CHAPTER 3

...ALEKSEI DRAGUNOV...

War has rules.

Soldiers don’t.

People like to romanticize the uniform—medals, loyalty, patriotism. They think soldiers are built of honor and sacrifice.

They forget the truth:

Soldiers are trained to obey.

Men like me are trained to win.

I serve in the Special Recon and Covert Operations branch—the part of the military no one acknowledges, the kind filed under “nonexistent” during press conferences. My job isn’t shaking hands or stepping onto parade grounds.

My job is eliminating threats before the public even knows they existed.

I’ve spent years in deserts, mountains, and black-zone conflict regions—places where maps stop and reality begins. I’ve dragged bleeding men through sandstorms, watched friends die with their eyes open, and buried emotions somewhere between the first kill and the last heartbeat I stopped.

War didn’t break me.

It refined me.

Now, I work in a climate of secrecy—underground bunkers, steel hallways, coded doors. Nothing human lives here except discipline and purpose.

This morning feels no different—until my commanding officer slides a classified file across the table.

No preamble.

No explanation.

Just a name stamped in red:

AYSEL KARANLIK.

Under it:

High-Level International Criminal. Active in weapons economics, intelligence laundering, political destabilization.

A woman the military can’t touch openly—not because she’s invisible, but because she’s powerful.

Too powerful.

I flip through the documents:

Her photo—flawless cheekbones, restrained confidence, eyes that hold silence like a weapon. A face made for worship or war.

Crime reports. Shell companies. Offshore accounts. Disappearances.

No mistakes.

No weaknesses.

No loose ends.

A perfect ghost.

The general finally speaks.

“She’s expanding. Faster than projected.”

“And you want me to stop her?” I ask, voice level.

“Not yet.”

A pause—one heavy enough to be strategic.

“For now, you monitor. Assess. You shadow her world until you understand what she wants—and what she fears.”

I don’t answer immediately.

Monitoring someone like her isn’t surveillance—it’s chess inside a minefield.

“Why me?” I ask.

A humorless smile crosses his face.

“Because you don’t underestimate threats. And because you can look a monster in the eyes without trying to tame it.”

My jaw flexes—not in reaction, just calculation.

He adds quietly, “She cannot disappear again, Dragunov. Not this time.”

Orders given. Mission sealed.

Terminal.

Silent.

Precise.

I stand, take the file, and walk toward the exit. The weight of my rifle against my shoulder feels grounding, constant—something real.

As I reach the door, the general calls after me:

“One more thing.”

I stop.

“She’s seductive with her power. Men fall into her orbit.”

I don’t turn back.

“I don’t fall,” I say.

And it’s true.

I don’t fall.

I conquer.

Yet as I step out into the cold corridor, the image of her eyes lingers—not soft, not inviting.

Calculating.

Dangerous.

Unapologetically alive.

A ghost with a heartbeat.

And now?

She’s mine to hunt.

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