Chapter 4 A Cold Way down
My name is Special Operative Phil Lenient.
I've been serving in the military for about five years now.
From the start, I was always highly skilled—sharp, fast, efficient. I rose through the ranks quicker than most. Too quick, maybe. Because somewhere along the way, I must've caught the attention of the wrong kind of people.
I remember the day clearly.
A few men in crisp formal suits—government-looking, but not the usual brass—showed up at our unit. No names. No small talk. Just a job that needed someone like me.
Now, I won't lie. I'm not exactly the cleanest soldier in the field. I've done things. And I had a feeling this job wouldn't be any different. Maybe dirtier.
But when they slid that check across the table?
God damn.
Even you would've smiled at it—hell, maybe even kissed the guy who handed it over.
So we suited up—me and a few others from my level.
High-grade military tech, experimental armor, top-tier weapons... the kind of gear they don't give to just anyone.
At that point, we didn't care what the mission was. Whether it was hunting down terrorists, or tracking some poor idiot who pissed off the wrong billionaire and now had a bounty on their head—we were ready.
Or...
At least, we thought we were.
Phil: "Yeah... I don't think I can do this."
His voice cracked slightly through the comms. I could hear the hesitation in it—no, the fear.
Langster: "Calm down. Everyone's in position. The targets haven't noticed us. Everything's under control."
Phil: "Fuck that. Those are kids, Langster They look barely 10 years old."
He gritted his teeth, his breath catching in his throat. "They look no older than ten, maybe eleven. Don't you have a kid in fifth grade? About that age?"
He paused, his voice lowered now. "Why are twelve men in high-grade gear about to ambush children, Langster? This isn't right."
Langster: "Enough."
There was steel in his voice now, but also something else—weariness. "I feel no better about this than you do, but we have our orders. Plus..." He exhaled hard. "If we end them quick, maybe they won't have to suffer under whatever the hell these people are doing to them."
"Now keep quiet before our location gets compromised."
Phil: "Oh, so you want me to think of this like euthanizing a sick dog?"
He hissed, anger boiling. "Do you even hear yourse—"
POP.
A balloon burst. One of the kids had been playing with it—blue and shiny, now shredded in the grass. The sound cut Phil's rant short. His breath caught in his throat.
The little girl who had been holding it jumped back—startled, almost cat-like. She moved with reflexes no child should have. Her body twisted and flipped like a trained gymnast.
But it wasn't just that. It was how she looked at the balloon afterward, like she'd never seen one before. Like she didn't know what a balloon was.
Phil crouched lower in the giant playhouse, heart pounding. Something was wrong.
None of the kids were acting normal.
One boy fiddled with a radio like he had no idea how to work it or anything about music. Another sniffed everything—everything—the air, the food and candles, and even the party ordinance, like he was part animal.
And one...
His eyes were hollow. Clouded. No light in them at all.
Blind? Phil thought.
Yet that boy was closest to them. He should have heard the heated whispering between Phil and Langster, but he didn't even flinch. Not a single head tilt.
Like he was deaf too.
These weren't just odd behaviors. These kids were off. Unnatural.
But the strangest of them all... was the red-haired girl.
She stood still, quietly watching everything unfold. Not playing. Not moving. Just watching—with a calculating gaze no child should have.
She had rich ginger hair, a single bright green eye, and the other... greenish, maybe hazel. Her face was dusted with light freckles.
She looked European—Irish, maybe Scottish.
But her demeanor… it didn't match the others.
She didn't mimic. She didn't stumble.
She observed.
And the way she did it—it was terrifying. Like she was learning, in real-time, from the others' mistakes.
But what chilled Phil to his bones was her eyes—that one green eye.
It was dead.
Not vacant.
Dead.
Not the kind of emptiness you see in a cloudy minded child. It was deeper. There was no soul behind that stare—just... calculation. A brain operating a body. Nothing more.
Then—she looked up.
Right at Phil.
His breath hitched. He knew his unit was well-hidden. Cloaked. Camouflaged. Practically invisible.
But her gaze shifted.
To him.
Then to another operative.
Then another.
Her head turned, slow and steady, locking on each of their positions like she knew. Like she could see through the ornaments and walls and shadows.
Langster: "...That kid's creepy. The one with the red hair."
His voice, though hushed, trembled slightly.
Phil didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His hands were shaking.
Langster let out a tired sigh, his voice low but steady over the comms.
Langster: "None of these kids are normal... Hell, once you've been in the game long enough, twisted shit stops surprising you. But missions like this?"
He paused. There was a bitter edge in his throat. "They're meant to remind us old-timers that we can still be caught off guard."
Phil crouched lower behind the ruined brick wall, eyes locked on the children. His jaw clenched.
Langster: "I don't know what's going to happen to them. None of us do. And every part of me wants to shoot the damn cameras, kick down the doors, and get them out of here."
"...But that's not what's going to happen."
He swallowed hard.
Langster (cont.): "Because this isn't some heroic fantasy, Phil. This is our reality now. Our orders are clear: wait until every kid is seated at that table... and when they are—"
"...the lights go out, and we open fire."
Phil's heart pounded against his ribs.
Phil: "...So you knew about this shit the whole time?"
Langster: "Save me the moral outrage, soldier."
He sounded colder now, like he'd already started putting walls up. "They gave us a job. Paid us enough that we could live the rest of our lives without needing anything from anyone. You knew, the same as I did, that this job wasn't gonna be clean. You could tell just from the cash alone."
Phil looked back at the red-haired girl. She was sitting now, quietly, staring at the table as if she'd never eaten from one before. His voice cracked:
Phil: "I signed up to eliminate people who made terrible choices in life... not kids who probably don't even understand what a choice is."
He looked down at his gloved hands.
How the hell am I supposed to live... knowing I gunned down a child?
Langster didn't respond right away.
Langster: "...In luxury. With millions of dollars at your feet to hide the pain."
He exhaled through his nose. "Look—realistically, one of us could handle this entire room alone. These kids may be... strange, but they're unarmed, untrained. Just sit this one out."
"Cover your ears. Cover your eyes. Cover your heart. And when it's over... pretend it didn't happen."
Phil didn't say anything.
A beat passed.
Then...
Phil (quietly): "...Yes, sir."
Suddenly, Davie's voice shot through the comms, sharp and mechanical.
Davie: "All targets in position. The lights will die... and then we move in."
A chilling silence followed.
A chilling silence followed.
Davie:
"In..."
"Three."
"Two."
"One..."
lights go out.
Langster: "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
End of chapter