Chapter 2 : Ashes Over Madrid

London, England — Headquarters of A.G.I.S.

The corridors of the A.G.I.S. London Command Division stretch long and cold, lined with steel and glass that reflect the morning light of Westminster. The sound of polished shoes strikes rhythmically against the marble floor — precise, authoritative, deliberate.

At the center of that rhythm walks Sir Alaic Welles, the Director of Global Oversight. Broad-shouldered, silver-haired, with the posture of a man who once commanded shadows. Before joining A.G.I.S., he ran MI6 for seven years — a legacy that still haunts those who worked under him. He carries himself like a soldier carved from stone, his every step followed by aides, analysts, and a secretary clutching a digital tablet.

Even in silence, Welles dominates the space.

People straighten as he passes. Some salute. Most look away. Respect and resentment trail him like ghosts — especially from men like Erik Baumann, who never forgave him for turning the intelligence world into a bureaucracy of fear.

“Status report,” Welles says, his voice low, roughened by age and tobacco.

His secretary steps closer. “Director McConroy is waiting for you in the command briefing room, sir.”

He doesn’t slow his pace. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

The reinforced doors slide open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the Global Command Center glows with blue holographic light — walls covered in data maps, encrypted waveforms, and thermal grids spanning continents. At the center stands Peter McConroy, head of field operations — ex-SAS Special Force, built like a man who’s been shot more than once and learned nothing from it.

“Morning, Peter,” Welles says, removing his gloves. “Tell me what the hell Baumann’s done this time.”

Peter exhales through his nose, tapping a display on the holo-table. “Baumann deployed Specter.”

Welles stops mid-step. His eyes sharpen. “Without my authorization?”

“Yes, sir.” Peter hesitates. “He’s gone dark — deployed under AEGIS division clearance. Mission: Operation Mirage.”

Welles’s jaw tightens. “Christ. That German bastard never could follow a chain of command.”

He leans forward, eyes narrowing on the digital projection of Leon Albrecht’s profile. “Specter is an asset, not a free agent. What gave him the right to move on HADES without oversight?”

Peter keeps his tone neutral. “He believes time is critical. The longer we wait, the more likely Black Veil will vanish with the payload.”

Welles cuts him off. “Belief doesn’t win wars, Peter. Intel does.”

Peter clears his throat, switching the display to two encrypted audio feeds. “We might have some of that, sir. Last night, our Egyptian relay intercepted a classified comm burst — parallel frequency hit in Mexico City. The audio’s fragmented, but it’s the first solid movement since the crash.”

“Play it.”

A distorted recording fills the room — static, broken speech, faint echoes of two male voices.

“—the serpent… its head’s been cut…”

“…and the venom has been taken…”

“—no trace left behind…”

The feed cuts out.

Welles stares at the projection, his frown deepening. “So now we’re chasing poetry.”

Peter smirks faintly. “If our analysts are right, the ‘serpent’ refers to Patchenkov, and the ‘venom’—HADES.”

Welles folds his arms. “And the location?”

“Difficult to say,” Peter admits. “The signal bounced across multiple ghost nodes. Could’ve originated in Cairo. Could’ve been rerouted through Mexico. Might even be somewhere else entirely. They knew we were listening.”

“That’s not an answer, Peter.” Welles’s tone sharpens. “We’ve poured millions into surveillance grids, and the best you can give me is ‘somewhere.’”

Peter stiffens but keeps his composure. “With respect, sir, whoever’s behind this knows our playbook. They’re not reacting to us — they’re anticipating us. Someone inside the system is feeding them information.”

Welles glares at him. “An inside leak?”

“Possibly. But there’s more,” Peter continues, zooming the display to highlight another file. “Baumann didn’t just send Specter. He paired him with a junior analyst — Benjamin Roshfurd.”

“Roshfurd…” Welles repeats, the name rolling out like a curse. “The diplomat’s son?”

“Yes, sir. Albert Roshfurd’s boy. Graduated Oxford top of his class in computational cryptography. Never set foot outside an office until yesterday.”

Welles scoffs. “So Baumann sent a field ghost and a glorified schoolboy to chase the most dangerous prototype in Europe. Brilliant.”

Peter hesitates. “Specter requested him personally.”

“Then Specter’s losing his edge.” Welles’s tone turns cold. “Roshfurd’s father has been pestering my office for months about keeping his son safe. Now the boy’s out playing spy with one of our most volatile operatives.”

He rubs his temples, exhaling slowly. “Tell me, Peter, what the hell is happening to this agency?”

