Chapter 7 Saboteurs In The Smoke

• Smoke was the color of betrayal.
• It curled in through the shattered windows of the old transit office, thick and dark, clinging to Eron’s skin like guilt. Dust rained from the rafters as the detonation settled. Somewhere behind him, a wall had collapsed. Somewhere below him, someone screamed.
• The explosion hadn’t been from enemy fire. It had come from inside the zone they’d already cleared.
• “Layla?” Eron barked into the comms. Static. No response.
• His ears rang, boots skidding as he dragged himself behind a half-toppled desk. His team was scattered. He did a headcount—two men nearby, both shaken but alive.
• “Gavik! Relan!” he called. “Status?”
• Gavik, the stocky one with a scar from his jaw to his ear, coughed blood onto his sleeve. “Charge came from the comms relay room. Wasn’t wired. Remote triggered.”
• “That room was supposed to be locked down.”
• “Yeah. Supposed to be.” Eron’s stomach turned. This wasn’t a siege anymore. It was sabotage.
• Ten minutes earlier, the eastern ward had gone dark.
• Comms blacked out. Camera feeds looped into silence. The forward team with Commander Thorne had stopped transmitting completely. Eron had thought it was interference—until the blast ripped through their fallback shelter like a knife through glass.
• Now it was clear. Someone was feeding enemy intel to Drog. Not from outside the strike force. From within it. As he moved through the ruined street toward the extraction alley, Eron’s mind worked in overdrive. Who knew their fallback route? Who knew Layla’s grid access codes? Who knew the jamming intervals?
• The only people with full clearance were him, Layla, and Thorne. And Thorne was already missing.
• Layla’s voice finally came through in bursts of static. “—Eron... regroup... Zone Delta... Varkas Tower compromised...!”
• He keyed into the feed. “Confirm. You’re in Delta?”
• “Confirmed. Minimal cover. Fire team Echo is gone. I’m with two survivors. Sniper fire is cutting the eastern ward in half.”
• “I’m coming to you,” Eron said. “Hold position.”
• He ended the call and turned to Gavik. “Find the others and sweep the relay room for remnants of the charge. Trace the frequency if you can.” Gavik raised an eyebrow. “You think someone inside blew it?”
• “I don’t think,” Eron said coldly. “I know.”
• Navigating the wreckage of Varkas was like crawling through a burning maze. Smoke choked the alleys. Bodies—soldiers and civilians alike—littered the side streets. Drones buzzed overhead, but they couldn’t tell friend from foe.
• Eron moved like a ghost, crouched low, rifle drawn, slicing through the alleys between bombed-out cafes and collapsed tram stations.
• When he reached Zone Delta, it looked like the remnants of a failed rebellion.
• Three soldiers crouched behind flipped supply crates. Layla was there, kneeling beside a wounded fighter, tying off a tourniquet with blood-soaked hands. Her face was streaked with ash, but her eyes were calm—focused.
• “I told you to stay put,” she said as Eron dropped beside her.
• “I did. Then someone tried to blow us into memory.”
• She didn’t flinch. “I think I know who.”
• They moved into the back of a looted pharmacy, barricading the doors with broken shelving. Eron watched the survivors reload mags with shaking hands. These weren’t elite operatives anymore—they were ghosts clinging to purpose.
• Layla pulled up a portable terminal, cracked and sparking but functional. She jacked in a portable transmitter and activated a manual log.
• “This is what flagged it,” she said. “During our approach to the eastern district, a silent data ping was sent through a restricted admin channel. Only someone with root access to the internal grid could’ve used it.”
• Eron’s voice turned cold. “And you checked mine?”
• “I did. Nothing from your frequency.”
• “And yours?”
• She hesitated. “Clean. But someone mirrored my code.”
• Eron blinked. “Which means someone copied your ID signature and used it to authorize the Varkas Tower access node.”
• “Yes.”
• “Who had access to your secure file stack?”
• Layla was quiet.
• “…Thorne.”
• Commander Thorne had always been a relic of old war—brutal, loyal to Alric, and quietly disdainful of insurgents. He never trusted Eron. Barely tolerated Layla.
• And now he was missing. The weight of it dropped between them like a blade.
• “I want to find him,” Eron said.
• “I want to interrogate him,” Layla corrected. “There’s more at play. He may not be working for Drog—someone else might be paying him.”
• “Victor,” Eron said.
• Layla nodded. “It fits. He wants to fracture the resistance from the inside.”
• Outside, another explosion boomed in the distance—closer this time. The last support drone feed went offline.
• Varkas was dying block by block.
• That night, as they pushed deeper into the neutral district, Layla pulled Eron aside near an abandoned chapel at the center of the city.
• Candles still flickered on the steps. A dead priest lay in the doorway, clutching a rusted key.
• “Why this route?” Eron asked.
• “Because Varkas isn’t just strategic,” Layla said. “It’s symbolic. This chapel was once used as a sanctuary for war refugees. If we secure it, we send a message—one Drog can’t spin.”
• She stepped inside the broken structure, moonlight pouring through the shattered stained glass.
• Eron followed, eyes scanning the altar, the pews, the high window frame that once bore the Republic’s crest.
• “How many more of these do we have to see fall before people stop believing in anything?” she asked quietly.
• Eron didn't answer.
• Instead, he crossed the chapel, knelt beside the priest’s body, and gently pried the key from his hands.
• “What’s it for?” Layla asked.
• Eron studied the tag engraved on the handle.
• ~ A1. Vault Access – Caelon Relay. His eyes sharpened.
• “That’s not a local key. This is from our territory.”
• Layla went still. “Are you saying the saboteur didn’t plant the explosives here... they brought the trigger from Caelon?”
• Eron nodded. “Which means the betrayal didn’t begin in Varkas.”
• “It started at home.”
• Just as they turned to leave, gunfire erupted outside the chapel. Layla dropped behind the altar. Eron rolled to cover near a fallen column.
• Through the cracked doors, a squad of armored soldiers stormed the square—uniforms unfamiliar, their movements too professional for insurgents.
• They wore no insignias. Mercenaries. And at the center of them, barely visible under a tactical hood — Commander Thorne. Alive. Armed. Leading the charge. He turned toward the chapel. And pointed.
• “Bring me the traitor,” he barked. “I want Eron Rane alive.”