When black-site interrogations, covert military intelligence, and international manhunts collide, this Military Intelligence Thriller follows the ruthless pursuit of information before the next operation begins.

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Story Chapter Name: Two confirmed, One fractured
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 “Two Confirmed, One Fractured,” a free-to-read standalone Military Intelligence Thriller chapter, specially restructured from The Merchant of Silence—Book Two of the Sigil of Silence series by Zyphar Animas—to be enjoyed as a complete standalone story.

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Under the flimsy top, Dr. Eli’s red panties flashed—like she’d walked out of a Vogue shoot. Jovan sat at the café, bare-chested, hair matted heavy, watching her.

Back again at this place. Not crippled this time. Full Arab sheikh profile—trophy on display. In Phuket, that passes. For a couple like this, every door opens with sawadee ka.

The cover wasn’t luxury—it was leverage. Minutes from now, ten grand would slide across the table to the resort’s head of security. For that kind of job, the number should’ve raised flags in anyone’s mind. Unless it came from an Arab. They burn stacks for reasons no one bothers to ask.

If intel wasn’t on the line, the local underdogs could’ve handled it. But intel’s the one thing Jovan can’t hand off. Guns, cash—fine. But information—never.

They’re all whores. They’ll sell it once, twice, to any hand that offers cash. That’s why this part needs to be done on his own.

Last time, the op blew sideways. The close never hit clean. Two groups crossed wires and shredded the plan. The black lion—Sgt. Luther King—was supposed to erase two Arabs. Yet both are still breathing. The sergeant himself—gone.

Same night, the Kamala Bay warehouse blew apart. Whether he died in his own fire is still a question. Those answers won’t come fast. It needs to crawl through Thai labs. Burned bodies, DNA runs—bureaucratic sludge. And the Thais offer boom boom easy, but not intel.Foreign Ministry’s still squeezing them. When something cracks, the news will drop—nobody can say when.

The second group’s failure keeps running loops in Jovan’s head. Mohabbat Khan had checked into the Xyat Regency—prime target in tow.

The play was simple: drop the man into one of their girls at the casino, then disappear. Once she had him upstairs, the girl would ping Mossad’s handler. Two operators waited on the upper floor. Message comes in—target goes down.
But the signal never hit. The girl went dark. The waiting pair—stuck on ice. And Mohabbat Khan—gone.

The girl pulling strings on her own? No chance. She came vetted—Dubai subcell, years on record. She’d run support before. Even on Thai soil. That’s why they trusted her, didn’t just grab a street runner to bait the mark. Calculated risk.

Messy, but manageable—until Mohabbat Khan vanished. The bastard had a habit for it. Last time he screwed a run and vanished for two years in Peshawar. The other cells wrapped their hit jobs clean. Targets down, exits sealed. But where did the loose ends vanish?

Sergeant King—ghost. The two Arabs on his sheet still enjoying luxury back home. Now flagged for Mossad’s Middle East desk.

As for Mohabbat Khan—intel tagged him in Malaysia. Maybe he’s still hiding there, maybe tunneled back to Pakistan, buried deep again. But the Xyat target—and the girl who took him upstairs? Vanished into thin air.

The man booked a room at the Xyat for show. His real bed was here—Aamari Resort. That’s why Jovan’s burning hours on CCTV, tracking whether the target circled back or slipped away clean. And here they come.

A smiling waiter, tray of juice. Behind him, the Sri Lankan security chief—Fernandez.

—Good afternoon, sir. Hope you’re enjoying your stay.
—Good afternoon, Mr. Fernandez. Honestly—your hospitality’s brighter than the sun.
—Ha! My pleasure, sir. Fresh pineapple juice. If you’re not watching your pressure, try it with pink salt—twice the kick.
—No trouble, Mr. Fernandez. We’ll try it your way.
—Glad to hear it, sir. The lady’s not here—should I bring something else for her?
—No, she’ll be joining soon. This is perfect.
—Thank you, sir. Call if you need anything. Please enjoy your stay.
—Always a pleasure, Mr. Fernandez.

One signal from Fernandez, and the tray lands.
The waiter sets it on the table.
A little teasing with the waters, then Dr. Eli returns. Dips into the pink salt jar—pulls out a thumb drive. Inside: the full footage.

