When intelligence networks collapse, covert missions unravel, and a single identification tag threatens an entire operation, this Covert Operations Thriller reveals how survival begins after the mission has already failed.
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Story Chapter Name: Chasing Ashes
Book name : The Merchant of Silence
Series name: Sigil of Silence
Sequence : Book 2 of the series
Author: Zyphar Animas
Editor: Nimo Verin
Publisher: Print & Digital
Published: 2026
ISBN Ebook: 978-984-35-8933-0
ISBN paper back: 978-9843589187
Read “Chasing Ashes,” a free-to-read standalone Covert Operations Thriller chapter from The Merchant of Silence—Book Two of the Sigil of Silence series by Zyphar Animas.
Chasing Ashes
Bukit Bintang, KLCC District
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Rasheed didn’t expect good news to find him.
But it hit hard anyway.
The Maker sent an official ping. The monster was neutralized before it could ever rise. He’d already seen the headline in the New Estate Times.
Penang Bombing, they called it. Rasheed didn’t need a breakdown. The equation was simple; the reality, ruthless. And yet… he wasn’t relieved. Not entirely.
The Maker had acted alone. No heads-up for Commander Kamran, not a whisper through the network—just a surgical hit, then gone without a trace. Too efficient. Which meant one thing: he didn’t need them. Not to act. Not even to inform. And that—was the real message.
Rasheed knew Kamran saw it too. You don’t last this long without learning to read between detonations. When Rasheed cautiously brought it up, the commander only said:
—Focus on the mission. Let the ashes rot in the dark.
So he did. Landed in Kuala Lumpur as ordered.
Rasheed had seen cities rot before. Malaysia was just better lit.
A Muslim country on paper, hungry for Western cash everywhere else. Kuala Lumpur glittered on foundations of compromise—what started as side hustle for expat wallets, pubs, casinos, escort bars—had turned institutional.
Corruption wasn’t an accident; it was the wiring. Officials who once turned a blind eye now turned keys and opened doors.
Now, the whole city breathed corruption like oxygen. Everyone blamed someone else. No one stopped anything. And why would they? Everyone got a cut. That’s how you bury a society—not with war, but with comfort. And Rasheed Dameer was here to count the graves before the next one opened.
He sat buried in the neon gut of the KLCC, the epicenter of sin. His gaze swept the scene with the cold precision of a man mapping out fresh war zones. He’d seen Amsterdam. Walked Prague. Kuala Lumpur was smoother. More polite. Draped a veil over the vulgar—because here, even sin wore a scarf.
Surface-level, everything looked civilized—just for show. The club itself perched thirteen floors up, above the corporate headquarters of a multinational electronics giant. No sign, no glow. If you knew, you knew. And If you didn’t—they made sure you found out. Scouts—slick as aged wine—prowled the street. One nod, one whisper, a promise of a good time—and you were led right into paradise.
Three hundred ringgit bought the full ride. Food. Company. Smiles that never broke. Only the booze was extra. A clean receipt for dirty pleasure.
Rasheed had to admit—the whole thing ran too smooth for comfort. Service hit you like a five-star battlefield: polished, efficient, forgettable only if someone left their soul at the door.
Word was, the entire floor—and most of the surrounding block—belonged to a bulldog tycoon out of Red China. But that mutt was just a front. The real wiring ran east. Beijing tugged the strings from deep in the dark. The Russians had a slice too. So did the Albanians.
In KL, if a business made real money, someone heavy held the leash. Usually someone you’d never see.
Rasheed didn’t want to be here. In his world, orders never landed by accident. He waited. Nothing in his life ever happened without purpose. There was no signal here. Not a single look his way—no one even acting like he mattered.
Except one: a skinny kid from the buffet squad, looks like Indian, making laps to his table—three, maybe four times—offering food with too much sugar in his smile.
The usual hustle. The buffet was part of the package—all-you-can-eat, all-inclusive, but the staff worked the floor hoping to score tips from anyone who looked soft enough.
Rasheed pegged him for just another grinder. Eventually, real hunger kicked in. He caught the boy’s eye and waved him over. The kid lit up, rattled off a list of “most popular dishes.”
Rasheed cut him off:
—Nothing heavy. Something light. Low spice.
Five minutes later, what landed was… biryani. That was enough to crack Rasheed’s patience.
—Just because you’re Indian, I have to eat biryani now?
His voice dropped, sharp as broken glass:
—You jackass—take it back. I said light. Low spice. What’s wrong with you?
The boy flinched, almost bowed.
—Sir—I’m not Indian. I’m Bangladeshi. And our biryani here, it’s mild. Very light, sir. Please, just try.
The raw honesty softened Rasheed just enough. He waved it off.
—I know your country bro, and I must say thanks—but this won’t do. See if you’ve got bread. Salad. Something basic.
Ten minutes later the kid returned with naan and a side of Russian salad. The naan was slicked with butter—couldn’t dodge the Indian touch—but the salad was clean. It’d do.
