Keller stops on the pavement, facing the building.
Before him, the headquarters of The Dark Unit rises with austere precision.
The main façade — smooth, glass, slightly curved — mirrors a grey sky.
To the left, a rectangular hangar stretches out, clad in dark steel, its loading bays perfectly aligned.
Three metallic letters above the entrance read simply: TDU.
The main doors are tinted, double-glazed, revealing nothing of what moves inside.
Keller lingers a moment before his reflection.
He knows they’re already watching him.
He clenches his jaw.
He hasn’t come for an appointment.
He’s come for answers.
The lobby is wide and silent, bathed in white light from recessed panels in the ceiling.
The polished resin floor shows almost no sign of life.
No posters. No screens. No slogans.
Ahead, a reception desk in polished concrete.
Behind it, a woman sits — straight posture, dark suit, measured eyes.
To the left, ten metres away, a security guard observes.
Gun on his belt, earpiece wired to a radio.
Behind the desk, a digital clock glows red.
Keller shows his CIA badge.
— “Agent Keller. I want to see Mr Carrington.”
— “Do you have an appointment?”
— “No. He’s an acquaintance.”
The woman’s tone stays professional.
— “Without an appointment, that won’t be possible. He’s in meetings all day.”
Keller studies her badge. Maya.
— “Maya, isn’t it? Listen… I want to see Victor. Your company was responsible for my capture by insurgents—”
A calm voice interrupts.
— “Keller.”
Carrington stands there — composed, almost fatherly.
— “Brave boy. You should have called first.”
He turns to the receptionist.
— “It’s fine, Maya. I’ll take it from here. John, come with me.”
Carrington swipes his badge. The glass door slides open with a muted chime.
They enter a long corridor, lit by ceiling LEDs, the walls uniform grey.
Framed photos of armed men.
Decorations. Flags. Silence.
On the right, an office door half-open: a woman typing, papers stacked beside the phone. She doesn’t look up.
On the left, closed doors — names only, no titles.
A metal staircase rises.
At the top, a small waiting area: two black-leather benches forming a U, a metal table, a neat pile of magazines, a water dispenser.
Further along, another corridor.
Through one doorway, Keller glimpses maps, briefing charts, an officer on the phone.
Another door closes quietly as they pass.
Carrington’s pace never falters.
He stops before a door marked Carrington.
They enter.
The office is large, sparse.
Glass and steel desk.
Two rigid visitor chairs.
A broad window overlooking the loading bays below.
On the wall — a world map, unlabelled, pinned with grey markers.
No family photos. No memories.
Only an old metal cabinet in the corner.
Carrington sits, waits.
Keller speaks first.
— “In 2004, your company was called The Best Unit. At a checkpoint, one of your men killed a boy, an old man and a donkey—”
Carrington cuts in:
— “A mule, not a donkey. They look alike, but they’re not the same.”
Keller’s voice rises.
— “You don’t deny it?”
— “Deny what? We were cleared by the President himself. Case closed.”
— “You’re mocking me! I didn’t sign up to cover your crimes!”
— “And yet you did. That’s how the job works, son.”
Keller slams his hand on the desk.
— “Your men killed civilians! Because of people like you, we’ll lose this war!”
Carrington laughs softly.
— “The United States doesn’t lose wars. Maybe its allies do — but we? We win every time. Weapons, resources, governments — it’s all business.”
A phone buzzes. Carrington checks the screen, sighs.
— “Your saviour, the demon — that one. He kills our men, and you come here for justice? You should be hunting him. Buy him, or kill him.”
His tone softens.
— “Don’t get yourself killed, son.”
Keller hesitates.
— “What did he do?”
Carrington’s face hardens.
— “That monster hit my men during a mission…”
He stops. Then quietly:
— “Go. Leave.”
He calls security.
Two guards escort Keller out.
Carrington doesn’t look up again.
Back in Washington, Keller stands in his office.
Hayes is waiting — arms folded.
— “Why’d you go to Carrington?”
— “I wanted a name. Someone responsible.”
— “And?”
— “Night. He’s struck again. Carrington won’t talk.”
Hayes exhales.
— “You’re still chasing a ghost? Go home, John. See your wife. Or you’ll lose everything.”
The Debriefing
Paris, March 2015 — Boulevard Mortier, headquarters of the DGSE.
A round table. Six chairs. Five officers.
Four of them angry — at the fifth.
A camera points directly at him.
General Armand Delcourt, DGSE:
— “We’re here to decide whether the Adrar operation was a success or a disaster.”
He reads from his notes.
— “Those fallen for France: Lieutenant Armand Lemaire, posthumously promoted Captain. Sergeant Thomas Perrin, posthumously promoted Warrant Officer. Private First Class Malik Benali, posthumously promoted Corporal.”
He folds the paper, throws it on the table.
— “Now, Colonel Saint Clair, DRM — your intelligence?”
— “Why ask? It was accurate. There were insurgents — they’re dead now,” snaps Colonel Gabriel Montreuil.
— “Dead? You call this a success?” retorts Colonel Renaud, EMA.
— “It’s war. Collateral happens,” Montreuil replies coldly.
— “Your plan was reckless! A single patrol when a full section was needed!” says Colonel Le Goff, COS.
— “You think that would’ve saved them? Accept it — they made mistakes.”
— “Mistakes?” Renaud slams his hand on the table. “I have a letter from Lieutenant Lemaire himself.”
He unfolds it.
— “Dear Colonel Desmoulin,
I must report the absurd order I received from Colonel Montreuil — a reconnaissance mission with insufficient strength. If I come back alive, I’ll file a formal complaint.”
Renaud looks up.
— “He knew it was madness. He died for it.”
Montreuil says nothing.
— “No answer?” Delcourt presses.
Montreuil finally speaks, defiant.
— “They broke protocol. Vehicle spacing is fifty metres — they didn’t respect it. Their negligence killed them.”
Renaud stares, incredulous.
Montreuil continues, colder still:
— “And if he’d been there, it would’ve worked.”
— “He? Who?”
— “The killer. The demon. His reputation terrifies everyone.”
Saint Clair intervenes:
— “He’s a weapon, not a political tool. Using him without restraint will destroy us.”
The door opens.
A man in a dark suit enters — thin glasses, perfect hair, composed.
He sits.
— “François Meunier, Ministry of Defence. The Minister orders this session closed. All recordings are to be deleted. Any attempt to reopen this file will result in dismissal. Colonel Montreuil is cleared of all suspicion. Good day.”
He stands.
Montreuil follows.
The room is silent.
Colonel Renaud bursts out:
— “The minister clears him! Another protégé of the system.”
He slams the table.
— “We clean deserts, but never offices.”
He leaves. One by one, the others follow — except Saint Clair, who quietly pockets the recording, slides it into his briefcase, and walks out.
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-world contexts.
It was conceived and written by Raulgarth, with the support of Sergeant-Chief Marcel1 for editing, documentation, and narrative development.
Translated with grit and caffeine by Sergeant-Chief Marcel.
Apologies for any translation errors that may have occurred.
You can find the original French version of this story at raulserv.fr.
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