That morning, Eli walked Jovan into a quiet corner with the Sri Lankan. A fat envelope on the table—ten grand in cash. And a smile sharp enough to cut. She spun the story neat: Jovan’s Arab friend was threatening to blow up their affair, blackmail the whole family. The irony? That same “friend” had just been at this hotel months ago, partying hard with a Thai girl.

Now, if Mr. Fernandez didn’t mind keeping the envelope—and letting them take a look at the security footage from that night—they’d make sure karma hit the right target.

At first, Fernandez played by the book: guest privacy, hotel policy. But the envelope was wide open—hundred-dollar bills loud in a language everyone understands. And Eli’s sheer top didn’t hide the Eres Mouna she was wearing—nor the crafted parts inside it. Her body pressing close, the red promise visible. Words stalled in Fernandez’s throat.

She took the silence as agreement. Slipped the cash into his pocket. Brushed a thank-you note across his sunbaked cheek with her painted lips, then walked away with a smile.

When he finally muttered he’d “look into it,” Jovan expected a walk to the CCTV room—maybe a peek, no more. Instead, Fernandez dropped a full copy of the night’s footage, slipped onto a flash drive.

Proof that Sri Lankans might run hotels, but they shouldn’t touch security. If they’d hired a retired army major or an ex–police official, the same intel would’ve cost ten times as much.

Xyat Regency proved the contrast. Their chief—Chinese, ex–Red Army lieutenant. When the bribe hit the table, he didn’t flinch. Just said no.

Eli adapted. Shifted roles. Played the young wife—trapped by “financial security.” Married to a disgusting Arab. Wet on wallet but dry where she needed it.

Turned out worse—the man was cheating with Thai girls behind her back. With the right photo or video of her husband’s “secret,” she could divorce him clean and walk away with millions.

Then, she hinted, maybe a real captain could take her curves for a proper sail.
Old rules—soldiers never turn down a drink or a woman.

The Chinese officer proved it quick. Dragged Eli into a storeroom, showed off his moves, proved he knew how to row her tide to climax. Eli left promising she’d take the full trip next time—as long as he paid the toll. The ride’s not free—not on a river that runs with waves that wild. The deal was done.

Before touching her bed, he will give her ten minutes alone in the CCTV room. Enough to pull what they needed.

Eli needed just a few minutes to load their kit into the control box. Once the tech unit got the access, Jovan would comb the whole facility’s footage himself. Eli, meanwhile, would drift off on her own tide—sailing with the security guy whose “demo,” she claimed, had actually impressed her. Ha.

Teammates chasing pleasure never bothers Jovan, as long as the op holds steady. Let them have their fun. By afternoon, he’s at Hot Rock Café.

He never cares for music. For him, the place isn’t about sound; it’s supply. Fresh girls, cheap, sometimes free. A few pills, a few bills, and they lose themselves to the rhythm, to the haze, willing to play out fantasies even the hired ones wouldn’t.

Today, desire isn’t on the menu. He’d already run through the Aamari footage with Eli over lunch. Two Arabs checked out—just as expected. But the real targets—were ghosts. After the sweep, they ate. Eli went upstairs for a nap. And Jovan crossed into this building next to Hot Rock.

Last time in Phuket, it was simple—search and kill. No tech crew, no gadgets, no drama. Just the hit and clean. This time, everything’s changed.

Full unit flown in, gear stacked. And the result is on the table. No one expected it—an Iranian data center tucked next to a pub wired for sex and sound. Intel said the target upstairs would lock his terminal, then step out. That’s why they wait.

Hit him too soon and he’ll go loud—maybe wreck the system they need alive. The tech boys need a live feed, not a pile of shrapnel.

Two Thai cops posted at the entrance—waiting for Jovan’s nod. They’re real police, not just costumes. Moonlighting for Mossad when the job calls for a snatch-and-go in daylight. To passing eyes, it just looks like an arrest.

Perks come with that uniform; managers and staff bend easy. The receptionist here didn’t even need a story—ten seconds of cop-talk and he was all in.

Jovan’s legs are dead numb by the time the target shows.
Iranian. Isfahan stock.
Jovan pegs it before the face turns. Trained eyes don’t miss it.

The man scanned the room, blind to the danger.
Started for the street.

Jovan cued the manager, who tipped off the cops.