As he ate, Rasheed considered wandering the floor. He didn’t see anyone watching. No signs of contact. No nods or loaded looks. Maybe this wasn’t the spot after all. He figured he’d finish up, scout the street, maybe loop back later if anything shifted.
Just as Rasheed pushed his chair back, the butler materialized—half-smile locked in place.
—Sir, the kid said, voice low. Our food didn’t suit you. Maybe this place will.
He handed over a small black card. Didn’t wait for a thank you. Didn’t angle for a tip. Just nodded and vanished into the neon flow.
Rasheed almost dropped the card into the ashtray—reflex. Every worker in a city like this ran double shifts—waiter-slash-fixer, driver-slash-pimp, tip culture knotted to side hustle. But a glance at the card locked his hand mid-motion.
Roblox Mines – Fabulous Food & Fun. Address printed below, out on the edge of the city. The “food & fun” wasn’t his concern. The logo was.
Angular. Grey.
A stylized robot face—with eyes Rasheed would never forget. It was his face.
The Maker.
No name, no signature. Just a shape burned into plastic. That was the message. And Rasheed Dameer knew how to follow a lead.
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The Mines, Selangor Outskirts
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Driving in Malaysia was surprisingly civilized— at least compared to the rest of Asia’s chaos. Roads were solid. Rules actually meant something. Which made the one-hour drive out of KL a breeze.
Rasheed followed the highway as it carved through hills and dense forest. The GPS led him past industrial blocks, then into something that looked more like a billionaire’s playground than a food joint. So much for just grabbing a meal.
The place sprawled—monstrous in scale. On one side of a glassy man-made lake stood a full-blown golf resort. On the other, a retail behemoth masquerading as a shopping mall. In between—pure tourist chaos.
A night bazaar sprawled over a square kilometer, lights strung overhead like a net of falling stars, the air so thick with roasted spice he could taste the menu before he’d actually found a stall.
The sign glared: ROBLOX MINES. He barely made it three steps into the madness before a wall in a tailored suit blocked his path.
Older guy. Cut like granite. Salt-and-pepper beard, tamed but not quite. And—something too familiar about the face.
Before Rasheed could pin the memory, the man crushed him in a bear hug.
—Welcome, Rasheed Dameer—the mujahid himself—welcome to The Mines.
Then, a quick release.
—They said you’d be here an hour ago.
That stung. Because he wasn’t wrong.
If Rasheed had paid attention to the butler and ditched the club scene early, he would’ve arrived exactly on time. But nothing about this place said casual. And the idea that they knew his ETA before he’d even started driving—that twisted a knot in his gut.
Still, Rasheed kept his expression locked.
—Been a while since I saw KL, he said, voice cool. Didn’t want to rush the view. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.
The man just smiled, silent. But the shape of his jaw, the tilt of his head—Rasheed almost recognized it. Some ghost from the past.
Whoever he was, he turned and motioned Rasheed to follow. They pushed through a maze of sizzling grills and neon signage, locals and tourists chewing their way through the heat of the night.
At the far end of the chaos stood an apartment block—five stories, its red-tile roof jutting out in sharp triangles.
The shape was wrong for local architecture. Not a flat top. Not a dome. A hard, conical pitch—the kind of roof built to shed snow.
Except—this was Malaysia.
Rasheed had never even heard of snow falling here. But here stood a rooftop designed to defy winter. He said nothing, but a chill bled through his spine. Something cold was waiting inside.
Two armed guards posted at the entrance, rifles crossed over black tactical kits. They didn’t stop Rasheed. Didn’t check him, didn’t even blink. They weren’t there to vet him. They were there to let him pass.
The muscle-mountain led him up four flights—hallways steeped in the scent of polished leather and premeditated violence. The suite at the top sprawled—big enough to be a headquarters or a confession booth.
Inside, the man peeled off his blazer and dropped into a chair. He spoke in flawless Pashto:
—My condolences for Shahid Bahrram Gazi.
That was it. A name Rasheed hadn’t heard in weeks. Silence, shattered.
The man leaned in—voice warm, eyes glacial. He asked how Rasheed was holding up. Asked about his travel, his health. Small questions. Big weight. And then it clicked. This wasn’t a random liaison.
Back in Herat, years before ISIS splintered and burned, Rasheed had smuggled a weapons shipment under deep proxy cover. The man who’d received it had a face like stone and a jagged scar above his left eyebrow. Rasheed studied the man now. No scar. But the feeling matched.
The man grinned, catching the question behind Rasheed’s stare.
—Looking for a scar, are we?
Rasheed stayed silent. The man went on.
—ISIS was a stage show, the man said, smirk cutting sideways— Now we’re done playing. No more sandy games. No proxy wars. This is a new era—and we’re a new movement. Now we wear suits and hunt from penthouses.
He laughed, fingering his own tailored threads like a kid with a superhero cape.
Two more men entered. Slightly smaller, but still built like wrecking balls. They nodded at Rasheed, shook hands, took seats.
The mood flipped—instantly.
The leader’s grin vanished, eyes gone surgical.
