Prologue #2
He leveraged favors owed to him from decades of dirty wars and quiet victories. He maneuvered her into the Agency with the kind of precision that had made him legendary.
One last operation, he’d promised her. Then you’re free.
A lie wrapped in a contract, stamped with government ink and impossible to escape.
I hated him for it.
Not with the hot anger of youth, but with something colder and more permanent.
The kind of hatred that settled in your chest and never left. I would hate him until the day one of us was in the ground—and even then, I wasn’t sure it would fade.
Amy brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she’d had since we were kids.
“Look,” she said, exhaling slowly, as if steadying herself.
“I’ve survived nine months of this hell.
I’ve lost friends I cared about. Watched good people die screaming, right in front of me.
” Her jaw tightened, eyes briefly unfocused, like she was seeing something I couldn’t.
“If fate wanted me dead, it’s had plenty of chances. It’s too late now.”
She gave a small, defiant laugh, brittle around the edges. “Besides, we finally have a solid blueprint.”
I stayed quiet, listening.
“Satellite passes confirmed the old smuggling tunnel under Chapo’s compound,” she continued, voice slipping into briefing-mode.
“Built in the late ’80s, abandoned since the ’90s.
No heat signatures. No guards. No cameras.
No one knows it exists anymore—not even Chapo’s inner circle.
” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, energy creeping into her posture.
“We go in quiet tomorrow night. Three operators against one tired old kingpin and whatever personal security he keeps in his bedroom.”
She made it sound simple. Clean.
“We take him alive if we can,” she said, eyes flicking to mine. “Dead if we have to. Bag the body, extract proof, and go home.” Her voice softened, just a fraction. “I hand in my resignation the second we touch American soil. No delays. No debrief extensions. I’m done.”
I shook my head slowly, a familiar weight pressing against my ribs.
“You talk like it’s guaranteed,” I said.
“Like the universe finally owes us a win.” I snorted quietly.
“We’ve run ops with ‘low-risk’ assessments that turned into bloodbaths.
Remember Thessaloniki? Intel said six guards.
We walked into twenty. Two died before we even reached the stairwell. ”
“That was then,” she said quickly.
She reached across the narrow gap between us and grabbed my hand, her grip firm—stronger than most people gave her credit for.
Her green eyes, mirror images of mine, locked onto me with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
“Ruslan,” she said, quietly but fiercely. “Listen to me. I’m going to be fine. I promise.”
My chest tightened.
“And you,” she added, her voice cracking just enough to betray her. “You promise me the same.”
From the moment we’d been assigned to the same team, I had made a silent vow—one I’d never spoken aloud.
If it came down to it, if there was one bullet left or one choice to be made, I would trade my life for hers without hesitation. No strategy. No heroics. Just instinct.
She was the only family I had left who still felt like family.
I pulled my hand away gently, not trusting myself to answer honestly, and looked toward the dark doorway leading deeper into the house. “Go train, Amy,” I said. “Run drills with Elena. One more day to be perfect.”
She stood, stretching her arms overhead, bones cracking softly. “Nope. I’m starving.” She grinned, the tension easing just a little. “I’m making dinner—whatever’s left of that canned stew and the last of the bread. And I’m serving it on the same table for all three of us.”
“Enough of you and Elena pretending the other doesn’t exist.”
I groaned.
“We act like professionals,” I muttered.
“Professionals who’ve been trapped in the same safe house for months and still eat in separate rooms,” she shot back.
She flashed a mischievous grin—the kind that reminded me of the girl who used to steal my bike and deny it with a straight face. “When we get back to the States, I’m setting you two up on a date. You need someone who can keep up with you, big brother.”
I opened my mouth to object.
“And Elena,” Amy added, already turning away, “well... she’s perfect.”
Before I could protest—or deny it—she disappeared into the adjoining room, her footsteps light against the creaking floorboards.
The smell of dust and cold air filled the silence she left behind.
I stayed where I was, staring at the doorway, a familiar unease coiling in my gut.
Tomorrow night. One last operation.
I exhaled slowly, leaning my head back against the cold stone wall.
The chill seeped through my clothes and into my skull, grounding me even as my heart thudded harder than it should have.
I’d spent three years in the field and done countless secret missions in countries that didn’t officially exist.
