Chapter 2 #3
He dropped off the bar and staggered straight to the rings. Dips. Slow, deep, punishing.
The same routine that built the stability for impossible sniper holds. The same routine he’d mastered years ago. But today it wasn’t about mastery. Today it was about penance.
He lowered himself until his chest hovered above the floor, arms quaking, breath ragged, and held. Every tendon in his body screamed. His shoulders trembled.
“Come on,” he growled to himself. “Hold.” He pushed through the burn until his vision spotted and his arms buckled, dropping him hard onto the mat. He rolled to his back, chest heaving. Pain flared in every muscle. Still not enough.
He got up. Never quit.
Then came deep squat holds, back straight, arms extended, thighs quivering.
A sniper held positions for hours. Balance-board firing stances, shaking harder than usual due to his center of gravity being off, and he hated it.
Plank-to-pike core drills, the kind that carved his obliques into weaponized steel for the discipline in his body when he had none in his mind.
Push-ups with a forty-five-lb plate on his back, until his chest felt like it was tearing.
His mantra was that pain was clean. Pain made sense.
Breath-control drills, counting to six on each inhale, eight on each exhale, while he held squats for four minutes each.
Stillness was the one thing that hadn’t failed him.
Except today…he couldn’t command a damn thing. His hands shook. His breath kept stuttering. His legs gave out twice, the truth slamming through him.
That’s when he stretched out everything, holding every punishing position, including the splits for longer than was necessary.
He finished the workout, collapsed on the mat, sweat dripping off him, heartbeat thundering in his ears. His muscles were shredded, exhaustion turning his limbs heavy and numb.
Only then, when everything hurt enough to mimic emotional quiet, did he push himself to his feet.
He needed food. Needed salt. Needed water.
He went back to the cages, gathered up his kit and uniform, showered again, and headed for the chow hall, each step heavy, sore, punishing.
He didn’t feel better. But at least he felt contained.
By the time he finished, his hands had stopped shaking.
He forced himself to the chow hall anyway. If he didn’t eat, he’d puke again, and he needed to get the alcohol out of his system before the team saw him. He loaded his plate with something bland and sat alone at a corner table, willing his stomach to cooperate.
That was when two men in suits approached and sat down without asking.
“Petty Officer Kelly Gatlin,” one said.
Breakneck set down his fork, spine straightening. “That’s me.”
The man who spoke was mid-forties, clean-cut, dark hair threaded with gray at the temples, the kind of controlled stillness that read as habit, not effort. His suit fit too well for government issue. His eyes didn’t wander.
“DEA. Special Agent Damon Carver,” he said evenly, sliding a file folder across the table.
He nodded to the man beside him. “This is Special Agent Trevor Jones.” Carver’s partner was younger, broader through the shoulders, tie loosened like he’d never quite gotten used to wearing one.
He carried himself with ease, but his eyes were sharp and restless, cataloging exits, angles, and leverage.
“We’re recruiting you for an undercover op with us and the RCMP. ”
Breakneck’s brows rose. “The Mounties? Canada? How was I chosen for this?”
Jones leaned in, voice lowering, giving Breakneck a lopsided grin. “You were tailor-made, kid. You speak Canadian French. You worked as a ranch hand before you enlisted. Decorated Tier 1 operator at twenty-five.” He whistled softly. “Your shooting skills are off the charts.”
“The DEA along with foreign partners are collaborating on dismantling Los Reyes del Octavo, The Eightfold Kings. The Kamloops area is where El Rey Del Norte, The King of the North, Hector Manuel Torres is operating. He’s using the wilderness as a tactical asset, while he exploits the British Columbia corridor,” Carver said.
“Sounds straightforward,” Breakneck said. “What are the parameters?”
“Stone Creek Ranch,” Carver said. “Cartel-owned. We suspect they’re moving product through it under legitimate cover.”
“It’s a cross-border artery,” Jones added. “Synthetic precursors north. Weapons and bodies south. The ranch is our choke point.”
“We want you to infiltrate as Dylan Cross, find the pipeline, and we’ll shut it down. Then we go after his lieutenants and finally cut off the head of the snake.” Carver’s smile was much colder.
Breakneck swallowed. Even these guys saw him as nothing but a weapon. Yet…God, part of him wanted this. Wanted to disappear into someone else’s life for a while.
“You talk to my master chief?” Breakneck asked. “Iceman?”
The man smiled. “Not exactly. We talked to higher-ups. It’s up to you. Besides, your team’s already tagged to assist the operation. This is just a formality.”
Formality. Right. If he told Ice, there was a good chance his CO would shut it down.
Breakneck had never bypassed him before. But he wanted the assignment. He wanted the distance. He wanted the anonymity. He wanted the distraction.
He nodded. “I’m in.”
Both agents grinned. “Stellar. Briefing in an hour.”
Breakneck’s gut tightened.
He knew, knew, he should have gone straight to Ice. But he didn’t, and that was the first sign that this was going to bite him in the ass.
When he walked into the briefing room an hour later, the first person he saw was Iceman, and Ice was living up to his name.
Before Breakneck even reached the table, Ice surged out of his seat, closing the distance like a goddamn missile, getting right up in Breakneck’s face as the guys started filing in.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Ice growled, voice low and lethal, his eyes like chips of sleet.
The room froze.
Boomer stepped up beside them, eyes flicking between their faces. “What’s going on?” His voice was subdued, and Breakneck realized with a sick jolt that Boomer thought Ice knew about last night.
“Go sit your ass down,” Ice snapped. The tone was so sharp it cut the air in half. Every man in the room obeyed instantly, scraping chairs as they found seats without a word.
Ice didn’t look away from Breakneck. “Well,” he said quietly, icy contempt dripping off every syllable, “you cocky little bastard.”
Breakneck lifted his chin. “I was approached, and it sounds right up my alley.”
Ice’s jaw flexed once, hard. “Does it?”
Breakneck shut his mouth. He swallowed the retort sitting on his tongue. “I’m sorry, boss,” he managed.
Ice laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Don’t give me that shit. It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”
Ice pointed at the far end of the table. “Go. Take a seat.”
Breakneck did. The weight of Boomer’s gaze made him want to shrink inside. Yeah, he was glad he was getting out of town for a while, and taking a solo gig was perfect.
But for the first time in his life, the weight of Ice’s disappointment felt heavier than any punishment.