—You can’t teach them pain with desert shootouts, Hazrat. Their kids need to bleed on sidewalks. Their homes need to burn. Their wives need to cry at empty cupboards. Only then will they grasp what a few barrels of crude oil cost our people.
Rasheed didn’t flinch. The logic wasn’t wrong. Just crooked.
—I stand with The Maker, he continued. —This isn’t revenge. It’s correction. You’re high-ranking in this new movement. Tell us, Hazrat—what’s your vision?
All three stared—watching, measuring. Truth was, Rasheed wasn’t a philosopher. Never claimed to be. But silence now would be louder than anything else.
He leaned forward. Picked his words like bullets.
—I’ve never been a fan of ethnic terrorism, he began. —I believed—maybe stupidly—that the West had citizens with education and conscience. That if their governments bombed us, their people would rise up, force it to stop.
He paused. No one blinked.
—But they didn’t. They danced in bars while our children died at home. They binged Netflix while drones wiped out our villages. Their silence bought this war. So yes. Now it’s their turn to pay the price.
The mountain exhaled like a prayer.
—Marhaba, Hazrat, Marhaba! Khudo bless the hand that brings down those Kafirs in Eilat. Your clarity… your judgment—it’s divine.
He stood again. Crushing Rasheed like a brother returning from war. The two others followed—chests thudding together, pact sealed. They’d been all smiles till now.
Rasheed figured it was time to gut the surface and go straight to the bone.
—Ikhwani al-mujahideen, Rasheed began, locking eyes with each of them, — I’m honored to be here. As you know, I’ve had my hands full with visionary ops. High command figured I could use a change of pace before I burn out. I’ve got zero eyes on your setup here. Enlighten me. Where do I start?
There was a flicker of hesitation—respectful. Then the big one, the muscle mountain, leaned forward with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
—Under instructions from higher up, he said. —We’re told to align this cell’s actions with your strategy. Just like you did in Eilat. The Maker sent us a new package. A smaller, tighter version of your original payload. Deadlier. Beautiful piece of work.
He shot a look at his partners, then added,
—Plan was to push it through Singapore. Strangle the Western pigs at their golden artery—shut down trade, lock the straits. Once that route’s gone, their only real supply lines run through Chinese ports or the Gulf—both friendlier ground for us. We’d hit them in the wallet and funnel business our way.
Rasheed’s fingers tapped once on the armrest.
—Go on, he said. —The package landed before you even touched down in Phuket. The Maker advised we loop you in. But our unit’s commander, Mohabbat Khan—stubborn bastard—chose not to brief you. Claimed he had a better angle. Gave it to some Arab friend of his instead.
The brute looked disgusted, spitting the words like bile.
—Idiot took the device to his hotel room. Brought in a girl, got sloppy. Next morning—she’s gone, and so’s the package.
Rasheed’s silence turned sharp. He could’ve moved that device across Singaporean waters in a few hours, tops. No mess. No exposure. But they’d treated it like a toy.
He cut the brute off:
—I was in Phuket for days after that meeting. Mohabbat Khan knew it. Why didn’t he come to me when the package disappeared?
The room changed temperature. The youngest of the three cleared his throat, half a smirk curling his lip.
—Hazrat, with respect… you’re always moving. Too busy to see what people say about you. Especially the field units. A lot of them don’t see you as one of us. They call you hārib. The deserter who ran from his war. Say you bailed on Hamas during the hard time. Some field crew don’t want to take orders from a hārib.
Rasheed didn’t blink. He’d heard it all before.
Always whispered, never faced straight on. But now—they’d let ego sink a mission that could’ve paralyzed a continent.
He stood, eyes sweeping all three men.
—Since the day Commander Kamran called me in, I’ve risked my life keeping your supply lines alive. One wrong turn, one missed step on my end, and your whole Southeast cell would be nothing but red on the asphalt.
His voice dropped to iron.
—And yet you chose ego over strategy. Let your fucking feelings cost us an op.
Rasheed’s words had barely settled in the air. The three started smiling—like hyenas too dumb, or too savage, to recognize the roar of a lion.
The young brute—dark-skinned, thick arms knotted with muscle, smiling like a villain drawn in cheap ink—spoke first.
—Don’t get us wrong, Hazrat. Back when you fought for Gaza, that was for your own blood. But now, as Dameer, you hit wider—beyond borders. Mujahideen, regardless of tribe,
eats from the fruits of your ops. The real fighters among us? We know. We respect it. We see you as one of our own. But you know how it is— half these new hybrids, recruited for connections or wallets, not faith, don’t get it. Mohabbat Khan was one of those. Arrogant bastard’s already paid for it. You’ll see soon enough.
As he finished, muscle-mountain—Khurram—took the handoff smooth.
—Like I said before, the day after that whore ran off with the package, Mohabbat finally told us what happened. Way too late, of course. We, the Malaysia hub, were prepping to fly out to Phuket and clean the mess. But before we could lift off, he shows up here. Tail tucked, hands shaking. Coward. The Maker’s response was clear: break his bones. See what he gives up. Until we get a new lead, we’re to recover the package—or the bitch who took it.