And still, every time a mission was about to end, my stomach twisted with fear.
Experience didn’t make the fear go away—it just taught me how to keep going anyway.
Tomorrow night, we would slip through a forgotten tunnel beneath Alonso Chapo Guzmán’s fortified villa.
Three operators against the remnants of an empire that refused to die quietly.
One last strike.
One last chance to end this.
I closed my eyes and pressed the back of my head harder against the wall, breathing through the weight in my chest. I whispered a silent prayer—not to any god I believed in, but to whatever force governed luck, timing, and the unpredictable flight of bullets.
Let it be quick.
Let it be clean.
And let all three of us come home.
AMY, ELENA, AND I CROUCHED at the mouth of the tunnel we would use to infiltrate Al Chapo’s compound and end the hunt once and for all.
Night pressed down on us like a burial shroud.
There was no moon—only a thick ceiling of clouds that swallowed the stars and erased the horizon, as if the world itself was trying to hide what we were about to do.
The Greek countryside dissolved into darkness, broken only by the distant, hazy glow of Athens far beyond the hills.
The air was sharp and unforgiving, cold enough to bite through our camouflage, and every breath left our mouths in faint, ghostlike puffs—quiet reminders that one wrong sound could give us away.
We moved low through the overgrown brush surrounding Chapo’s compound, careful not to disturb the brittle undergrowth.
Elena took point with the precision of someone born to disappear, her assault rifle cradled close, barrel always tracking the dark.
Amy followed just behind her—my sister, our close-quarters specialist—compact, lethal, and coiled tight with energy.
I brought up the rear, weapon slung but ready, my mind cataloging every sound, every shift in the wind.
I wasn’t the best at any one weapon—but I was good with almost all of them. Adaptability had kept me alive.
Our ghillie suits—layers of burlap and locally gathered foliage woven into our gear—rustled softly as we crawled forward, blending us into the thorny hillside.
Sweat trickled down my spine despite the cold, soaking into fabric and skin alike.
My heart hammered not from exertion, but from the familiar cocktail of adrenaline and dread that always came before a breach.
Beside me, Amy moved on her elbows with smooth efficiency, camo paint streaked across her cheekbones and nose.
Her eyes were too sharp. Too bright. The kind of focus that bordered on hunger. It worried me more than fear ever could.
Elena was pure control. Silent, measured. But I could hear her breathing if I focused—short, disciplined bursts through her nose. Even she felt it tonight.
We were ghosts in the dark.
Three shadows closing in on a secret intel had sworn still existed: an old maintenance hatch leading to a forgotten smuggling tunnel beneath the villa. Built decades ago. Abandoned and erased from modern schematics.
If the blueprints were accurate, the tunnel would deliver us directly beneath Chapo’s private quarters.
Straight into the heart.
“There,” Elena whispered.
Her voice barely disturbed the air, but it cut through my focus like a blade.
She lifted her chin toward a rusted metal grate half-buried in the earth, choked with weeds and dirt, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding hillside.
Time and neglect had done more for our cover than any camouflage ever could.
I gave a tight nod, signaling confirmation.
Amy didn’t wait.
She rolled forward in one smooth, fluid motion, pressing herself flat against the cold ground as she reached the heavy security door sealing the hatch.
Her gloved fingers brushed over the metal, testing, listening.
No alarms. No vibration sensors. No guards.
Chapo’s arrogance—or ignorance—had left this entrance untouched.
“Clear,” Amy whispered.
I scanned the perimeter through my optic, heart thudding harder now.
The compound loomed above us, its lights muted, its walls thick and silent.
Somewhere inside, a man responsible for thousands of deaths was breathing easy, convinced he was untouchable.
“Elena,” I murmured, barely moving my lips. “You see anything?”
“Negative,” she replied. “Thermals are dead quiet. No patrols within range.”
Amy glanced back at me, eyes flashing in the darkness. “Let’s do this before my fingers freeze off.”
I held her gaze for a fraction of a second—long enough to remind myself of every promise I’d made, every fear I refused to voice—then nodded.
From her vest pocket, Amy produced a compact, circular shaped charge—no bigger than a hockey puck.
We called them door knockers: precision breaching devices packed with just enough C-4 to destroy a lock or hinge without collapsing the surrounding structure.
Elegant. Efficient. Deadly.