The explosion had left nothing but silence in its wake.
Gul blinked, trying to clear the dust from his eyes as the ringing in his ears slowly subsided. The market square, bustling with life only moments before, now resembled a charnel house. Bodies lay strewn across stone pavers, some intact, others in pieces. A child's doll rested against his boot, its plastic face melted and distorted by the heat of the blast.
He should feel something—horror, rage, sorrow—but there was nothing. Just the familiar numbness that had become his constant companion over the past five years.
"Sector clear, Commander," he reported into his radio, voice devoid of inflection. "Casualty count approximately thirty civilians. No sign of the target."
The voice that crackled back held no more emotion than his own. "Return to base. Mission debrief at 0600."
Gul holstered his weapon and turned away from the carnage, not bothering to wait for the cleanup crew. That wasn't his job anymore. His job was to find targets and eliminate them. The fact that he'd failed today meant only that he would be sent out again tomorrow.
Five years ago, he might have questioned the intelligence that led them to this marketplace. Five years ago, he might have hesitated before opening fire on a man who only vaguely matched their target's description. Five years ago, he might have felt something when that man detonated a suicide vest rather than be captured.
But that was five years and countless missions ago, before the border war had hollowed him out and left nothing but muscle memory and instinct.
The transport bounced along the rutted road leading back to the capital. Gul stared out the window at the bleak landscape passing by—scorched hills, abandoned villages, the occasional military checkpoint. This country, his country, had been at war for so long that peace seemed like a distant fairy tale told to children who had never known anything but conflict.
"You think they'll send us back to the eastern sector?" asked Farzan, the young soldier sitting across from him. His face was still smooth, eyes still bright with the belief that what they were doing mattered.
Gul didn't answer. The eastern sector was where he'd been stationed during the height of the border conflict. Where he'd watched his unit get decimated by artillery fire while command refused their requests for air support. Where he'd spent three days pinned down in a drainage ditch, surrounded by the bodies of men who had trusted him to lead them safely home.
"I heard they're rotating troops out," Farzan continued, undeterred by Gul's silence. "Sending them to join the NKVI. Better pay, they say. Better equipment."
"Not better missions," Gul finally responded, his voice like gravel. "NKVI doesn't protect borders. They eliminate problems."
"Problems like terrorists in marketplaces?" There was a hint of challenge in the young man's voice.
Gul's eyes shifted to meet Farzan's. "Problems like whoever the people in power decide are problems." He turned back to the window. "The uniform changes. The blood doesn't."
The debriefing was brief and perfunctory. General Rahimi, commander of their special operations unit, barely looked up from his paperwork as Gul delivered his report. The failed mission was noted without comment, filed away with dozens of others that had yielded nothing but civilian casualties and deepening resentment from the population they were ostensibly protecting.
"Captain Nazari," the general said as Gul turned to leave, "a moment."
Gul paused, his hand already on the door. "Sir?"
"Your tour ends next week."
It wasn't a question, but Gul nodded anyway. Five years of deployment. Five years of watching men die under his command. Five years of following orders that made less and less sense as the war dragged on.
"You've been recommended for discharge," Rahimi continued, finally looking up. His eyes were tired, the skin beneath them dark with fatigue. "Honorable. Full benefits. The psychiatric evaluation suggests you would benefit from extended leave."
"Extended leave," Gul repeated, the words tasting bitter. "You mean I'm burned out."
"I mean you've served your country well, Captain. But every soldier has limits."
Gul stared at him, wondering if Rahimi actually believed what he was saying. Whether any of them believed in anything anymore.
"Your alternative," the general continued when Gul remained silent, "is a lateral transfer. The National Knowledge and Virtue Initiative has expressed interest in your skills."
The NKVI. The secret police that everyone knew about but no one acknowledged. The men and women who disappeared political dissidents, crushed protests, and maintained the illusion of stability through terror and intimidation.
"Why would they want me?" Gul asked, genuinely curious.
Rahimi shrugged. "You follow orders. You don't ask questions. You get results, even if those results are sometimes...messier than anticipated."
"And if I choose discharge?"
"Then you go home. Back to your village. Your family. You try to forget what you've seen and done here. Some men manage it." The general's tone suggested he didn't think Gul would be one of them.
Home. The word should have conjured warmth, comfort, belonging. Instead, it raised only a vague anxiety, like trying to recall the face of someone met briefly long ago.