Khurram leaned in, voice dropping to a hush.
—Our boys tracked her within the week. Found her packing to bolt—package gone, of course. She was trying to escape—hiding in the back of some Thai mob punk’s ride. We iced him, snatched her, and flagged it up the chain. HQ told us to forget the Thai crew and focus on the girl. We were ordered to extract intel—whatever it takes. So we brought her here.
A pause. Khurram’s eyes hardened as he continued.
—We tried the gentle route. Got close to breaking her. But somewhere, somehow, we still fucked up.
His tone stayed even, but the shame leaked through the cracks.
—I didn’t repeat Mohabbat’s mistake. I reported every step. Told them we weren’t getting full intel and needed outside hands. That’s when they told us you were inbound.
Rasheed’s fingers went still. He wasn’t just listening now—he was calculating.
—You followed protocol. That’s good, he said, voice measured. —But what exactly did you fuck up?
A shift rippled through the room. Glances traded. Then Khurram again, slower this time.
—Well… you know how it is. When you’re trying to get answers, sometimes you need to… press harder. And, uh, my younger brother here—Khursheed—he’s… let’s just say he’s curious. About women. A little like your old comrade Bahrram Gazi, actually.
He gestured to the younger brute. Rasheed’s face didn’t move. But his voice came down like a guillotine.
—You know Gazi’s appetites. Then you should know how he died.
The silence cut the air raw. Rasheed locked eyes with Khurram. No heat. Just cold execution.
—He bled out in the desert… in front of my eyes. Trying to scream with his own severed cock shoved down his throat.
Rasheed turned now, just slightly, to face Khursheed.
—If you want your brother to die choking on his own dick, by all means—let him keep playing games with captives.
The laughter died.
Khurram straightened in his seat, expression sober now. Khursheed looked like he wanted to disappear. The third man had already gone stiff, as if waiting for a bullet.
The whole room shifted.
Khurram cleared his throat, then launched in again—like he’d been waiting for the mic.
—We tried the usual at first—nothing brutal. Figured the bitch would fold. But she kept her mouth shut. The clock is ticking.
You know how it is—if there’s no ransom deal, a captured girl’s only worth is what the boys can get out of her before we put a bullet in her skull. After a few dead-end days, I handed her to little Khurshid here. Figured he could… learn on the job.
Khurram cast a mock-sheepish glance at the younger brute,
who didn’t even flinch.
—Kid’s got a curious streak. Young blood, you know how that goes. He went too far. Girl couldn’t handle it. She dropped into a coma. Maybe dead by now. We’ll check. Meanwhile, we still had standing orders to grill that bastard—Mohabbat Khan. We figured, maybe he was involved, too. We worked him over—properly this time. But before he could spill anything useful, he just crashed—seven seconds flat. Fucking cardiac arrest. Just like that. Hero in life, punk in death. We’ve kept the body on ice. If you want to see him, say the word.
The grin drained from Rasheed’s face.
—But out of that whole shitshow, we did get one thread. From Khan’s mumbling and what our scouts pulled in from Phuket, we learned the missing girl had someone looking for her—another woman. Name’s Miss Marisha Jasmín. Supposedly her sister. We dug into her. And yeah, Hazrat… something was off.
Khurram kept rolling, oblivious.
—Turns out Miss Jasmín’s not some helpless civilian. She’s under full-time protection from Chinese Tong muscle in Phuket. That’s big-league backing. And when she hit KL, she didn’t book a hotel or run for a safehouse. She went straight to the private crib of Papa Cheng’s trusted lieutenant. We knew this guy. He’s got history with the Russians—blew up half a block in Penang not long ago. After that mess, he ghosted. Stayed buried. Never left his own turf. But this chick lands in KL and shacks up with him? Then boom—next day, she walks straight into Zamuk HQ. No way in hell that’s random.
Khurram paused, cracked his knuckles, leaned in.
—We’ve got deep eyes inside Zamuk. With their help, we nabbed her before she could hit up one of their handlers. She wasn’t talking either. We tried a light dose—kept it clean. Didn’t budge. No intel, nothing worth the trouble. But we’re not morons—we didn’t rough her up like the last one. Sent everything to high command and waited for word. That’s when they told us you were inbound, Hazrat. You’d decide what came next.
By now it was clear: the big man loved to talk. Could go all night if he got the chance. But Rasheed was done listening. He didn’t care for the chatter anymore—he had the thread he needed.
The whole thing was a hornet’s nest—unknown players chasing the tech, maybe traitors on the inside. Everyone tangled in this op was either grabbed or already burned.
Except one. Papa Cheng’s lieutenant. The bastard in the private residence—still free, still moving. Which meant Rasheed had work to do.
The Afghan brutes could’ve handled it—should’ve, if they hadn’t frozen up after botching everything else. Now they waited for orders, afraid to breathe without permission.
Fine. They’d get it.
—Bring him in, Rasheed said. No bargaining.
The slabs nodded, hustling out in silence—hungry to atone, desperate to be useful.
