• The Moon – Some hunts happen in darkness, even under a full moon.

• Seven of Swords – You don’t stalk a predator—you let it think it’s found you.

• Ten of Swords – The end is never clean when the pack is still hungry.

The Black Dogs of Chiang Saen

By John Rebell

The Mekong was black as diesel that night, the current chewing slow against the bank like it had all the time in the world. Chiang Saen slept behind him, the old Lanna ruins crouching in the dark, watching. James Cobalt didn’t like this stretch of river. Too many bodies had gone in. Too few came out.

They called them the Black Dogs—not because they were dogs, not exactly, but because that’s what the locals saw before they died. Big, silent shapes moving on the edge of the light. Sometimes just eyes, low to the ground. Always hunting in packs.

And always bringing back the pieces their boss wanted.

Cobalt had been tracking them for three nights. Not because he wanted to. Because a man in Vientiane had paid him to. A missing girl. Fourteen. The boss of the Black Dogs wanted her for reasons Cobalt didn’t ask about. He’d learned that questions didn’t save the ones who were already taken. They just got you killed faster.

The trail ran cold in Chiang Saen. Cold, but not gone.

The first time he saw them, it was on the road out of Sop Ruak. Three men. No headlights. Riding dirt bikes like shadows on teeth. They passed him slow, too slow, and he caught the reflection in one man’s goggles—a smile, but not from the mouth. The kind that starts somewhere lower, somewhere hungrier.

He followed them on foot, keeping to the scrub. The bikes wound through an old smugglers’ track that dropped into a ravine thick with bamboo. He smelled it before he saw it.

Blood. Not fresh. Not old. The kind that had been cooked in the sun, turned sweet in the rot.

The hut was little more than tin and tarp, but inside was an operating table. Rust on the legs. Dark stains that had nothing to do with rust. Shackles on both ends. And in the corner—her shoe. The girl’s. Pink canvas, one lace gone. Still warm.

Then the dogs came back.

The fight was over in seconds. First man came in laughing—Cobalt broke his jaw with the butt of the Wist and slit him open before the body hit the floor. Second man took a round through the eye. The third wasn’t stupid. He ran.

Cobalt didn’t follow.

Not yet.

The one who ran would go home. And home is where you find the nest.

He tracked him by the sound of the dirt bike’s busted muffler, keeping low along the ridge. The moon lit the jungle in silver, every leaf sharp enough to cut. Cobalt’s boots found every root, every hole, like the ground wanted him gone. But he kept moving.

Half an hour later, he was staring down into a pit.

There were seven of them. Not men anymore, not really. Tattoos black from collarbone to knuckle. Eyes that didn’t blink. All with blades curved like smiles.

And in the center, the boss. Shirtless. Scars on scars. One hand on the girl’s hair, the other holding a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping him alive. She was still breathing. Barely.

Cobalt dropped into the pit.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t warn. The first blade came for his gut—he caught the wrist, broke it, stabbed the owner in the throat with his own steel. The pit turned into chaos. Boots, teeth, steel, blood. Gunshots too loud in the small space. The girl screamed once, then went silent. He prayed it was fear, not the end.

The boss came last. He didn’t run. Just looked at Cobalt with something like recognition.

“You’re already dead,” he said.

“Yeah,” Cobalt replied, and put two rounds into his chest.

When it was over, Cobalt was bleeding from four places, one deep. He pulled the girl from the ground, cradling her like something he could still fix. Her pulse was thin, but there. He wrapped her in his jacket and climbed out.

The moon was gone now. Clouds had swallowed it whole. The jungle was quiet.

Too quiet.

Because the pack was not gone. Not all of them.

Somewhere in the dark, eyes moved. Low. Watching. Waiting.

By dawn, he’d crossed the border with her in a stolen truck. Dropped her at a clinic in Houayxay with enough cash for a new life. No name given. No name taken.

Back in Chiang Saen, the Mekong still chewed at the shore. The ruins still watched. And somewhere out there, in the dark, the Black Dogs hunted on.

They always would.

Author Note:
Some enemies you kill. Others you just keep wounding until they learn your name. The Black Dogs know mine now.

Cobalt Rides Again!

Tarot Spread:

• The Hierophant – Old systems. Dogma. False teachers.

• Wheel of Fortune – Karmic turn. A game already in motion.

• The Moon – Deception. Shadow selves. Someone wears a mask.

The first bullet missed him by inches.

James Cobalt didn’t flinch. He ducked behind a rusted-out tuk-tuk frame in the alley, felt the sting of shattered glass against his neck, and waited. Bangkok rain came down hard, drumming on tin rooftops like war drums. Another shot cracked — too far left.

Amateurs.

He drew his suppressed Sig, counted three heartbeats, then swung around and fired once. Then twice. The alley went silent. One man down. The other ran. Cobalt didn’t chase. Not tonight.

He slid the body over, searched pockets. Nothing but a burner phone, 400 baht, and a playing card tucked in the man’s collar:

The Hierophant.

Not a coincidence.

Earlier that evening, he’d been pulled off the main road by a vision. Not one of his own. Someone else’s. A ripple in the ether. A tug at the base of his skull — the kind of thing you learn not to ignore.

It led him to the basement of a noodle shop in Silom, past rows of hanging ducks and fish sauce fumes. A red curtain. A single candle. And her.

She called herself Madame Sha. No surname. No questions.

“I don’t usually do this for men like you,” she said, voice like silk and smoke. “Your kind always leaves blood on the cards.”

“I’m not here for fate,” he said. “Just a warning.”

She smiled and dealt anyway. Three cards.
The Hierophant. Wheel of Fortune. The Moon.

“What does it mean?”

“Tradition meets chance,” she said. “But this—” Her nail clicked on The Moon. “This is illusion. Secrets. Madness. Someone is hiding behind a mask. And that mask is you.”

Cobalt leaned back. “Try again.”

“I don’t shuffle twice for shadows,” she said. “But I’ll tell you this: someone’s gambling on your death tonight.”

Back in the alley, Cobalt tossed the tarot card into the trash fire. The Hierophant curled in the flames, just another false prophet burned down.

His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.

You were warned. The Wheel turns. The Moon watches. — S

He checked the rooftops. Watched the alley’s mouth. Someone was watching. Always watching.

Two hours later, Cobalt stood across from Madame Sha again — this time with blood on his shirt.

“You knew,” he said.

“I saw the thread,” she said calmly. “I didn’t pull it.”

“You sent me in blind.”

“You walked in blind.”

She turned the deck face-down and began to shuffle. Her hands moved like a dancer’s. The candle flickered. Then she paused.

“You want answers?”

“I want names.”

She nodded once. Drew a single card.
The Moon. Again.

“No names tonight,” she said. “Only symbols.”

He stepped forward, hand on the Sig. “No more games.”

“You don’t understand,” she whispered. “The Moon isn’t hiding the truth from you. It’s hiding you from the truth.”

Then she turned the card sideways — half shadow, half light.

And for a moment, Cobalt remembered a forest temple. A monk with one eye. A lesson about mirrors. And masks.

He backed away. Didn’t say a word. Just left.

Behind him, the candle snuffed out.

Want More?

This short story ties into the hidden layers of Shock and Awe — a serialized thriller uncovering the secret life of James Cobalt.
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