Peter glances at the audio feed again. “Whatever it is, sir, it’s bigger than we thought. If the serpent is Patchenkov, and the venom is HADES, then someone already has it. The question is—who?”

Welles looks at the glowing world map — red dots pulsing over Cairo and Mexico.

His voice lowers. “Whoever it is, they’re not hiding. They’re daring us to come find them.”

Peter frowns. “Or leading us in circles.”

“That’s what worries me most,” Welles says. “They’re smarter than us.”

He turns sharply toward the door, his aides falling in step behind him. “I want full trace analysis. I don’t care if you have to burn through every satellite we own. Get me real coordinates, real voices, and a damn lead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Peter,” Welles adds, pausing at the threshold. “If you ever bring me another half-answer like this again, I’ll have you reassigned to climate monitoring in Antarctica. Clear?”

Peter straightens, jaw tight. “Crystal clear, sir.”

The door slides shut behind Welles, leaving only the hum of machines.

Peter exhales slowly, hands gripping the edge of the console. The faint reflection of the world map flickers in his tired eyes.

He whispers to himself, “They’re not running from us… they’re toying with us.”

The screen pulses once — red to black.

Far beneath the surface of London, the hunt for HADES has already begun.

Madrid, Spain — One Week Later

Madrid breathes in color and chaos.

The air is thick with smoke, perfume, and the laughter of a thousand voices rising through the narrow streets. Ribbons of red and gold sway between the balconies as the annual San Arcadio Festival spills through the heart of the city. From above, the crowd looks like a moving ocean of joy — unaware that somewhere in that sea of faces, death is already watching.

High above the noise, Leon Albrecht crouches on the edge of a rooftop. The night wind brushes against his coat, carrying the scent of roasted almonds and fireworks. His gloved hands rest against the cold tiles as he watches the city with unblinking focus.

He moves with the stillness of a predator — a shadow between lights.

The voice in his ear breaks the silence.

“Specter, this is Control. I have you on visual. Target building should be one hundred meters north. Two heat signatures on the upper floor.”

Benjamin Roshfurd’s voice trembles slightly, young and careful, but competent. Leon listens without emotion.

“Understood,” he says.

He begins to move. His tactical suit flexes with every motion — silent, seamless. He leaps from one rooftop to another, his boots touching the ground without a single sound. The roar of drums and cheering below masks the rhythm of his movement.

The world down there dances. Up here, it hunts.

From his position, Leon can see the top of a beige building just across the street. A faint glow spills from the balcony. Two men stand there, talking — their faces partially hidden by smoke and distance.

Leon lowers his visor, zooming in. One of them he recognizes immediately.

Morgan Forstman.

Ex–CIA, vanished after the Kabul incident. A man with too much information and no allegiance to anyone but himself.

The other, he doesn’t need to confirm. The tailored white suit, the rings, the air of casual violence — Miguel Carnacho, leader of the Cártel de los Espectros.

“Target sighted,” Leon murmurs. “Forstman and Carnacho. Confirmed.”

Benjamin exhales into the mic. “Copy that. I’m opening the listening channel. You should hear them now.”

A faint crackle fills Leon’s ear, followed by distorted voices.

“The first test shipment will pass through Tangier,” Forstman says, his tone cool and professional.

“And the material?” Carnacho asks.

“Still being refined. They call it Hades.”

Leon’s breath slows. The name strikes him like a whisper from another lifetime.

“It’s not a toxin,” Forstman continues. “It’s precision. One drop of it doesn’t kill a man — it erases everything connected to him. No trace, no DNA, no ashes. It’s perfect.”

“And the Red Dove?” Carnacho presses.

Forstman smirks. “He’ll handle the test. Once it works, even nations will beg to buy it.”

The voices fade into static.

Leon stays still, his heartbeat steady.

“Benjamin,” he says quietly, “did you catch that name?”

“Red Dove?”

“Yes.”

“Never heard of it. Must be new.”

Leon’s gaze remains fixed on the two figures. “No. It’s old. Too old.”

He’s heard it once before — a codename buried in a mission file from years ago, during the chaos of the Red Pulse Incident. The kind of operative that leaves no trace, because there’s nothing left to find.

The festival erupts in cheers as fireworks explode above the city, lighting the rooftops in red and gold. Leon’s eyes narrow against the glare. For a brief moment, he feels the irony of it all — how the world can celebrate life so loudly, while its end is quietly negotiated one rooftop away.

Benjamin’s voice interrupts the thought.

“Do you want me to tag Forstman’s signal?”