Then Rasheed stood. No speeches left. He slid his jacket back over his frame and lumbered for the exit, Rasheed in tow.
Night had settled deep. They moved behind the apartment block, through pools of cheap artificial light that barely scratched the dark—just enough to walk, not enough to see faces.
They walked in silence for ten minutes before the manicured fringe gave way to undergrowth—half-wild terrain brushing against concrete.
Khurram let out a thin giggle, flashing teeth.
—Careful, Hazrat. Snakes love this patch.
He didn’t slow down. Just waddled on, drunk on bulk and confidence.
Rasheed’s eyes narrowed. If this was a setup, Khurram picked the wrong man. Rasheed had crossed more borders than this ox had seen action films. If the brute tried anything, he’d be mulch before the moon cleared a cloud.
Rasheed followed—silent, alert, clocking every detail. They reached a squat steel hatch—half-buried in the dirt—bunker style, the kind seen in apocalypse reruns.
Rasheed had watched fiction steal from war, but he never thought the real world would return the favor.
Khurram crouched, fiddled with the lock, finally got it to snap open. Rasheed almost smirked at the clown show—then sharpened up. Time to focus.
Inside, a tight stairwell dropped away, pale blue light bleeding down the walls—The Maker signature all over it. Clean cuts. No wasted space.
Every edge humming with surgical menace.
—After you, Hazrat, Khurram said.
Rasheed moved. Behind him, the hatch slammed shut.
First came a round atrium. Hallways shot out in five directions like limbs of a starfish. Khurram picked the third on the left, leading with his ragged breath echoing off steel and tile.
The place felt familiar, even though Rasheed had never walked these halls. But the design spoke of one mind. The Maker’s. Each chamber cut with the same ruthless precision. Intelligence hammered into steel.
They stopped at a side lab. Another digital lock. Inside: a drawer the size of a coffin, hissing open on command. A freezer. Khurram pulled it open and slid the tray halfway out.
Mohabbat Khan lay inside.
The man Rasheed had met in Phuket—mouth on legs, always running, even mid-op. Now he looked like meat—cold, drained, nothing left inside. Just another casualty. Just another reminder.
Khurram claimed a little shock stopped his heart. Rasheed doubted it. He gestured—take him out.
Khurram shed his coat, hauled the corpse onto a sterile table. Rasheed ran a quick inspection.
Burn marks ringed wrists and ankles. Nothing else—no deep bruises, no marks of slow pain, just the last electric burst. Maybe it was a heart attack after all.
Still, it reeked of mismanagement.
—Put him back, Rasheed said.
Khurram complied, sliding the tray home. Next—the girl.
They swung back to the hub, turned left into what passed for a medical wing.
Behind a one-way mirror, a young woman lay comatose on a hospital bed. Tubes fed her arms, machines flickered all around. She was alive. Barely.
Rasheed’s jaw locked down. Her body—what was left untouched—was a map of ruin, burn marks, bruises in places no blade belonged.
He stared. Silent. Too long. This was beyond protocol. This was desecration.
Khurram started to open the door—nervously hopeful, maybe—but Rasheed raised a hand. No.
Their eyes locked. For the first time, Khurram dropped his gaze.
—I told you, Hazrat… the boys are young. Don’t know the real techniques yet… he mumbled.
Rasheed ignored it. Already walking. He wanted to see the other girl.
They circled back—another corridor, colder, lined with heavy steel doors. Just like The Maker’s face.
Khurram stopped at the center door. Keypad. Code. Click.
It swung wide. Rasheed stepped inside. The room looked like a horror set under flickering, low voltage light. Half-dried, blackened blood streaked the floor and walls—some splattered wild, some soaked deep into the steel.
Torture tools lined two long metal tables: saw-blades, clamps, tongs—some still wet, catching the low voltage gleam. But it was the figure hanging from the ceiling that locked Rasheed’s breath in his chest.
A girl.
Beauty that made no sense here—strung up like a carcass. Thick iron chains fed through a ceiling ring, biting into her wrists. Arms pulled up, head slumped forward—chin pressed to her collarbone, long black hair veiling her face like a shroud.
Rasheed stared. For a second, he felt nothing at all.
He flicked a hand at Khurram. The brute walked up and grabbed the girl’s hair, yanking it to expose her face.
She was breathtaking—even now. Bruised, dirt-smeared, barely conscious. Rasheed didn’t linger on her beauty. His gaze went straight to her throat.
A dog tag. He reached out—hand trembling—fingers brushing cold metal. The name etched into it knocked the air from his chest.
Froze him to the soul.
One tag.
The other half—Rasheed already had.
Found at the bloodbath, the night Bahrram Gazi’s throat was sliced open. Dropped by the corpse, left as a message.
And now she was here—this girl. That face—he finally placed it. Thread by thread, memory snapped back into place. And when it hit, Rasheed’s knees just buckled.
The war dog—the ghostmaker—the man who’d stared down death a hundred times—dropped like a sack, hard and helpless.
His breath shuddered. Sweat ran cold down his spine. Khurram rushed over, confused.
