The early hours of the morning cast a dim, silver haze over Krafta, with the city still slick from the night's relentless rain. Haqim sat at the small metal table inside the safe house, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the cold surface. The briefcase, now placed in front of him, looked unassuming, its surface plain and scratched from years of use. Yet, it contained information that could shift the balance of power in Lasim, if only he could crack its code.
The team had returned to the safe house with no injuries, but the tension among them was palpable. Something about the convoy had unsettled Haqim. The guards had been too easily overwhelmed, the courier too frightened, and the arrival of reinforcements too convenient. It felt like they had walked straight into a trap, yet they had still managed to escape. That nagging sense of unease lingered in the back of his mind.
The room was dimly lit, with flickering light bulbs casting long shadows across the walls. Yara paced impatiently, her boots clicking softly against the concrete floor. Malik sat in the corner, cleaning his weapon, his eyes focused on the task at hand. Hadi, ever the stoic, stood by the window, peering through the heavy curtains into the foggy streets below.
"I don't like it," Yara muttered, breaking the silence. "It was too clean. Too easy. We took down a convoy that should have been heavily guarded, and we didn't even break a sweat."
Haqim didn't look up from the briefcase. "I know."
"You think Faizan knows about us?" Malik asked, his voice gruff as he ran a cloth over his rifle. "It's possible he sent that convoy as bait, waiting for us to show our hand."
Haqim finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting Malik's. "It's possible. But Faizan is too careful for that. He wouldn't send a convoy loaded with weapons just to lure us in. He's playing a deeper game."
Yara stopped pacing and crossed her arms. "So what are we dealing with then? A mole? Someone tipped them off that we'd be there."
Haqim shook his head. "It's not a mole. If Faizan had infiltrated our ranks, we'd be dead already. No, this is something else. Something we're not seeing yet."
Hadi turned away from the window, his voice as steady as ever. "What about the briefcase? We need to know what's inside. That's the key to everything."
Haqim's gaze shifted back to the briefcase. "It's encrypted. High-level military codes. But I'll crack it."
There was a long pause as the room fell into silence once again. The weight of their mission hung heavy in the air. They all knew what was at stake—not just their lives, but the future of Krafta, of Lasim. The resistance movement had gained momentum in recent months, but one wrong move, one mistake, and it could all come crashing down.
"While I work on the briefcase," Haqim said, standing up, "we need to be prepared for what comes next. Faizan won't sit idle for long. He knows we have something valuable, and he'll come for it."
Yara snorted. "Let him come. We'll be ready."
But Haqim wasn't so sure. Faizan had always been one step ahead, his intelligence network vast and unrelenting. The man was a ghost, operating from the shadows, much like Haqim himself. In some ways, they were similar—both masters of manipulation, both experts at twisting events to suit their goals. But Faizan had one advantage that Haqim didn't: he had the power of an entire military behind him.
"We need to stay off the grid," Haqim said, his voice calm but firm. "No communication outside this room. No signals, no contact with anyone. Faizan will be watching every channel, waiting for us to slip up."
Yara raised an eyebrow. "So what? We just sit here in the dark and wait for you to crack that briefcase?"
Haqim's eyes met hers, and for a moment, the tension between them was palpable. "I don't expect you to sit still. We'll move, but only when necessary. Until then, we need to stay sharp."
Yara stared at him for a moment before sighing. "Fine. But the moment you crack that thing, I want answers."
"You'll get them," Haqim said, already turning back to the task at hand.
The air in the room felt heavy, the silence punctuated by the occasional sound of Malik's cleaning or the soft creak of Hadi's movements. The dim light flickered, casting fleeting shadows on Haqim's face as he studied the briefcase in front of him.
.............................................
Several hours later, Haqim finally cracked the encryption. His fingers moved deftly across the keyboard of the modified laptop he had brought with him, and with a final, decisive keystroke, the digital locks holding the information captive fell away. The screen illuminated with rows of documents, each one more sensitive than the last.
His breath caught in his throat as he scanned the files. Blueprints for weapons, lists of high-ranking officials, movement schedules for key targets. But what struck him most was a file labeled "Project Atlas." It was encrypted again, but Haqim knew this was what Faizan was hiding. This was what they had risked everything for.
He was about to begin working on the second encryption when a soft knock sounded on the door. Every head in the room snapped to attention, weapons drawn in a flash.
Haqim raised a hand, signaling them to remain still. "Who is it?" he called out softly, his voice calm but edged with danger.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.
Yara moved swiftly to the side of the door, her knife at the ready. Malik and Hadi flanked her, their guns aimed and steady. Haqim stood behind the table, his eyes locked on the door, waiting.
A familiar voice answered, muffled but unmistakable. "It's me."
Haqim's eyes narrowed. He gestured for Yara to open the door, but only slightly. She did so, revealing a narrow sliver of the person outside. It was a young woman, her face pale and wet from the rain, her eyes wide with fear.
"Farah?" Haqim's voice was sharp, and he immediately moved toward the door. "What are you doing here?"
Farah was an informant—one of his most reliable contacts, embedded deep within the underbelly of Krafta. She had risked her life on more than one occasion to bring him vital intel. But she was never supposed to come here, not to the safe house. Not unless something had gone terribly wrong.
Farah's voice was shaky as she spoke. "They know, Haqim. They know everything."
Haqim's blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"
Farah glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to burst through the door at any moment. "Faizan's men. They're coming. They know you have the briefcase."
"How?" Yara demanded, stepping forward. "How could they know?"
Farah's eyes flicked to her, filled with guilt and fear. "There's a mole in the resistance. Someone close. They've been feeding Faizan information for weeks. I don't know who it is, but… they're coming for you."
The silence that followed was deafening. Haqim felt the room close in around him, the walls pressing down as the weight of her words sank in. A mole. One of their own had betrayed them. The very thing he had dismissed as unlikely was now staring him in the face, threatening to tear their entire operation apart.
"Who?" Haqim asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Who's the mole?"
Farah shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't know. But they'll be here soon. You have to go. Now."
Yara was already moving, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "We've got to split up. If we're together, we're too easy to track. We'll rendezvous at the fallback location."
Haqim nodded, his mind racing as he quickly packed up the briefcase and his equipment. The safe house was compromised; they couldn't stay here any longer. But as he gathered his things, a nagging thought gnawed at him. How had Faizan's men gotten so close, so fast? If there was a mole, how long had they been feeding information to the enemy? And why hadn't he seen it sooner?
He looked up at Farah, who stood by the door, trembling. "Thank you for the warning. But you need to get out of here too."
Farah nodded, wiping her eyes. "Be careful, Haqim. They're not just after the briefcase. They're after you."
With that, she slipped out into the rain, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as she had come.
Yara was already out the door, Malik close behind her. Hadi lingered for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought as he looked at Haqim.
"A mole, huh?" Hadi said, his voice low. "I've been in this game a long time, and I've learned one thing about traitors—they're always closer than you think."
Haqim's gaze sharpened. "You think one of us—?"
Hadi shook his head, cutting him off. "