Prologue #3
She slapped it onto the hinge side of the steel door with practiced speed, her fingers already moving to arm the three-second timer.
A faint electronic chirp confirmed the sequence.
Without looking back, she rolled away from the blast zone and pressed herself against the tunnel wall, one hand coming up to cover her ear.
Three seconds.
Two.
One.
The detonation was muted but forceful—a dull crump that reverberated through the tunnel like distant thunder trapped underground.
The blast punched the hinges inward, warping metal and sending flakes of rust and concrete dust spiraling into the air. The door sagged, no longer sealed—just broken.
We flowed through the breach like water finding a crack—smooth, fast, lethal.
Amy moved first, Glock 19 raised in a steady two-handed grip, suppressor threaded tight.
The compact pistol was perfect for close-quarters work—fast target acquisition, minimal recoil, deadly precision.
Her shoulders were loose, posture aggressive, already hunting.
Elena swept left, HK416 tight against her shoulder.
The short-barreled D10RS variant was built for exactly this kind of work—confined spaces, rapid engagement. Suppressor mounted, EOTech glowing faint green, she scanned corners with machine-like calm. Every step she took was deliberate, measured.
I took point.
Sig Sauer P226 in my right hand—old, reliable, accurate. Glock 18 in my left—selective fire, thirty-three-round magazine, safety already off. If this went loud—and it would—I was prepared to turn the corridor into a killing lane.
The explosion would have alerted anyone within range. That wasn’t a mistake. It was part of the plan.
Noise created confusion. Panic pulled guards toward the surface, toward the obvious threat. We were the blade sliding in from below.
The tunnel beyond the breach was narrow and damp, concrete walls sweating with moisture.
Emergency lights flickered overhead, casting stuttering shadows that distorted depth and distance.
The air reeked of mold, rust, and old machine oil—the smell of abandonment layered over recent use.
We cleared it in seconds.
At the far end, a vertical metal ladder disappeared into darkness. Above it, an access hatch stood partially open.
Two guards waited at the top.
Their flashlights jittered across the ladder shaft, rifles raised but unfocused—confused, not yet fully aware of what they were facing.
I didn’t hesitate.
My dagger—a razor-sharp Ka-Bar balanced to perfection—left my hand in a single fluid motion.
No thought. No hesitation. Muscle memory took over.
The blade struck the first guard in the throat with a wet, meaty thunk. He stiffened, eyes going wide as he tried—and failed—to scream. Blood pulsed hot and dark between his fingers as he clawed at the hilt.
He collapsed backward without a sound.
Elena was already moving.
She took the ladder in three silent strides, vaulted the final rung, and clamped a hand over the second guard’s mouth before he could react. Her other arm wrapped around his head, twisting with brutal efficiency.
A sharp crack echoed softly.
The guard went limp, crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.
Both bodies hit the floor in near silence.
Amy flashed me a quick thumbs-up, her grin almost playful beneath the camo paint. Like this was routine. Like this was just another exercise on a range back home.
Like eighteen people hadn’t died to get us here.
I didn’t return the smile.
Something cold and restless was tightening in my gut. A pressure that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with instinct.
We advanced.
The second layer opened into a dimly lit corridor lined with storage crates—ammo boxes, old equipment, sealed containers marked with faded Spanish warnings. The lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows that crawled along the floor.
Five guards rounded the corner at once.
They shouted in Spanish—confused, alarmed—rifles snapping up as they registered us.
No time for subtlety.
I squeezed the Glock 18’s trigger—full auto.
The weapon bucked in my hand, controlled bursts ripping through the confined space. Two guards were stitched center mass before they could fire. They dropped hard, rifles clattering across concrete.
Amy’s Glock barked twice—pop, pop—clean, precise headshots. The third and fourth guards folded instantly, expressions frozen in surprise.
Elena didn’t rush.
Her HK416 coughed a tight three-round burst into the final guard’s chest. He slammed backward into the crates, slid down them, and went still.
Five of Al Chapo’s men went down in seconds. Clean. Silent. There was no return fire—only the quiet aftermath, a testament to our training and the years that had sharpened us into something lethal.
Smoke drifted lazily through the corridor.
My ears rang faintly beneath my comms, heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.