—Hazrat? What happened? You alright?
Rasheed couldn’t speak. Jaw shaking, every cell screaming. Not from pain. From the cold burn of truth.
He pulled in all his strength, grinding out words like ash through fire:
—What the fuck have you done, you pig—CALL YOUR MEN BACK. NOW.
His voice came out hoarse, shredded, furious—already cracked from the inside.
Khurram blinked. For a beat, he didn’t understand.
Then he glanced between Rasheed, shaking on the floor, and the girl with the dog tag at her throat. Her face.
Suddenly, the math landed. Khurram—son of Afghan mountains, breaker of men—had been called many things in a dozen languages, but never a pig.
If anyone else had said it, he’d have torn out their tongue and made them choke on it. But this was Rasheed Dameer AKA Rasheed Farish. The man who’d razed an Israeli city with a single crate of Maker fire.
Khurram swallowed his pride. No protest. Just a stiff nod, and he yanked out his phone.
Rasheed stayed on the floor, chest locking up in gasps. Panic owned him—hard, merciless.
Behind his eyes, the images spun—sharp, savage, looping on repeat. Phuket. His safehouse.
The girl—this same girl—up on stage, singing. Rasheed had paused to listen, liked her voice, shook her hand after.
Then she’d dropped offstage, flung herself into someone’s arms—he’d noticed, distantly. Assumed boyfriend. Ignored it.
Then the attack. That night.
He’d never seen the face—buried behind the girl’s hair. But now it was obvious.
It was him. That monster.
The devil no one could ever track—not CIA, not Mossad, not even the Maker. The one Rasheed himself had buried under tons of concrete—by his own hand. And still—the bastard turned up in Phuket. Walked the streets like a tourist.
Mocked Rasheed’s security like it was a party trick. Later, the Maker had assured him: the threat’s neutralized.
Bullshit.
Looking at the girl strung from the ceiling, Rasheed finally understood something he’d spent a lifetime denying—for a woman like that, even he could burn down the whole world. And if he could feel that…
Then what the hell would Darius Caesar do? The man who bled cities dry just to keep himself entertained. The man who turned killing into a Sunday ritual.
Rasheed had never wanted a woman in his life. Saw them as chaos wrapped in perfume. Stayed a bachelor by instinct, not by accident. Even history—real history—spelled it out.
One woman, one damn tag, one misplaced desire—that was all it took to set Troy on fire. And after Troy… came the fall of civilization.
He was staring at the next one. Because hanging from her neck—alongside those bruises and that bleeding pride—was his own fate.
Not just his.
Commander Kamran.
The Maker.
That prancing owl.
The entire operation.
It all hung there, clinking against the steel-tag marked Caesar.
And Rasheed knew. This was not his war to fight. This was beyond command, beyond ideology. It was myth clawing its way into flesh.
First move: get her down.
Second: get her talking.
Third: if there was a god left, shove the blame onto that overfed ape Khurram, earn her trust, and survive the fallout.
Not his style, no.
Rasheed Dameer didn’t grovel. Never had. But then again— pride’s a joke when you’re dead.
The shaking had eased enough. He scanned left, then right, hunting for Khurram.
Before he could call, the brute barreled in—sweat pouring, phone gripped tight.
—Something’s wrong, Hazrat, he panted. — None of them are answering. I called them one by one. Nothing. Even the bastard who was posted in the alley with the car—dead silence. All of them.
Rasheed didn’t even blink.
He knew exactly what that meant.
His lips cracked open. First a breath, then a noise. Then he laughed.
It wasn’t a chuckle. It was madness. Bone-deep, echoing laughter that rolled like a death march.
—You’re never seeing them again, you pig.
He spat it out between gasps.
—Forget those bastards. Get her down. Put her in that chair. Then plant your fat ass and wait. We’re both dead men now. Ha… ha…
Khurram froze, blank panic flickering behind his eyes. He didn’t get it—not yet. But he knew enough not to fight the order.
He moved—unhooked the girl with hands suddenly careful, carried her to the lone chair, splashed water over her face.
She didn’t move. Didn’t open her eyes. Just sat there—like a sleeping goddess.
A flash of anger ticked through Khurram—an urge to lash out, stomp the fear out of himself. But Rasheed’s stare pinned him still. Not a word. Not a twitch.
He set the water down.
And walked out the door.
Quiet as a ghost.
Times Square, KLCC
Malaysia.
Kuala Lumpur pulsed neon under smog and silk suits.
Khursheed’s blood was singing—craving action, pure, uncut chaos.
Too long spent on the sidelines, watching others play. Too many days licking wounds that never bled. Now—target locked. The hunt was on.
Next to him, Tarique chuckled like a man already counting ribs to break.
—You know, bro… this new one? Better than the last. This time I get to do the slicing.
Khursheed didn’t laugh. Not really.
Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—the kind that shows right before you step on a landmine, just to see what goes up.
—Take your time dreaming, he muttered. —Rasheed Agha Jan’s in town. Your playdate might be postponed.
Tarique grimaced. Violence delayed was pain doubled.