"I'll think about it," Gul said, knowing already what his decision would be. Men like him didn't go home. They didn't sit in village squares sharing stories of better days. They didn't hold children on their knees and promise a peaceful future.
Men like him continued fighting until someone finally put them in the ground.
The barracks were quiet when Gul returned. Most of his unit was still in the field or on leave. He sat on his bunk, cleaned his weapon with methodical precision, and considered his options.
Discharge meant civilian life. It meant explaining to his family why he'd stopped writing three years ago. It meant facing his mother's questioning eyes, his father's proud but cautious embrace. It meant sitting in the local tea house while old men asked him about the war, expecting heroic tales when all he had were nightmares.
The NKVI meant continuing what he already knew—violence, surveillance, the systematic dismantling of anything that threatened the state's fragile control. But it also meant purpose. Structure. The comfort of clear orders and expectations.
He finished reassembling his rifle and set it aside. Then he pulled out the small metal lockbox from under his bunk. Inside was a collection of mementos he'd accumulated during his deployment—a smooth stone from the river where they'd made their first camp, a patch from the uniform of a friend who hadn't survived their third mission, a tarnished coin given to him by a village elder for saving his grandson from a collapsing building.
Normal men collected such things as reminders of connection, of meaning found amid chaos. Gul had collected them as evidence that he had once been such a man.
He closed the box and returned it to its place. Then he lay back on his bunk and stared at the ceiling, wondering when exactly he had died inside, and why his body still insisted on walking around as if it contained something worth preserving.
The NKVI headquarters occupied a nondescript gray building in the capital's administrative district. No sign indicated its purpose; no guards stood visible at its entrance. But Gul noted the security cameras tracking his approach, the reinforced doors, the bulletproof glass of the reception area.
"Captain Nazari," the receptionist said without looking up. "Eighth floor. You're expected."
The elevator ride was silent, the corridor he emerged into empty. Only when he reached the door at the end did he encounter another person—a woman in a severe black suit, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes assessing him with clinical detachment.
"Captain," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Deputy Director Aisha Khalid. Welcome to the NKVI."
Her grip was firm, her smile professional but devoid of warmth. She gestured for him to enter the office behind her—a spacious room with windows overlooking the city, its walls lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets.
"Your military record is impressive," she said, taking a seat behind the desk and motioning for him to sit opposite her. "Distinguished service in the border conflict. Multiple commendations for bravery under fire. A natural leader, according to your early evaluations."
She flipped a page in the file before her. "And then a marked change three years ago. Increased risk-taking behavior. Insubordination. Psychological evaluation noting signs of severe PTSD and moral injury."
Gul said nothing. There was nothing to say. The file wasn't wrong.
"Tell me, Captain," Khalid continued, "why did you accept our invitation rather than take your discharge?"
He considered lying, then discarded the impulse. "I don't know how to be anything but a soldier anymore."
She nodded, unsurprised. "And how do you feel about transitioning from defending your country's borders to defending its internal security?"
"I follow orders," Gul said simply. "Point me at the enemy, and I'll eliminate the threat."
"And if the enemy isn't always so clearly defined? If the threats we face wear civilian clothes and speak our language and claim to love our country even as they work to destabilize it?"
Gul met her gaze steadily. "Then I'll need better intelligence than I received in the field. But the job remains the same."
Khalid studied him for a long moment, then nodded again. "You understand that the NKVI operates under different rules than the military. Our missions are classified. Our methods are not subject to the same oversight. The enemies we fight rarely wear uniforms or carry weapons."
"I understand."
"And you're comfortable with that?"
Comfortable. As if comfort had anything to do with it. As if he remembered what comfort felt like.
"I'm effective," he said instead.
She smiled then, a brief curve of lips that still didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, I believe you will be." She closed his file and set it aside. "You'll start as a field operative under Commander Dalir. He specializes in direct action against imminent threats. Given your background, it seemed the most appropriate placement."
Direct action. A euphemism for assassination, most likely. Gul found he didn't care.
"When do I start?"
"Tomorrow. 0500. Report to the basement level for equipment issue and briefing." She stood, signaling the end of the interview. "Welcome to the NKVI, Agent Nazari. Your country continues to need men like you."
Men like him. Broken men. Men who could kill without hesitation because they'd lost the capacity to feel the weight of it.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, standing as well. "I'll serve as required."
The basement of the NKVI building housed their armory and training facilities. Gul arrived early, finding the place already bustling with activity despite the pre-dawn hour. Men and women moved with purpose, their faces set in the same grim determination he recognized from his own mirror.
