Chapter 75 Beckett
Beckett
The flight to Tunisia was quiet—too quiet.
We’d loaded into a gray cargo bird that smelled like engine oil and dust, flying low under radar, no lights, no insignia.
Cyclone sat strapped in beside the comms gear, eyes flicking between screens that cast his face in blue.
River and Oliver were opposite me, checking rifles in near silence.
Even Gage had gone still, tapping a rhythm on his thigh like he was daring the silence to blink first.
Elara sat to my right, headphones around her neck, watching the darkness beyond the porthole. She hadn’t said a word since takeoff, but I didn’t need her to. The tension in her jaw said enough. She was ready—and she was scared. Not of dying. Of losing.
Cyclone broke the silence first. “Transmission pings confirmed. Grand’s lieutenant—Codename ‘Viktor’—is running the Tunisian port.
It’s not just a hub, it’s an export facility for the trafficking network.
They’ve disguised everything as humanitarian shipments—containers marked for medical relief, school supplies, reconstruction materials. ”
“Classic Hydra,” River muttered. “Hide monsters in charity.”
Cyclone nodded grimly. “Satellite feed shows the compound’s protected by a private militia. They’re expecting trouble, but not us.”
Gage leaned back, smirking. “Good. I hate disappointing people.”
Elara turned toward Cyclone. “What about Grand?”
“His signal went dark five hours ago. My guess? He’s not here. He’s waiting to see who survives this round before he shows his face again.”
I checked my rifle, then met Elara’s gaze. “He’s watching. He always is.”
She didn’t flinch. “Then let him watch us burn his empire.”
The cargo bay went still again. Even Cyclone’s fingers paused on the keyboard. That fire in her voice—it wasn’t bravado. It was truth.
River grinned faintly. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“You already are,” Elara said, and the corner of her mouth lifted just enough to make him laugh.
Cyclone pointed to the digital map. “We’ll insert here—coastal edge, two klicks from the main dockyard.
Hydra’s security grid runs along the outer perimeter.
We’ll cut power, slip through the maintenance route, and hit the command building first. Once the main servers are down, their comms go black.
We isolate the lieutenant, extract what we can, and torch everything they can’t carry. ”
Oliver spoke for the first time, his voice even, deliberate. “How many civilians?”
Cyclone hesitated. “Maybe two dozen. Most in transit. Hydra doesn’t keep their victims long.”
I looked at Elara. Her hands tightened around her belt.
“We get them out first,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Agreed,” I said.
The plane jolted as we hit turbulence. Somewhere below, the Mediterranean shimmered under the stars, the dark waves a mirror for the kind of mission we’d stepped into—deep, cold, and merciless.
Cyclone leaned toward me. “ETA—ten minutes.”
Everyone fell into silence again, that pre-mission quiet where breath feels heavier and the heart beats slower.
I reached for Elara’s hand, just once, before we stood. “You stay on my flank. If anything happens—”
She cut me off. “We walk out together. You already said it.”
I almost smiled. “Guess I did.”
The ramp lowered, wind slamming through the bay, the roar of the ocean rising to meet us. We were ghosts again—six soldiers stepping into another country’s shadows.
Tunisia sprawled below us—lights glimmering along the coast, the harbor alive with cranes and cargo ships, the kind of industrial sprawl that could swallow whole armies.
Cyclone’s voice came through the comms, steady and calm. “Welcome to Tunisia, boys and girl. Hydra’s open for business.”
And as my boots hit the sand, rifle ready, I looked toward the port lights in the distance and muttered,
“Let’s shut them down.”