stood Samuel Nadur, a North African trafficking kingpin whose iron grip on Mogadishu's ports made him invaluable to Vex's old routes. His mercenaries were lean, blood-tested, and merciless. A few of them held machetes casually, as though waiting for a signal to gut someone.
Between them lay the payload—a black briefcase with twelve million, two armored trucks filled with weapons, and a biometric tablet holding the passcode to a Czech vault rumored to store enough artillery to flatten a city.
Neither side trusted the other. But both needed this alliance.
A hundred meters away, prone on a sand-dune cloaked in shadow, the Shadow Walker lay still. Dim-black gear. Dust-colored rifle. Breath steady. Pulse slower than most men sleeping.
Through the lens of his rifle, he watched. Counted. Lazzari's twelve. Samuel's ten. Random guards patrolling outside—at least six. Cameras, motion sensors.
Twenty-eight men. High-tech surveillance. Automatic weapons.
He smiled beneath his mask.
The rifle coughed.
Pfft!
The bullet drilled into the skull of Lazzari's left-hand man—the one closest to the money. The man crumpled without a sound. The wind couldn't catch his body as it collapsed.
For a moment, silence held.
Then panic.
"What the hell?!" one of Lazzari's men shouted, pulling his weapon.
Samuel's group reacted the same way. Guns were raised. Confusion reigned.
"Ambush!" someone yelled.
Shots rang out, and within seconds, a tense negotiation devolved into an all-out bloodbath. Each side believed the other had betrayed them. Bullets shredded crates, punched holes in walls, and screamed through the Somali night.
From the ridge, Shadow Walker remained calm. Calculated. He shifted to a new position, slid down the ridge without a sound, and moved in low beneath the shadows of half-collapsed walls.
A sentry near the south wall lit a cigarette.
Thup.
The dart entered his neck. He dropped instantly.
The Shadow Walker sprinted low, weaving between debris and vehicles. A flashbang tossed into a side corridor lit up three unsuspecting guards. He was on them before they recovered. Two strikes to the throat, one to the spine, and then two silenced bullets to finish it.
A rooftop sniper spotted him.
Too late.
Crack.
Shadow Walker fired, and the sniper's head snapped back. The man's body rolled off the roof, limp.
He moved fast, ducking behind crates. His suppressed SMG barked softly in three-round bursts, precise and lethal. He didn't waste ammunition. Every shot meant something. Every bullet was meant for someone.
At the east loading dock, four men tried to flee in a black SUV.
Shadow Walker tossed a motion mine under the vehicle.
Boom!
It flipped mid-air, flames licking its undercarriage. Bodies scattered like broken dolls.
The chaos now had a conductor.
The Shadow Walker was methodical. He had no backup. He didn't need it. This was his orchestra of purpose—and tonight, it played in screams and silence.
From the edge of the warehouse, he planted explosives on fuel barrels and high-value weapon stacks. His fingers worked fast, setting timers. Each device was a promise.
And the desert remembers promises.
Just as he finished rigging the final wall, a deep voice barked behind him.
"Drop it. Now."
He turned slowly. A mountain of a man stood there, a custom shotgun raised. Veins bulged beneath tattoos. Eyes cold. A personal enforcer of Samuel's.
Shadow Walker calculated the odds. Too close to draw. No cover.
"Didn't think I'd find a ghost," the enforcer sneered.
"Ghosts don't bleed," Shadow Walker replied.
He dropped suddenly, swiped up dust with one hand, flung it into the man's eyes, and lunged.
Gunshot.
Too late.
He twisted sideways, pain scraping his ribs. But he drove his knife into the man's gut, shoved, twisted. Blood poured. The enforcer screamed and fell. Shadow Walker staggered, clutching his side.
No time to stop. He limped out, crawled up the ridge as the warehouse trembled with chaos.
From his bike pack, he grabbed the detonator. A second passed.
His thumb pressed.
Boom!!!
The ground leapt. A cascade of explosions ripped the warehouse to pieces. Steel flew like confetti. Ammo cooked off like popcorn in hell. Fire chewed through everything.
A chain reaction sent the trucks up. Fuel tanks blew. Walls cracked. Dust swallowed flames... Or vice versa.
From his vantage, the Shadow Walker watched it burn.
He winced, mounted his dirt bike, and kicked it to life.
The night swallowed him.
---
As he cut through the dunes, heat and smoke behind him, Shadow Walker's internal HUD beeped—his side interface alerting him of infrared tags moving in pursuit.
Drones. Two of them. Likely contracted by Samuel's foreign allies.
He leaned into the throttle and banked hard toward the rockier terrain. His tires spat sand. The drones closed in, lasers blinking.
"Switching to silent mode," he muttered, and flipped a toggle on his wristpad. A pulse jammer deployed from his backpack, blanketing a certain radius with distortion.
One of the drones blinked, lost control, and spiraled into the sand. The second banked wide and held position.
He reached a hidden valley and parked under the rock. Calmly, he took out a compact railgun attachment and locked it onto his scope.
The second drone hovered just within sight.
Zzzzt.
A high-voltage round zipped through the air, and the drone exploded mid-hover. Debris rained down like fireworks.
Shadow Walker exhaled, leaned back against the rock, and took a breath. A long one.
Not because he was tired. But because the world had shifted again.
---
As he loaded up the bike again, his comm—which had remained dead for a long time hissed to life.
A voice. Hollow. Familiar. Synthetic.
"Kyle?"
He froze. That voice… it belonged to someone he hadn't heard in years. Someone who should've been dead.
The signal cut.
He stared into the stars for a second, then revved the bike again.