“Not yet,” Leon says. “If we move now, we spook them. We wait.”

He adjusts his scope again, eyes sharp. The crowd below ripples with movement — a child chasing confetti, a group of tourists waving flags. None of them see him. None of them will ever know he’s here.

He was trained to live like that — to exist in the blind spot of the world.

The earpiece crackles again. “Leon, I’m picking up interference on your channel. You hearing that?”

A faint hum vibrates above him. Leon’s head tilts upward. Against the dark clouds, something hovers — small, silent, unmarked. A drone. Military design. Not A.G.I.S. property.

“Benjamin,” Leon says, voice low. “You have eyes on that drone?”

“Negative. That’s not ours.”

Then, a red light flickers beneath the drone’s body.

Leon doesn’t hesitate. “Benjamin—”

The explosion tears the rooftop apart. The sound crashes like thunder, scattering glass and stone into the air. For a split second, Leon is weightless — then the impact throws him backward, debris slicing through his coat.

Screams rise from below. Fireworks die midair, smoke swallowing the night sky.

Leon rolls, his shoulder hitting the cracked ledge, his ears ringing. His visor is shattered, one lens sparking. He rips it off and breathes through the smoke, scanning for movement.

Through the haze, he sees them — Morgan and Carnacho — already running toward the stairwell, their guards pulling them out of sight.

Benjamin’s voice returns, sharp with panic. “Leon! Talk to me, are you alive?”

Leon steadies his breath. “Alive. They tried to flush me out.”

He pushes himself up, pulling a pistol from his holster.

“Where are they headed?”

“Ground level exit. South side. But— Leon, the crowd’s in chaos. You can’t engage without exposure.”

Leon’s gaze falls on the festival below — the same crowd that was laughing minutes ago, now screaming and running.

“I’ll manage.”

He reloads the weapon, the click echoing through the smoke.

“Benjamin,” he says, his tone calm again, almost detached. “Track Forstman. Keep me updated.”

“What about Carnacho?”

“I’ll find him.”

And then, without hesitation, he steps off the broken ledge — into the chaos below.

Madrid is no longer a city of celebration.

The music has died, and the festival’s laughter turns into screams.

Shards of concrete and glass rain down from the rooftops as people scatter across the streets, their joy dissolving into chaos.

Above them, a figure runs.

Leon Albrecht moves across the burning skyline like a phantom pursued by fire. He leaps from one roof to another, smoke clinging to his coat. The whine of drones echoes above him — metallic vultures, circling, hunting. Their rotors slice through the night air with mechanical fury, their red lights blinking like angry eyes.

“Benjamin!” Leon shouts into his comm, landing on a narrow ledge. “Get into their network. Now!”

Benjamin’s voice crackles through the earpiece, breathless.

“I’m trying! These firewalls are—damn it—they’re military-grade! Who the hell built these things?”

A burst of gunfire answers him. Leon ducks as bullets chew into the rooftop behind him. A trail of sparks scatters across the tiles. One drone dives low, its cannon glowing. Leon rolls to the side, grabs the edge of a metal pipe, and vaults over the roof’s lip just as a barrage of rounds rip the air where he stood.

Below him, the streets are a storm of confusion. People run in every direction, trampling confetti and debris. Somewhere among them, Miguel Carnacho vanishes into a black SUV convoy, while Morgan Forstman pushes through the crowd toward a helipad two blocks away.

Leon climbs back to the rooftop, gun in hand.

“Benjamin, focus on the drones! I’ll handle Forstman.”

“I’m doing what I can!” Benjamin’s fingers fly over his keyboard miles away. Streams of code flood his monitors, each layer of encryption tightening like armor. “They’re rerouting every five seconds! I need more time—”

“You don’t have it.”

Another drone swoops in low. Leon fires, three precise shots. Two hit the fuselage; the third strikes its sensor array. The drone spirals, collides with a billboard, and explodes in a burst of sparks that rain onto the street below.

“Scratch one,” Leon mutters.

The second drone opens fire.

Bullets tear through the air, ripping into the stone wall beside him. Leon ducks behind a vent, reloads, and fires back — one shot after another, counting the rhythm of the bursts, waiting for the reload pause. When it comes, he rises, aims, and shoots through the gun mount. The drone shudders but keeps firing.

“Benjamin!” Leon barks. “Now would be a good time!”

“I’m in!” Benjamin yells triumphantly. “Found a backdoor through the telemetry signal—sending kill code—now!”

The drone freezes midair. Its rotors sputter, lights flicker, and then—silence.