Plan was textbook: the second he crossed the threshold, cops closed in from both sides. Smooth talk, cuffs on. Load him into the car. But the cops went off-script—jammed a taser in his gut. Shock hit. Dropped him cold. Then dumped him into Jovan’s vehicle like lost luggage.

Daggan is waiting inside.
Old hand. Knows how to cut clean when things get surgical.

Jovan had plans—if he climbed higher, Daggan would be his deputy. That’s how he groomed him.

Daggan had worn every badge worth the name—army, police, even Aman, one of the shadow agencies. Last chair before Jovan yanked him in: IDF.

Jovan himself never touched IDF. Didn’t like their flavor. Too blunt.

They weren’t intelligence—they were cleanup. Kill orders dressed in doctrine.
Sometimes it just sanctioned massacres. Not his taste. Jovan’s work is sharper, cerebral. But not every enemy plays with wires and code. Some still come in with blood.

Now that Spets is in play, Jovan keeps every layer locked down. He wouldn’t pretend—those Russian bastards shook him. And not just him. CIA. MI6. Every so-called ally in the field felt the chill. Each Spetsnaz fucker was a walking disaster.

Moscow might clink glasses with Washington, smile for the press—meant nothing. When it came to this unit, silence was doctrine. No files. No leaks. Not even an official acknowledgment.
Disbanded after the Soviet fall—that was the line they fed everyone. But everyone in the circuit knows better.

Jovan had flipped ministers, generals, full branches of live service. Never a GRU Spetsnaz. Not once. Back when the USSR was on its knees, the West thought they’d turned a few. Turned out, those bastards staged the whole thing. Walked in, played nice, milked the West, then vanished back to Moscow with grins.

Lesson landed hard. Nobody tried it again.
Now the rule was simple: if your asset crossed a GRU bastard on the ground, you had two plays— Kill. Or die.

Jovan had no interest in dying this early. So he brought in Daggan’s IDF crew. Trusted men. Wired for precision. They weren’t just for cover fire either. He had other jobs in mind.

The Isfahan target was just the opening shot. Every catch after this—their guts would be cut open for words. That’s what the IDF boys did best. Their reputation always entered the room first.

Daggan broke off from the cops after the handshake, slipped them the envelope, kept the smile, and strolled back toward Jovan.

—Everything’s smooth, bossy. Why that owl-face?
—I’m worried about sourcing, Jovan said. —Aamari’s footage gave us nothing. If Xyat comes up dry tonight, we’re still staring at a black hole.

Daggan shrugged.

—So what? This data center’s a goldmine, almost guaranteed. Tech boys are already inside. Problem is, I came all this way to get into your war and I’m still empty-handed. Not even a scent of the peach you dangled.

Jovan cut him a look.

—You’ll get it. Don’t start pouting yet, son.

Daggan grinned, shaking his head.

—Keep your sermons, bossy. Every handler since Babylon’s been selling hope the same way. Just hear me—when we grab her, the front work’s all yours. Pictures, IDs, chain of custody, whatever. After that?

He tapped his teeth.

—If she lands in my hands, I’ll chew those cheeks till they bleed. What a peach you flashed, man—my hips are dancing for a shot.

He was talking about the GRU Spetsnaz girl. And with Daggan, the enthusiasm wasn’t entirely unjustified.

Jovan was disciplined when it came to women. He’d bunked with Dr. Eli on a dozen ops—nights together, same bed. Eli, generous in every sense, had offered more than once. He never crossed that line. But this time? Even he took a hit.

That girl… her body feels like a crime—slim waist dropping into those curvy hips. Shoulders of a fighter, tits like skyscrapers. Any experienced man could guess they’re natural, not synthetic. And those eyes—blue as a live wire, lips that’d drown saints. Her face alone was enough to drop any gentleman straight into love. And for bastards like Daggan? They’d want to eat her alive—and wouldn’t stop till she screamed.

Jovan broke into a laugh—still remembered the first time he saw her photo. His pants almost sold him out in front of the minister.

Daggan spotted it, grinning like a thief.

—What’s up, bossy? That grin… don’t tell me you’re already thinking of sharing my peach.

Jovan Fired back.

—Don’t start slicing the peach before it’s even off the branch, rookie. Getting hands on a livewire like her—that’s a full challenge.

