GREENSMOKE

Chapter 8: Orders from Above

The scent of sweat, g*n oil, and stale paper filled the dimly lit briefing room at Fort Savannah. Adam Creed sat in the back corner, arms folded tightly across his chest, expression unreadable. The walls were lined with peeling maps and black-and-white photos of war zones long forgotten. The hum of a faulty air conditioner sputtered from a dusty vent overhead.

Ramplaymaster stood at the head of the room, framed by the ghostly glow of a projector. His presence was magnetic, commanding. The years had carved trenches in his face, but none of his edge had dulled. A red laser dot circled a remote, jungle-covered region on the projected map.

Ramplaymaster:

“Zone Seven. Somewhere between hell and nowhere. That’s our target.”

He clicked the remote. A grainy satellite image appeared — a network of bunkers beneath what looked like an abandoned sugar refinery.

Ramplaymaster:

“This isn’t a lab anymore. It’s a fortress. Intelligence confirms it’s where Greensmoke is synthesized, altered, and exported under code names like ‘Phantom Dust’ and ‘Ghost Smoke.’ We believe they’re developing a strain laced with neurological suppressants. Not just a high — a blackout.”

A young soldier leaned forward.

Soldier:

“You’re saying it erases memory?”

Ramplaymaster:

“I’m saying it rewrites loyalty. We’ve intercepted cases where users couldn’t remember their own names, but knew exactly how to assemble a rifle. This is more than drugs — it’s mental warfare.”

Adam’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to be told what Greensmoke could do. He’d lived it. The way it pulled everything out of you — pain, guilt, fear — and replaced it with blind euphoria. And then... the crash. The hunger. The chaos.

Ramplaymaster (looking at Adam):

“Creed, you know Malik better than anyone. You knew him before he built his empire. Before he poisoned cities. You led the last raid that failed to take him out.”

Adam stood slowly. The entire room shifted its attention toward him. His voice was low, but carried weight.

Adam:

“He was nothing back then. A whisper on the street. But even whispers can echo like thunder in the wrong ears.”

Ramplaymaster:

“Your mission is off-book. No satellite support. No diplomatic cover. You and a two-man team will infiltrate from the south canal, extract Malik if possible. Eliminate if necessary. If captured, you don’t exist.”

He tossed a sealed file onto the metal desk in front of Adam.

Ramplaymaster:

“Your contact will be waiting at Dock 42. Goes by the name ‘Koji.’ Speaks five languages, trusts no one. You’ll like him.”

Adam opened the file. Mugshots. Shipment manifests. Maps. And one blurry photo of Malik at what appeared to be a political fundraiser — tuxedoed, smiling, champagne in hand. A snake in a suit.

Adam’s fingers lingered on the photo.

Adam:

“He killed my unit. Sold me poison. Sent me to prison. And now he wears cufflinks?”

Ramplaymaster (dryly):

“Welcome to the free market.”

The tension broke with a small ripple of nervous laughter. Only Adam didn’t smile.

Ramplaymaster:

“This operation isn’t just about revenge. Malik is trafficking more than drugs. He’s destabilizing entire governments. If Greensmoke hits the capital in its new form, you’re looking at riots, military defection, and collapse.”

Adam nodded once. He didn’t need a speech. He needed a target.

Adam:

“I’ll finish what I started.”

Ramplaymaster:

“You better. Because this time, we won’t be sending another team.”