Project Babylon – Prologue 1

Prologue – Manufactured Chance

The entire building shuddered, the walls groaning under the force of a distant explosion. Dust rained down from the ceiling, mingling with the stale air, thick with the acrid scent of burnt plastic and crumbling concrete. Wyatt held his breath, his fingers tightening around his rifle, waiting out the tremor. Only when the ground settled did he risk a glance through the shattered window.

Fire and chaos consumed the streets below. Tracer rounds streaked through the smoke-choked sky, their eerie glow painting jagged red and green slashes across the battlefield. In the market square, a makeshift barricade trembled under the relentless hammer of machine gun fire, answered by the deep, gut-punching boom of distant artillery shells. The attack was coordinated—fast, ruthless, and efficient. Too efficient. And that gnawed at Wyatt’s nerves.

“This is a goddamn war,” Wallace muttered beside him.

The Scotsman was sweating through his fatigues, damp patches blooming across the fabric. His broad forehead glistened, his hands clenched so tightly around his rifle that his knuckles had gone pale. “They don’t pay us for this kind of shit,” he added, his voice tight.

Before Wyatt could answer, a deafening burst of machine gun fire tore through the windows, shattering what little glass remained. Bullets chewed through the walls, spraying plaster and shards of wood across the floor. Instinct took over. Everyone hit the deck.

“Well, the contract didn’t say anything about being in the middle of a war zone,” Vladimir muttered from Wyatt’s left.

“We’re in the middle of Central Asia,” Wyatt shot back, ever the realist. “The entire place is a war zone.”

It was almost ridiculous. They were speaking in the clipped, manic tones of men who knew they were in serious danger but had no choice but to keep moving forward. A fresh burst of gunfire roared outside, the metallic staccato answering another volley from the upper floors. The fight was happening all around them, but for now, no one had them in their sights.

“We’re mercs,” came the calm, measured voice of their commanding officer. “They pay us to fight.”

Marshal. Good old Marshal. At thirty-five, he was the eldest among them, though war had aged him beyond his years. Gray streaked his stubble, his face lined with experience, his sharp eyes constantly scanning, calculating. Always five steps ahead.

Some of the men had already started moving, slipping through the debris-strewn hallways in search of better cover. But others hesitated—Wyatt saw it in their eyes. The same creeping dread that always took root before a slaughter. And this? This had all the makings of one.

Gunfire thundered from the street below, answered in kind by weapons on the upper floors. Marshal crawled toward different groups, issuing quiet orders. Silence was their best ally right now—letting the fight happen around them, picking their moment. Wyatt spotted a few slipping away, likely to cover the exits. The old man finally made his way to where Wyatt, Wallace, and Vladimir were hunkered down.

“Popular spot,” Marshal muttered, nodding toward the city beyond. “Been here before?”

“No, sir,” Wyatt said. “Don’t even know the name.”

“I told you like five times,” Wallace huffed.

“I don’t care,” Wyatt admitted flatly.

Then the mortar hit.

The blast rocked the building, shaking the very bones of the structure. Rubble tumbled from the ceiling, sending up clouds of choking dust. Someone cursed. Someone else coughed violently. They had to move.

“ANYWAY,” Wallace barked, forcing the conversation back on track.

“Yeah, we still got a job to do,” Marshal said, his close-cropped hair dusted in debris, his expression grim. His eyes shone with a quiet, unshakable determination. “And I don’t think this is the kind of job we can slink away from.”

“Why?” Wallace asked, his voice edging toward desperation. “We were paid upfront.”

Marshal exhaled through his nose. “Because I get the feeling that whoever these people are, they’re the kind of organization we do not want to cross.”

Silence. Wallace went pale. Grim. Another explosion rattled the walls. Wyatt met Marshal’s gaze and saw the truth written there. They weren’t making it out clean. Hell, most of them weren’t making it out at all.

Marshal must’ve thought the same, because he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We’re going in,” he said. “We hold the line. Buy some time.”

Wyatt’s stomach twisted. A suicide mission. The enemy was too numerous, too well-trained. No one who went into that meat grinder was coming back.

Marshal clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “You, on the other hand, have a job to do.”

Wyatt exhaled sharply. He already knew what was coming.

“The hospital,” Marshal continued. “Secure the target. Get to the rendezvous point.”

Wyatt swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. A lot went unsaid. The words didn’t need to be spoken.

They both knew this was goodbye.

Then another explosion hit—closer this time. The building groaned like a dying beast, its foundations shifting. Debris rained down, and Wyatt threw up an arm to shield his face. And then, suddenly, something clicked in his mind.

The building was going to collapse.

He turned to Marshal, an idea forming fast. “We can use it,” he said urgently. “Set the charges—bring it down in our favor. If we time it right, the collapse will form a barricade. Buy you time.”

Marshal hesitated for only a second. Then he nodded, sharp and decisive. “It’s doable.” His eyes flicked across the room, already planning. Already seeing the steps ahead. “Take a squad of five and go.”

Wyatt looked to his left, locking eyes with Vladimir for the briefest moment. His closest friend. His brother in all but blood. But Marshal had already chosen, and Vlad wasn’t among the five.

They exchanged a silent look. A farewell of sorts. Then Wyatt turned, motioning to the five assigned to him.

“Move,” he ordered, stepping into the half-collapsed hallway.