Daggan grinned.

—Heh. First time I’ve seen you not wrinkle your nose at a woman. Fine. You get first swing. But that back door? That stays locked in. Reserved to be mine.
—Cut the crap. This is why working with kids gives me a migraine. The peach’s still hanging, and you’re already shaping the knife. Keep dreaming—while you’re busy fantasizing, she’ll fold you like a bedsheet.

Daggan just laughed.

—Chill, bossy. We’re not that green. We know what Spetsnaz trains for—first move in close combat—they smash the sensitive spots, have you on the floor before you blink. But not with us. Check these suits—custom stitched, plates inside. Soft spots covered. Sure, it stings when you take a shot—but it won’t put you down. Bit heavy on the body, but we wear it like skin.
—Well, look at you—maybe there’s a brain under all that mouth. So who’s got Eli covered?
—Come on, boss—she’s a weapon. What’s there to cover?
—That, right there. Last time, this exact slack cost us the real prize. No margin now. If you’re not watching, I’ll plug the hole myself.
—Why so heated, bossy? Just winding you up. Don’t sweat it. I’ve got eyes posted anywhere Eli could walk. Something pops, no need for signals—each crew moves on its own.
—Good. That’s the way. Just shooting the breeze here. But tell me something, Daggan—why’d you never bag Eli yourself? She could’ve hit the target, then come back and put out her own fire in your bed. Would’ve saved us two teams and a long night of watch duty.

Daggan made a face.

—Tsk. Boss… that’s cold. I see you like blood—like my own. And you say that?
Eli? She’s an over-squeezed mango. Juice long gone. Newbies chase her ‘cause they don’t know better. But us? Please. You know what she did? Injected duck oil in her sagging ass.

Jovan blinked—then busted out laughing, a real one.

—Duck oil? What the fuck, Daggan. Didn’t even know that was a thing.

Daggan’s smiles widened.

—Of course it’s real, bossy. You’re never in Tel Aviv long enough to see the circus. That’s why you miss all the freak shows. Some lunatic derm cooked it up—duck oil, black-lab filler, jabbed straight into the ass. Give it a week, and boom—your flat ass swells like a bar mitzvah peach. Every girl in Tel Aviv’s lining up. Even LA’s sending their blow-up dolls just to pump up their goddamn asses.

Jovan gave a low whistle.

—Fucking hell… it actually works?
—You blind, bossy? That chewed-up Eli’s been swinging her ass past your face all week. You didn’t catch it?
—Oh, I noticed. Figured it was synthetic. With the ops she’s been running lately, a little plastic shine fits right in. Didn’t waste brain cycles on it.
—Still too pure for this world, bossy.
—Some purity’s worth keeping, Daggan. Drop it. I need to walk the next phase through my head.
—Yeah, keep it coming, bossy. Not my lane. All I got is one hard line from HQ— me and my crew keep you upright. You run the op. We handle the war.

Jovan grinned, reached over, grabbed a handful of Daggan’s hair, gave it a hard shake, then turned for the stairs—smiling all the way up.

Dagan had been two batches junior at university. They’d even played on the same basketball squad. This was big-brother shit. That’s how Mossad rolls. They didn’t need seminars on teamwork. They were born into it—stitched with loyalty, programmed for ops from the cradle.

Jovan knew what Daggan said wasn’t just talk—it was blood code. No one could lay hands on him without walking over his crew first. They snapped, and elbowed when it came to rank—but when Israel was on the line, every grudge got buried six feet deep, side by side. Generations drilled that into their bones.
The tech team was already buried in the top floor—screens humming, wires crawling like ivy.

Jovan leaned into the mess, threw them a jab:

—Nu, what is this—button-pushers on a coffee break? Push something useful before the clock eats us. We’ve still got ground to rip.

Normally that line cracked them up. Not tonight. Three of them locked in. Pale. Eyes bolted to the feed.

Jovan stepped closer. One of them finally muttered,

—Not looking good, boss. This could take hours to break. We might have to pull the whole box and drag it back.

Jovan’s jaw clenched.

—You’re telling me the Iranians cooked up a system even we can’t crack?

The team lead—a kid with fresh eyes and razor focus—shook his head.

—Not what I’m saying. I’ll stake my neck on it—this system isn’t Iranian. Not a chance.