He looked up at the concrete beast looming over them—glass, steel and privilege rising sky-high.
The kid in the back seat—new recruit, all nervous fingers and flashy sneakers—had the access card. Fancy shit. One card opens every door, or so he claimed.
The six of them had rolled in with two black vans. Enough firepower to take an embassy if they felt like it. But this wasn’t war. This was sport.
The basement parking swallowed them whole. Two men would wait here, but their van peeled off on Khursheed’s order—parked in the alley like a wolf waiting for the wounded.
The driver—Daem—bitched about it, as always. But he went.
Upstairs, the three-man strike team stood by the elevator—Khursheed, Tarique, and Mr. Keycard.
Twenty-fifth floor.
The kid tapped.
Lights blinked. Elevator groaned.
Khursheed leaned back, eyes scanning the walls, the vents,
the camera angles. He wasn’t smart. But he was careful.
Then the door opened.
Marble floor, rich carpet. Expensive death waiting here.
Tarique moved silently to handle the floor security. The other two reached the door. Apartment 25-C.
A neat brass plate: Elijan Vellum.
Like he thought the world should know he lived here.
The kid tapped the card. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.
Khursheed’s jaw tightened. The kid fumbled, pushed again—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Alarm.
Kid went ghost-white.
Inside—movement.
No time for finesse.
Khursheed shoved the kid aside like wet laundry and yanked a mobile gas cutter from his jacket. The flame roared up with a low, hungry growl—fire-breathing dragon in his fist.
He held it to the lock. The steel began to bubble. The mobile gas cutter—that was the real MVP. Small enough to slip into a pocket.
Strong enough to melt the gates of hell.
Lock hissed. Metal peeled like fruit. Thirty seconds flat, the door surrendered with a choking cough. The fire alarms didn’t scream—just a soft chime feeding straight to floor security, not the neighbors. Precision. Discreet, as the rich prefer.
And no one showed. Which meant Tarique had done his part.
Khursheed stepped inside—ghost-silent.
Behind him, the new kid raised a silenced Luger—nervous hands, twitchy breath.
Khursheed didn’t need it. He liked his kills messy. Hands-on. Real.
They swept the living room.
No movement. No Vellum.
But on the bedside table—a cigarette still burning, ash curling. Fresh.
So he’s home. Watched them through the peephole. Playing phantom now.
Khursheed grinned—the hunter’s smile.
—Come on out, babyface, he called, voice sugarcoated venom. —We got your little cherry on ice. Can’t unwrap her ‘til you show.
The kid behind him snorted. Thought it was funny. But the room stayed dead quiet.
Khursheed stepped to the half-closed bedroom door, lining up a boot—didn’t need it.
The door opened slow.
Out walked the guy they came for—Elijan Vellum.
A weapon in hand—Nightwalker. Silencer mounted, face carved in stone. This thing had Top-tier AI targeting, newest gen.
Khursheed flinched.
He knew that gun. Rasheed Dameer carried the same.
This was no street punk’s toy. This was heat from the top shelf.
Red-glass viewfinder tracked movement, scanned weak points.
All you had to do was pull the trigger. The gun would do the rest.
And right now, the barrel was aimed dead center between Khursheed’s legs. Blue targeting light. Not lethal—yet. Still—he regretted joking about the girl. Some poisons shouldn’t get loose.
He had a blade strapped to his left wrist—spring-loaded, quick as a thought. He used it before—split men open while they blinked. But something about that Nightwalker slowed him. That fucking steel whispered caution.
He waved the gas cutter in his right hand. Tried a stuttered distraction move—fake fear, a fake surrender.
Elijan blinked—rookie’s mistake.
Took his eyes off the man.
In that single blink, Khursheed’s blade whipped out—low, fast.
Buried itself right below Elijan’s ribs.
Elijan gasped, buckled to one knee. Victory, almost—but Khursheed never saw the finger squeeze.
BANG.
Nightwalker spat fire.
Pain exploded between Khursheed’s legs. He collapsed, screaming.
The trick actually worked. Elijan’s eyes flicked toward the gas cutter—but the Nightwalker’s AI didn’t care where he looked.
Khursheed forgot that part. And paid for it—loud.
He howled, fists drumming the marble, writhing like a butchered animal.
Pain had no poetry—just shock, just the end.
Behind him, the new kid froze.
His Luger still hissing smoke, eyes wide—boss bleeding on one side, their target bleeding on the other.
He had no clue about the Nightwalker’s targeting system. Didn’t even know what red or blue lights meant.
All he saw: the man raised a gun. Then his boss went down. So he fired. And now he needed to know what the hell just happened.
He stepped over, booted the man onto his back. Checked the damage. Perfect shot—dead center chest.
Blood bubbling like a popped heart. Khursheed’s blade had landed too—just under the ribs.
Two wounds. Fast death.
No twitch. No farewell speech.
Just gone.
The kid spun around. Khursheed still shrieking, clutching his ruined groin, legs flailing.
He yelled for Tarique—fast. The corpse stared back, eyes wide open—Elijan Vellum.