"Nazari," a voice called from across the room. "Over here."
Commander Dalir was a compact man with iron-gray hair and a network of scars across his left cheek. He didn't offer a hand to shake, merely nodded toward a door marked "Briefing Room A."
"You're early," Dalir said as they entered the room. "Good. Gives us time to clarify expectations."
The room was small, dominated by a table bearing satellite imagery of what appeared to be a small compound in a rural area. Gul recognized the terrain—the northern provinces, where government control had always been tenuous at best.
"Your file says you know the Khorram Valley," Dalir continued, confirming Gul's assessment.
"Two tours there," Gul replied. "Rough country. Locals don't trust outsiders."
"They don't trust the government either. With good reason." Dalir tapped the image. "This compound belongs to a man named Javid Farsi. Former professor of political science at the national university. Currently the ideological leader of the so-called Freedom Movement."
Gul had heard rumors of the Freedom Movement during his last deployment. Educated dissidents calling for democratic reforms, an end to emergency powers, investigations into disappeared citizens. The kind of people who wrote manifestos and gave passionate speeches but rarely posed a real threat to state security.
"What's his crime?" Gul asked, the question automatic, a remnant of when he'd still cared about such distinctions.
Dalir's eyes narrowed slightly. "He's planning to release evidence of government involvement in the Azadi Square massacre. Doctored evidence that would inflame tensions and potentially spark civil unrest."
The Azadi Square massacre. Three years ago. A peaceful protest turned bloody when someone—the official story claimed foreign agitators—opened fire on the crowd. Eighty-seven dead, including twelve children. Gul had been deployed to the eastern front at the time, but he remembered the aftermath—increased security measures, a crackdown on public gatherings, dozens of arrests.
"Your mission," Dalir continued, "is to neutralize Farsi and secure any documentation he may have compiled. We believe he's meeting with journalists in three days to hand over his so-called evidence."
"Neutralize," Gul repeated. "You want him dead."
"I want him stopped," Dalir corrected, though his tone suggested the distinction was merely semantic. "How you accomplish that is up to you. But no witnesses, no traces of NKVI involvement. As far as the public will know, if they know anything, Farsi was killed by common criminals or rival dissidents."
Gul studied the satellite imagery again, his mind already calculating approaches, escape routes, contingencies. "Team?"
"Solo mission. Fewer variables that way." Dalir slid a folder across the table. "All the intelligence we have is in here. Memorize it, then return it before you leave today."
A solo assassination mission on his first day. Either they trusted his skills implicitly, or...
"This seems like a high-risk operation for a new recruit," Gul observed.
Dalir's expression didn't change. "Everyone starts somewhere, Agent Nazari. Consider it a test of your adaptability."
Or a convenient way to eliminate a damaged soldier who knew too much about military operations gone wrong. Gul had seen it before—men sent on suicide missions because they'd become liabilities rather than assets.
"I'll need specialized equipment," he said, accepting the folder. "Night vision. Silenced weapons. Climbing gear."
"Requisition whatever you need from the armory. Fadel is your contact there." Dalir moved toward the door. "Questions?"
Gul had dozens, but none that Dalir would answer truthfully. "No, sir."
"Good. You leave at 2200. Transport will be arranged." Dalir paused at the door. "Don't disappoint us, Nazari. The NKVI doesn't give second chances."
The compound was exactly as the intelligence had described: a modest two-story structure surrounded by a perimeter wall, nestled against the foothills of mountains that eventually formed the northern border. Two guards at the main gate, another patrolling the perimeter, basic security cameras with likely blind spots.
Gul observed from his position in the rocky terrain above the compound, noting guard rotations, lighting patterns, potential entry points. It was nearly midnight, the compound quiet except for the occasional movement of sentries.
According to the file, Farsi would be in the second-floor study, working late as was his habit. His wife and teenage son should be asleep in the east wing. Three house staff—a cook, a driver, and a housekeeper—occupied quarters near the kitchen at the rear of the property.
Simple enough. Enter through the blind spot in the camera coverage on the west wall. Neutralize any guards encountered. Reach Farsi's study without alerting the household. Eliminate the target. Secure any documents or digital media. Exit the same way.
Clean. Efficient. The kind of mission he'd performed dozens of times during the border conflict, though usually against military targets rather than aging academics.