It drops like a dead insect, crashing into the street below.

The noise in Leon’s ear softens.

Benjamin exhales hard. “All drones neutralized. Jesus Christ… you okay?”

Leon doesn’t answer right away. His chest rises and falls, breath steadying. He looks toward the horizon — the sound of rotor blades cutting through the night.

“Forstman,” he says finally. “He’s escaping.”

Benjamin zooms in on his satellite feed. “I see him! He’s boarding a helicopter. Carnacho’s already gone — he’s airborne. But Forstman’s still close.”

Leon doesn’t wait.

He runs.

The helipad is three buildings away, but Specter moves like gravity doesn’t apply to him. He jumps the gap between roofs, rolls, and pushes forward, ignoring the pain in his shoulder from the earlier blast. The wind howls against his ears, the smell of jet fuel thickening as he closes in.

Below, Forstman’s helicopter begins to lift. Leon sprints for the edge and leaps — twenty meters through the smoky air. His hand catches the landing skid with a sharp metallic clang. The force nearly tears his arm from its socket, but he holds on.

“Leon!” Benjamin’s voice is frantic. “You didn’t— oh, you did. You actually— damn it, hold on!”

The helicopter tilts, jerking violently. Inside, Forstman snarls, “Get him off!” The pilot banks hard, trying to shake the shadow clinging to the side.

Leon pulls himself upward, boots scraping the metal frame. The wind screams in his ears. Forstman reaches for his pistol, firing through the open door — wild, panicked shots. Bullets tear through the frame. One grazes Leon’s arm; the other punches through the window.

Leon grabs the barrel mid-swing, twists, and slams Forstman’s wrist against the doorframe. The gun goes off again — this time through the pilot’s shoulder.

The helicopter jerks.

The city spins below them.

“Mayday! Mayday!” the pilot gasps, clutching his wound. “We’re losing control—!”

Leon forces his way inside the cabin, fighting the pull of the wind. Forstman throws a punch; Leon blocks it and drives an elbow into his ribs. Forstman grabs a knife from his boot and swings wildly. The blade cuts across Leon’s coat, narrowly missing flesh.

They crash against the console, dials shattering. The helicopter lurches violently. Streetlights and rooftops spin outside the cracked windshield.

“Leon!” Benjamin’s voice cuts through the chaos. “What’s happening?”

Leon grits his teeth. “Forstman shot the pilot. We’re going down.”

Forstman roars, trying to drive the knife again. Leon catches his arm, forcing it sideways until bone cracks. The knife falls. Forstman’s scream drowns beneath the rising alarm of the dying engine.

Leon grabs the control stick, trying to level the aircraft. The city rushes up toward them — the lights of Madrid blurring into a swirl of gold and shadow.

“Benjamin—cut the street grid! Now!” Leon shouts. “Kill the lights below us!”

Benjamin’s hands fly across the keyboard. “Doing it—three seconds!”

The city lights beneath them blink out — a swath of darkness opening in the middle of Madrid.

It isn’t enough.

The helicopter’s tail clips a tower, shearing metal. Leon braces himself, pulling Forstman down, covering his head as the cabin erupts into a storm of fire and glass. The last thing he hears is Benjamin’s voice, breaking through the static:

“Leon—!”

Then the world slams into him.

The helicopter hits the street.

The explosion devours the night.

Smoke swallows the night.

Flames climb the shattered wreckage of the helicopter, painting the street in trembling orange light.

Screams echo through the narrow roads as sirens wail in the distance. Madrid — once a city of music and color — has become a crater of panic.

Benjamin Roshfurd leans forward over his keyboard, his face pale in the glow of dozens of monitors. Street-camera feeds flicker one after another — smoke, chaos, people running. Then, amid the blur, he sees it: a heap of twisted metal in the middle of the avenue.

“Leon!” he shouts into his headset. “Leon, do you copy? Come on, answer me!”

Static.

No response.

Benjamin’s throat tightens. His hands tremble as he switches camera angles. The fire reflects off glass and blood. Then — a movement.

A hand pushes through the debris.

A man drags himself out, coughing, covered in dust and smoke. Morgan Forstman.

“Holy hell…” Benjamin whispers. “He’s alive.”

But on another feed, from a camera across the intersection, another figure moves. Leon Albrecht — bruised, blood on his temple, his tactical suit torn — climbs out from the other side of the wreck. He’s limping, but still standing.

“Leon!” Benjamin’s voice cracks with relief. “Thank God. I thought—”

“Track Forstman,” Leon interrupts, coughing. “He’s getting away.”