The world was already riding Israeli cybersecurity while Apple, puffed up with virus‑proof pride, kept slamming the door. The kid cracked their calendar system, tripping millions of users like dominoes. One jab, Apple folded. Now they run Mossad-grade protection on every unit—while Mossad siphons their cloud on schedule. That kid was now looking pale and muttering impossible. Jovan felt a cold sweat up his spine.

He clenched the curse mid-throat. Swallowed it dry. Came back with another jab:

—Fine. Do what you need. But don’t come crying about hauling Xyat’s system home as well. You’ve got minutes in there—Eli’s little gold mine doesn’t buy us all night. Make them count.

That landed.
The boys broke into grins, barking back in chorus like dogs off leash—swearing on Dr. Eli’s duck-fat ballooned ass that they’d get it done.

Even they knew the joke. Jovan let it run. They were young. He’d been that age—spitting the same crud, thinking the same wild thoughts.

He left them to their toys and moved on.
Time to shift the rest of the board.

---

Aamari Resort
Phuket, Thailand

Jovan leaned back in his suite, eyes locked on the Xyat Regency surveillance feed playing silent on his laptop.
Footage crisp.
Timestamp locked.
Nothing missed.

Across the room, Daggan was brewing coffee—sleeves rolled, eyes flicking between kettle steam and screen flicker.
Outside the suite door, two of Daggan’s boys stood ready—armed, alert. He mouthed off like a brat, but when it came to the perimeter, the kid knew the stakes. Daggan wasn’t naïve where it counted. Not with lives on the line.

The Xyat flipped around sunset. Shift changed like clockwork—day staff out, night crew in. But this wasn’t some sleepy island inn. This was Phuket.

Nights here didn’t just glow—they burned. Days belonged to hangovers; evenings, to hunters. When the sun dipped, the island shifted gears—street bars blazing like live wires. Clubs, smoke dens, blackjack pits—every room burning. And places like Xyat Regency didn’t just buzz—they roared. Hotel, nightclub, casino, sky-high fine dining, locked-door parties—everything packed under one roof.

Landing night shift at a place like that wasn’t work. It was a week’s paycheck in tips. Nobody gave up that slot unless they had greased the right hands—or had dirt deep enough to trade. And tonight the security chief played that exact card.

Three guards clocking out, three coming on. But the twist? All six wanted in. Day crew wanted overtime.

Night shift refused to swap.
Why?
Because tonight, the island tilted toward the Xyat. A world-famous DJ on the decks—Phuket pouring in from every corner.

The security chief saw it coming—and timed it perfectly. That’s why he told Dr. Eli to show up exactly now.

Before stepping off with his arguing crew, the chief unlocked the control room with his own ID and handed it to her—access granted, clock running.
Ten minutes.
That’s what she’d get.
Long enough to scan.

The security chief already briefed Eli on the layout—file structure, fast-forwarding, what logs to skip. All she had to do was slip in, search, get out, and close the door behind her. Once it latched, the lock tripped on its own.

At exactly six minutes, Eli finished the job, closed the door behind her, and walked out like she was just stretching her legs.

Two minutes later, the van parked in the Xyat lot lit up—tech team pinged in: full breach. They now owned the security grid.

At minute thirteen, the security chief returned from his meeting with the guards.
Too late. Back at Aamari, Jovan’s laptop was already pulling down Xyat’s feeds—zone by zone, screen by screen. Big area. Too many cameras.

He patched the feed into the suite’s TV.
Split the sweep. Daggan took exits and entries.
Jovan took everything else.

Eli was busy. Paying off her side of the bargain.

Tech boys had slipped a surprise into her bag before she left. A pin-cam stuck on without her consent.

Jovan didn’t love it, but he let it ride—in the field, even dirty tricks sometimes mean insurance.

While Jovan was fully focused on scanning the feed for faces, Daggan kept one ear tuned to Eli’s audio. Grinning like a hyena.

He laughed so hard he almost spilled his coffee.

—Boss, Daggan wheezed, —you won’t believe this.

The van cracked up—tech boys reacting over comms.

That’s when Jovan felt it.
Not the noise in the background.
What froze him was on the screen.
Two faces.
Two figures.
The exact ones he’d been waiting to see.

—Dag. Pull elevator feed. Now.