Dead.
Within seconds, Tarique stormed in.
First glance—confusion. Then the rookie explained. Tarique brushed past them and opened the bathroom door. Found what he was looking for in a cabinet: a standard med kit. No time for questions. Just survival.
They hauled Khursheed onto the couch, peeled his pants down, checked the wound. The bullet had cracked both lower joints—blood, bone, cartilage, all blown to hell.
He’d live—but his manhood was gone with the blast. Tarique asked if he wanted a painkiller. Khursheed spat curses. Refused.
Tarique didn’t take it personally. Not tonight. He wrapped the mess as his old friend howled, keeping pressure, sealing off the red. Then leaned back, breathing hard.
The man was dead. Mission blown. But—there might be something here worth Rasheed Dameer’s time. Especially whatever this man was hiding.
His phone, his contacts, any sensitive files—if they existed.
Tarique told the rookie to stay posted by Khursheed.
Then he started the sweep.
Small studio. No hiding spots.
Drawers—nothing but clothes.
One medium locker tucked inside the wardrobe.
Combination lock. Owner—now dead.
Tarique picked up the gas cutter again. Let it sing.
Metal curled like skin. Inside—stacks of money. Some too close to the flame, blackened.
The rest—pristine.
Documents. Passports.
And a single black folder.
He stuffed everything into a shopping bag. Handed it off to the rookie.
—Take the lift. Move now.
Then, without a word, he lifted Khursheed into his arms.
Like a fallen brother—and headed for the exit.
Khursheed’s face stayed folded like a punched napkin. He wasn’t howling anymore, but the agony sat on his jaw like rust.
As Tarique reached the door, Khursheed caught his wrist. Nodded toward the bed.
Tarique looked—and spotted it.
A woman’s handbag.
Soft. Expensive.
Wrong.
For a second his chest pinched—reflex memory. If the flat were any bigger, he’d think someone was still hiding. But he’d checked. Twice.
No room for secrets here. No shadows thick enough to breathe.
Maybe it belonged to her.
The girl. Marisha Jasmín
She stayed here before she got caught. Which meant the bag might carry something useful.
A note. A name. A line valuable to Rasheed.
The rookie was already gone, headed to the lift.
Khursheed—barely functional. No way he’d handle another trip up and down. Tarique just carried him to the bed.
Khursheed reached for the bag himself. Their eyes met—a silent nod, a shared smile, old wolves still finding bones.
—Fucking luck, Khursheed muttered.
Spitting on the floor from Tarique’s arms.
—What now? Tarique asked.
Khursheed popped the bag open. Held it up for both of them to see. Empty. Bone dry.
Just a few crushed petals at the bottom.
Maybe perfume flowers, maybe trash.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth shit.
Khursheed growled—and launched the bag across the room like a grenade. It landed perfectly. Smacked right on the face of Elijan’s corpse.
That broke the dam—both of them cracked up, laughter spilling out bitter and breathless. Pain pulled at Khursheed’s side, but the look on the dead man’s face—eyes still open, mouth stuck in surprise—made it worth the jolt.
They headed for the door.
No more words. The lock was broken. The air tasted of ozone and spent adrenaline. Some nosy neighbor might check. Someone might care. But floor security had been knocked out long ago.
Tarique made sure of that.
They still had time.
And in this city, time was louder than sirens.
—*—
The Story Continues Beyond This Page
You have just read “Chasing Ashes,” a chapter from The Merchant of Silence—Book Two of the Sigil of Silence series by Zyphar Animas.
If this Covert Operations Thriller left you following the trail of signals hidden beneath the silence, the journey has only just begun.
The complete novel, The Merchant of Silence, is available from Amazon and major bookstores worldwide. You can also use the link below for direct access, exclusive offers, and the latest updates from the Sigil of Silence universe.
Story Summary
Chasing Ashes is a Covert Operations Thriller that follows Rasheed Dameer into the hidden world of intelligence networks operating beneath Kuala Lumpur’s polished skyline. What begins as a routine rendezvous quickly unravels into a compromised mission, where coded symbols, vanished operatives, and a single identification tag reveal that the operation has already slipped beyond anyone’s control. Blending geopolitical noir with covert tradecraft, this Covert Operations Thriller explores trust, survival, and the deadly consequences of discovering the truth too late.
Critical Review
Chasing Ashes succeeds as a Covert Operations Thriller because it builds tension through professional observation rather than action. Rasheed’s disciplined mindset turns ordinary details into operational signals, allowing suspense to emerge from recognition instead of spectacle. The chapter steadily transforms a routine intelligence assignment into the realization that the mission has already failed, shifting the narrative from execution to survival. Its restrained pacing, precise voice, and emphasis on tradecraft strengthen the noir atmosphere while reinforcing the idea that the most dangerous discoveries are rarely made on the battlefield—they are made the moment an experienced operative understands what everyone else has missed.
—Nimo Verin, Editor
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Featured Characters in this Covert Operations Thriller — Rasheed Dameer AKA Farish.
Read more about Rasheed’s journey towards the series.