Through the haze, Forstman stumbles into the street, dragging his leg. He limps between overturned cars, his pistol clutched in one hand. Leon follows, every step heavy, his breath ragged but controlled.

Forstman glances back, eyes wide with rage and desperation. He raises his gun, pointing straight at Leon. Leon freezes and raises his own weapon in return.

For a moment, time slows.

Two silhouettes locked in aim beneath the glow of burning wreckage.

Forstman’s voice shakes but carries a strange calmness. “You don’t understand, Specter. This… this is already halfway done. You can’t stop what’s coming.”

Leon’s eyes narrow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The prophecy of the Red Dove,” Forstman says, almost smiling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. “It’s already begun.”

Before Leon can respond — a sharp crack splits the air.

Forstman’s head jerks back, a red mist blooming behind him. His body collapses to the ground.

Leon freezes.

The echo of the sniper shot fades into silence.

His eyes shoot upward — to the rooftops.

There, against the smoke, a figure stands — tall, clad in black tactical gear, face hidden behind a full mask. The sniper lowers his rifle and looks straight at Leon. For an instant, neither moves. Then the masked figure turns, stepping back into the shadows.

And just like that — he’s gone.

Leon keeps his weapon raised for several seconds, scanning the rooflines, but the ghost has vanished.

He exhales slowly, lowering his pistol, the sirens drawing nearer.

“Benjamin,” he mutters through the comm, “Forstman’s dead.”

“What?”

“Sniper. Unknown. Professional.”

Benjamin curses under his breath. “Goddamn it… He was our only lead on Hades.”

Leon kneels beside Forstman’s body, checking his pulse — nothing. The expression frozen on the man’s face is half smirk, half terror.

“Someone wanted him silenced,” Leon says quietly. “He was a vault full of secrets — and somebody just burned it down before we could open it.”

Benjamin’s voice softens. “Then what now?”

Leon looks up, the flames reflecting in his eyes. “Now we chase ghosts.”

He walks toward the edge of the street where emergency vehicles begin to arrive. Civilians are screaming, police shouting orders, cameras flashing. The city is chaos incarnate. Leon pulls his hood up and melts into the crowd — just another shadow among many.

A.G.I.S. Field Command — Hamburg, Germany.

Erik Baumann sits alone in his office, head in his hands. A dozen reports flash across his tablet — “EXPLOSION IN MADRID,” “UNIDENTIFIED COMBATANTS,” “HELICOPTER CRASH IN PUBLIC AREA.”

Every headline screams the same thing: Failure.

The door bursts open. A comms officer hesitates in the frame. “Sir, London’s on the line. Director Welles demands immediate response.”

Baumann exhales slowly, straightening his suit. “Patch it through.”

The holo-screen flickers to life, revealing Sir Alaic Welles — his face tight with restrained fury. Behind him, the London war room glows cold blue.

“Baumann,” Welles begins, his tone dripping with venom. “Do you know how many diplomatic calls I’ve had to answer this morning?”

Baumann doesn’t flinch. “I can imagine.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can,” Welles snaps. “Because while your best agent was turning the center of Madrid into a war zone, I was receiving calls from the Spanish ambassador, the European Council, and—oh yes—the bloody Prime Minister’s office. They’re demanding answers. Answers that I don’t have because you went rogue.”

Baumann adjusts his tie calmly. “Specter operates under Hamburg command. He’s my responsibility, not yours.”

Welles’s jaw tightens. “You overstepped protocol, Erik. You had no authorization to deploy an active assassin without central clearance.”

“Specter isn’t an assassin,” Baumann says evenly. “He’s an operative. And he was closer to uncovering Hades than any of your analysts sitting behind their desks.”

Welles’s laugh is cold. “And now Forstman is dead. The only lead we had is gone. Tell me, Erik — is that your definition of success?”

Baumann’s voice hardens. “We both know what this is really about. You’re not angry because of Madrid. You’re angry because Specter answers to me, not you.”

For a moment, silence. The tension hums like a drawn wire.

Welles leans closer to the camera. “You’re playing a dangerous game, old friend. And when this collapses — when the truth about Hades comes out — it won’t be my name that burns. It’ll be yours.”

The screen cuts to black.

Baumann exhales, his reflection staring back from the dark glass. For a long time, he says nothing.

Then, quietly: “You have no idea what you’ve unleashed, Alaic.”

He turns toward the window overlooking the rain-slicked streets of Hamburg. Somewhere out there, Specter is still alive — and the world is already starting to whisper one name:

The Red Dove.

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