Daggan didn’t blink. Already had one earpiece tethered to Jovan’s command line. Everyone did.

Even Eli—still had that voice hissing in her ear.

The entry-exit cam was mounted higher than the rest. Enough to catch silhouettes, useless for faces. But the lobby feed—crystal. Every frame sharp.
Jovan’s chest thudded as he watched the screen—two shadows stepping into the elevator with one of the hotel’s bellhops.

One was polite, the other smiling. Everything snapped into focus. The Kuwaiti whale—Awadi. And the ghost. Butcher of the desert—Caesar.

Now it clicked why Sergeant King vanished. The bastard wasn’t just burning oil money. He brought in the phantom for cleanup.

Last time, some friends in Europe shielded him. Diplomats whispered in the right ears—and politics forced Command to let him walk.

Jovan clenched his jaw hard enough to grind bone.
Not this time.

Onscreen, Awadi grinned and led Caesar straight into the casino. Into the blackout zone. No camera feeds from there. By international “standards,” casino floors ran offline. Footage locked tight—owner’s key or court order only.

Jovan fast forwarded the door cam anyway, hoping for duration.
All he got was static.
Flicker.
Feed gone.

He skipped ahead faster.
Same deal.
A few moments of white noise—then video resumed. But nothing important showed up anymore.
No Awadi.
No Caesar.
The message was clear: stop looking.

Jovan didn’t back off. He spat a curse under his breath and kept hunting. Eyes swept to the next banks. Nine elevator lobbies across the Xyat grid—two feeds snowed out.
The rest? Too clean.

His gut told him the feeds weren’t broken. They were wiped. Intentionally. Just like the casino entry.

Then Daggan’s voice broke in.
—Boss—look at this!

Upper floor. Stairwell cam.
Caesar—caught mid-climb.
Calm.
Focused.
Like it was just another job.

Jovan’s chest seized when he clocked the floor number.
That floor.
The Arab asset’s honeytrap. The girl they’d planted.

Hallway cam, slightly tilted, caught it. A door nudged open. No face. No hand on the knob. Just shadows and a body slipping into the hotel’s built-in blind spot. But Jovan didn’t need faces. He knew that room.

Seconds later—whiteout.
The whole floor turned to static.
Gone.

And that’s what didn’t fit. If they wanted Caesar ghosted, they’d have wiped it all from the start. Instead, they left a sliver. Just enough to show the blade before it landed.

Jovan’s mind spun like a turbine choking on fire. No pause. No second chance. That Chinese bastard had to be taken—fast and clean.

Jovan whispered the call into comms.

Eli moved.

No hesitation. No buildup.

First strike—sharp, controlled.

He didn’t drop.

Second move—faster, heavier.

He blocked—barely.

Still misreading the situation.

That was his final mistake.

Eli stepped in.
Closed distance.
No warning.

THANG.
Steel met skull.

Crack.
Silence.

Eli exhaled.

Tapped her earpiece:

—Target down. Need carry-out.

No one needed coordinates. Tech boys had been watching.

They replied instantly:
Van’s en route. You’re covered.
Cameras already spoofed.
Ground sees only what we feed them.

Eli stood still for a moment.

Then turned.

Back to work.

Three targets.
Two confirmed.
One fractured.

---

Andaman Sea
Phuket, Thailand

They needed a new pit.
Off‑grid.
Soundproof.
Movable.

A place to carve out answers from two trophies—the Isfahan agent grabbed from the data center, and the Xyat security chief Eli just bagged. Kamala Bay warehouse was just a memory now, burnt down to the bones.

Jovan was pretty sure Sgt. King went up with it. One more ghost in the ledger, one more loose end sealed by fire.

They took a Jewish family’s pleasure yacht—spacious, innocent, perfect for the job.

Out on the Andaman, they could scream and bleed all they wanted—only the sea would listen. And it never talked.

Daggan loaded his team, and the tools. Pushed off before midnight.

This time, the updates went straight to the minister. Approval came in just like they expected. Even better, fresh intel from Kuwait. The whale Awadi had been lifted clean. The Middle East desk bagged him quietly. Now sitting tight in a local black site, awaiting interrogation.

Meanwhile, the stage moved north.

Europe was heating up.