Gul checked his equipment one last time—silenced handgun, combat knife, night vision goggles—then began his approach. The terrain was familiar in its harshness, loose stones and scrub vegetation providing minimal cover. But he moved with the silent efficiency of a predator, his body remembering skills his mind had tried to forget.
The perimeter wall was old, its stone surface offering plenty of handholds. Gul scaled it without difficulty, pausing at the top to survey the compound grounds. The patrolling guard was on the far side, moving away from his position. No dogs, thankfully. The security cameras were pointed toward the main gate and the road beyond.
He dropped silently into the garden below, crouching behind an ornamental shrub as his eyes adjusted to the different light conditions. The house was dark except for a single illuminated window on the second floor—Farsi's study, most likely.
Moving from shadow to shadow, Gul approached the main building. A trellis covered in flowering vines offered a convenient route to the second floor. He tested it first, ensuring it would bear his weight, then climbed quickly and efficiently. The window of the study was partially open, voices carrying faintly through the gap.
"—can't delay any longer," a male voice was saying, presumably Farsi. "Every day we wait, they disappear more of our people."
"Publication is dangerous," another voice replied, female, unfamiliar. "Not just for you, but for anyone connected to the movement. We need guarantees of international coverage, protection for our sources."
"There are no guarantees," Farsi said, his tone weary but resolute. "Only the certainty that silence equals death for our country."
Gul reached the window and peered carefully inside. The study was warmly lit, its walls lined with bookshelves. Farsi sat behind a desk, his back to the window. Facing him was a woman Gul didn't recognize—young, perhaps thirty, with short dark hair and intense eyes. Neither seemed armed or immediately dangerous.
He could complete the mission now—two shots, quick and clean. Collateral damage in the form of the woman, but acceptable within the parameters he'd been given.
His hand moved to his weapon, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip. One quick motion to raise it, two pulls of the trigger, and the mission would be complete. He'd return to headquarters, report success, receive his next assignment. The machine would continue functioning.
But something made him hesitate. Perhaps it was the conversation he'd overheard, so at odds with the briefing Dalir had provided. Perhaps it was the obvious age and frailty of his target, so different from the dangerous radical he'd been led to expect. Or perhaps it was simply that, despite everything, some small part of him still needed to understand why he was killing.
He remained motionless, listening.
"The evidence is irrefutable," Farsi was saying, turning to a laptop on his desk. "The order to fire came directly from the Interior Ministry. The snipers were NKVI operatives, not foreign agents. They deliberately targeted children first to cause panic and justify the subsequent crackdown."
The woman leaned forward, examining whatever was displayed on the screen. "How did you get this?"
"A conscience is a terrible burden," Farsi replied. "Even within the NKVI, there are those who cannot sleep at night. One of them reached out to me six months ago. They've been helping gather evidence ever since."
Gul felt something cold settle in his stomach. Not doctored evidence, then. Not foreign propaganda. Real documentation of a government-sanctioned massacre of its own citizens.
He'd followed orders during the border war, even when those orders led to civilian casualties. He'd told himself it was necessary, that there were larger strategic considerations he wasn't privy to. But ordering the execution of children to justify political repression...
"The courier arrives tomorrow," Farsi continued. "Once we have the final piece—the actual written order—we can proceed with publication. The government will deny it, of course, but the evidence speaks for itself."
"And then what?" the woman asked. "Do you really believe the people will rise up? After years of fear and repression?"
"I believe in truth," Farsi said simply. "The rest is not in my hands."
Gul withdrew from the window, his mind racing. He had his orders. Neutralize Farsi. Secure the evidence. Return to headquarters. Simple. Clear. Requiring no moral judgment or personal investment.
But for the first time in years, he found himself questioning those orders. Wondering if he was once again being used as a tool to silence truth rather than protect his country.
The realization didn't come with any great emotional upheaval. He was too far gone for that. But it did present a tactical problem. If he completed the mission as ordered, he would be complicit in covering up a state crime. If he abandoned the mission, he would become a target himself, hunted by the very organization he had just joined.
Neither option appealed to him particularly. But then, personal preference had never been a consideration in his life as a soldier.
Gul moved back to the window, his decision made. He would complete the mission, but not as specified. He would gather intelligence first. Determine the nature of this evidence. And then... then he would decide where his duty truly lay.
Because despite everything, despite the numbness and the nightmares and the blood on his hands, he had joined the military to protect his country. Not to protect the powerful at the expense of the innocent.
He eased the window open further and slipped inside.