The harbor stretched before them, a dimly lit expanse of concrete and shadows, the distant lights flickering like ghostly whispers against the dark water. Haqim crouched behind a stack of crates, his eyes scanning the dockyard. Idris knelt beside him, silent but tense, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. It was a trap. Haqim knew it. Idris had confirmed it. Faizan's men were waiting for them—but this time, they would be the ones caught off guard.
"We've got movement. Faizan's men are heading toward the harbor," Idris had said. "It's him, isn't it? The Wolf."
The trap had been laid, and now it was time to spring it. But Haqim's mind raced with doubt. The Wolf was no ordinary assassin. He was a phantom, a killer who thrived on chaos. He wouldn't be so easily cornered. The air felt thick with tension, each breath Haqim took weighing heavy with anticipation.
"You sure about this?" Idris whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant crashing of waves.
Haqim's eyes remained fixed on the dock. Figures moved in the distance, cloaked in the mist and shadows, slipping in and out of view like wraiths. His mind worked over every possible outcome, every misstep they could make. One wrong move, and the trap could snap shut around them. But there was no turning back now.
"I don't have a choice," Haqim replied, his voice cold, steady. "We let him slip away, and Faizan gains the upper hand. This ends tonight."
Idris nodded, but Haqim sensed the hesitation in him. Haqim couldn't afford that now. Not with so much at stake. But even as they prepared to strike, his thoughts kept circling back to one question—the mole. Someone had fed Faizan information. Someone close to him. The paranoia gnawed at his mind, but he forced it aside. He couldn't afford distractions now.
"We move in two minutes," Haqim said, eyes still fixed on the dockyard.
Idris nodded again, his face grim, but Haqim caught the slight twitch in his jaw, a crack in his usual facade. He knows something. The thought lingered, but Haqim pushed it down for now.
The sound of creaking wood drew Haqim's attention. A figure stepped out of the shadows, making their way toward a small ship at the far end of the dock. Even in the dim light, Haqim recognized the gait—the smooth, confident steps of a predator. It was him. The Wolf.
"It's him," Haqim muttered, his grip tightening on the handle of his knife.
Idris shifted beside him. "Looks like he's getting ready to move. This might be our only chance."
Haqim's mind raced, calculating the angles. The dock was a maze of crates, debris, and darkness, and Faizan's men were scattered throughout, waiting for them to make a move. If they weren't careful, they'd be surrounded before they even reached the ship.
"It's a trap," Idris said, echoing his earlier words, his voice now filled with more doubt. "Faizan's playing us."
"I know," Haqim replied. "But this time, we're ready."
They moved together, silent and swift, slipping through the shadows like specters. Haqim's senses were razor-sharp, every sound, every movement registering in his mind. He could feel the presence of Faizan's men nearby, but they weren't the threat tonight. The Wolf was.
As they neared the ship, Haqim's instincts screamed that something was off. Too easy. The Wolf wouldn't leave himself exposed like this unless he had something planned. Haqim motioned for Idris to stop.
"What is it?" Idris whispered, his eyes scanning the dock.
Haqim narrowed his gaze, watching the Wolf as he boarded the vessel, his movements calm, unhurried. He knows we're here. He's baiting us.
"It's not just a trap," Haqim muttered under his breath. "It's a show. He wants us to come."
Idris frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He's not running. He's waiting."
Before Idris could respond, a gunshot rang out, splitting the night. Haqim threw himself behind a stack of crates, pulling Idris down with him as bullets ricocheted off the metal containers. The trap had sprung.
"Son of a—!" Idris hissed, drawing his weapon. "We're pinned down!"
Haqim's mind raced as he scanned the area. Faizan's men were closing in from all sides, cutting off their escape. But Haqim hadn't come unprepared. He pulled out a small detonator from his belt, a grim smile playing on his lips.
"Stay down," Haqim warned, his fingers hovering over the trigger.
"What are you—" Idris started, but before he could finish, Haqim pressed the button.
A series of explosions ripped through the dock, sending crates and debris flying into the air. The gunfire ceased momentarily as Faizan's men were thrown into disarray, their carefully laid trap now in ruins.
Haqim moved quickly, using the chaos to his advantage. He sprinted toward the ship, dodging debris and the few remaining bullets fired in his direction. Idris followed closely behind, covering their escape with calculated shots.
The ship loomed before them, its gangplank still down. The Wolf was already aboard, his silhouette framed against the dim lights of the harbor. He stood, waiting, a figure of calm amidst the chaos.
Haqim's breath came in short bursts as he reached the ship's deck. The Wolf turned, his cold eyes locking onto Haqim's. There was no surprise in his gaze, only a slight smile—a predator toying with his prey.
"You're predictable, Haqim," the Wolf said, his voice smooth, almost amused. "I knew you'd come."
Haqim didn't respond. His mind was calculating, searching for an opening, but the Wolf was always three steps ahead.
"I have to admit, I've enjoyed our little game," the Wolf continued, stepping closer. "But you must realize, you've already lost."
Haqim's grip tightened on his knife. "I don't lose."
The Wolf chuckled, his expression mocking. "You still think you're in control, don't you? But you're in my world now."
Before Haqim could react, the Wolf lunged. Their blades clashed in a flurry of sparks, the sound of steel ringing through the night. The Wolf moved with deadly precision, each strike calculated, each feint designed to lure Haqim into a fatal mistake. But Haqim had fought worse odds before. He parried the Wolf's attacks, each movement fluid and controlled.
They danced across the deck, locked in a deadly struggle, neither willing to give ground. Haqim's mind was focused, calculating every strike, every counter, but he could feel the Wolf's strength, his relentless speed. This was no ordinary assassin.
Suddenly, the Wolf shifted, his blade twisting in a way Haqim hadn't anticipated. The move was too quick—too perfect. The knife grazed Haqim's arm, drawing blood. He stumbled back, pain shooting through him.
The Wolf didn't press the attack. Instead, he stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face. "You see? You can't win."
Haqim wiped the blood from his arm, his expression grim. "This isn't over."
The Wolf's smile widened. "Oh, but it is. You're not the only one who's been setting traps, Haqim. Your friend Idris... well, let's just say he's been very helpful."
Haqim's heart skipped a beat, but his expression remained unreadable. So, it was true. Idris had been working for Faizan all along. But Haqim didn't let the shock show. He needed to play his cards carefully.
"Don't believe me?" The Wolf taunted. "Ask him yourself."
Before Haqim could respond, Idris appeared on the deck, panting from the exertion of battle. His eyes flicked between Haqim and the Wolf, uncertainty etched on his face.
"What... what's going on?" Idris asked, but Haqim could see it—the faint flicker of guilt in his eyes.
Haqim's mind raced. Not now. Not here. He couldn't confront Idris yet, not with the Wolf standing between them. But he had to get out. The ship was pulling away from the dock, and Faizan's men were regrouping.
"We're leaving," Haqim said coldly, turning away from the Wolf. "Now."
The Wolf didn't stop them. As Haqim and Idris moved toward the edge of the ship, the assassin's voice called out one last time.
"Next time, I won't be so lenient, Haqim. Remember that."
As they leaped from the ship and into the waters below, Haqim knew one thing for certain: the game was far from over, and the Wolf—Faizan's most dangerous weapon—was still out there, waiting for his next move.