Czech Republic. Prague. Unofficial streams confirmed Rasheed Dameer himself had landed, chasing shadows of the dark weapon.

The Spets girl, the Kuwaiti tycoon, and the ghost named Caesar—all traced back to the same puppeteer: a Romanian warlord running his empire from Prague. The puzzle finally started to snap together.

Jovan’s head cleared.

Eli passed him a glass—he clinked it. Smiled like a man who could afford to.

Up here—wind, wine, control. Below—Daggan with three of their men; blood, noise and truth cutting loose. Jovan leaned down the stairwell. Saw the streaks of red bleeding across the deck.

He called Daggan up with a look—a silent warning: no more fuckups.

Daggan only smirked. Knife still dripping.

—They’ll talk before they die, bossy. Not the other way around.

Two hours straight, the work went on.

Steel against bone. Gags soaked. And still, the moans said both men lived.

He had to admit, for all his jokes, Daggan understood the craft. With less than an hour left before dawn, Daggan called him below.

The Isfahan agent went first.

A hooked blade flicked off the tape. The man broke like glass. Names, family, even the poultry in his yard spilled out. He was spent—nothing left but one crucial truth: Rasheed Dameer had sent him.

That was enough.

Jovan gave a nod.

The man’s mouth was sealed again.

Ledger closed. Nothing personal. Just one more expendable crossed off the list.

Now it was the security chief’s turn.

They cut his gag. And the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t denial—it was a deal. A plea for a “respectable death.”

He already knew exactly whose hands he’d landed in.

Jovan let him speak. Kept it clean. Asked about the tampered feeds.

The chief answered straight: just like he’d slipped Eli into the control room, any guard with enough cash could do the same. Or better, run it straight through the data hub. Every Xyat feed passed through those operators.

Jovan didn’t care about the who. He wanted the how.

—Could missing chunks in a live video ever be blamed on a glitch? Had it ever happened?

The Chinese didn’t hesitate. Swore on his life—it had never happened. Couldn’t happen. Not on that system. And that was all he needed.

Jovan’s work in Phuket was over.

Eli had already been informed—she wouldn’t be flying to Prague.

Her part ended here.

Tech team packed up every last tool and loaded it onto their charter. Left nothing but sea behind. Daggan’s crew would finish the cleanup.

Jovan had eyes forward: Prague, Czech Republic. The next stage was already moving.

Below deck, the wrap-up was swift. The two prisoners were broken down—cut, drained, mixed into fish feed. Sealed into weighted sacks, and fed back to the sea before light touched the waves. But the deal was honored. Before the blade work began, the Chinese got what he asked for—a single, silent round through the skull.

A prize earned by cooperation.

Mossad standards.

—*—

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You have just read “Two Confirmed, One Fractured,” a specially restructured standalone chapter from The Merchant of Silence—Book Two of the Sigil of Silence series by Zyphar Animas.

If this chapter left you wondering what lies beyond the next operation, 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.

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Story Summary

Two Confirmed, One Fractured is a Military Intelligence Thriller that explores the hidden machinery behind modern intelligence operations. As a covert team interrogates captured operatives aboard a yacht in the Andaman Sea, every answer uncovers another layer of an expanding international operation stretching from Thailand to Prague. Blending geopolitical noir with strategic military decision-making, this Military Intelligence Thriller reveals that in the world of intelligence, information is the only prize worth killing for.

Critical Review

Two Confirmed, One Fractured distinguishes itself as a Military Intelligence Thriller by treating interrogation as strategy rather than spectacle. The chapter emphasizes command decisions, intelligence verification, and operational discipline, allowing tension to emerge from information instead of violence. Its restrained pacing, professional dialogue, and international scope reinforce the atmosphere of a world where military intelligence determines the next battlefield long before the first shot is fired. — Nimo Verin, Editor

If you enjoy Military Intelligence Thrillers, geopolitical noir, covert operations, and internationally connected stories where intelligence matters more than firepower, you’ll find many more chapters waiting inside the Sigil of Silence universe.

The complete novel, The Merchant of Silence, is available on Amazon and major bookstores worldwide.

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🎧 Prefer listening instead of reading?

You’re also warmly invited to visit Zyphar Animas’s official YouTube channel, where you’ll find free audiobook chapters and immersive stories from across the Sigil of Silence universe.

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