We stacked on the final door.
Heavy oak. Reinforced. Iron bands bolted across the grain.
This was no maintenance room. This was power made physical.
Intel swore this led directly to Chapo’s personal chamber.
Amy was grinning now—wide and triumphant.
We had never been this close to our target. One last door stood between us and the end of it. Break it down, and we’d finally get that piece of shit.
Amy’s eyes gleamed with something close to victory. She leaned toward me, voice barely above a whisper.
“We’re going to get that son of a bitch, Rus. Finally.”
I raised a fist.
“Wait.”
Her grin faltered. “What?”
I ignored her and pressed my ear to the door. The wood was cool against my skin. Training demanded it—listen for breathing, movement, the faint shift of weight. Anything.
But I heard nothing.
No sound. No shuffling. No whisper of fabric.
Dead quiet.
Too quiet.
“Let’s go in,” Amy urged, impatience creeping into her voice. “Before reinforcements figure out what’s happening.”
“No.” I kept my ear pinned to the door. My pulse hammered. Every instinct I had was screaming.
“Ruslan,” she hissed. “I’m going in.”
I straightened, meeting her gaze.
“No,” I said again, voice iron-hard. “That’s an order.”
The silence between us stretched.
I outranked her.
On paper, in the chain of command, in every way that mattered—I was her superior. Older by two years. Higher in grade. And the one officially responsible for bringing her home alive.
That knowledge sat in my chest like a loaded gun.
Elena stood a step behind us, HK416 locked tight against her shoulder, knuckles white on the foregrip.
A bead of sweat rolled slowly down her temple, catching the faint spill of light from the corridor before disappearing into the collar of her ghillie suit.
She was nineteen—same age as Amy. Young. Lethal. Tough as nails.
And scared.
I saw it in the tightness of her jaw, the way her breathing hitched just slightly off rhythm. I pretended not to. She needed me steady, not observant.
“Amy,” I whispered, keeping my voice low and controlled. “Stand by.”
Her shoulders were already tense, coiled to move.
Then the door exploded inward.
Amy had kicked it open.
Directly disobeying me.
“Damn it—”
There was no time to finish the thought.
We poured into the room on instinct alone—training overriding shock, weapons up, bodies flowing into pre-assigned lanes.
I swept right.
Elena cut left.
Amy drove straight in, pistol tracking, breath sharp in her chest.
The room was empty, not in the sense that it had been cleared, but in the way a place is abandoned and forgotten.
It was large and cavernous, yet something about it felt deeply wrong.
An old bed sagged in the center, its mattress ripped open and crawling with pale maggots that writhed through the exposed stuffing.
Cobwebs hung thick in the corners like funeral veils, undisturbed for years, while a tattered duvet lay crumpled on the floor, gray with dust.
The air was stale and sour, heavy with rot layered over long neglect.
There were no guards, no personal effects, no signs of recent use—and no Al Chapo.
The realization froze my blood.
I started to speak, the warning forming even as my stomach dropped hard enough to feel it in my boots, and the truth became unavoidable: this was a decoy.
“Amy, fall ba—”
I turned to warn Amy, but I was already too late.
A sharp hiss sliced through the air as vents hidden in the ceiling snapped open in unison, releasing thick white smoke that poured downward like something pulled from a nightmare.
It moved with terrifying speed, rolling across the room, swallowing the corners and blinding us within seconds.
The smell hit immediately—chemical, acrid, burning—leaving no doubt in my mind.
It was gas.
My lungs seized as I dragged in a breath I shouldn’t have taken, fire ripping through my chest as my eyes burned and my vision smeared, my muscles already weakening beneath me.
Somewhere through the haze, training cut in and named it for what it was—an incapacitant. The smoke filling the room wasn’t meant to kill us; it was designed to drop us alive.
Realization struck hard. This was a trap. And yet the only person on my mind was Amy, the one who mattered more to me than anyone else in the world.
I lunged toward where I’d last seen her, fingers clawing at empty air, failing to find her, failing to reach her, even as the room pitched violently and the floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
“Amy—”
My knees gave way, and the ground rushed up to meet me as darkness crashed down, heavy and final, like a hammer to the skull.
CONSCIOUSNESS CRAWLED back slowly, dragging pain with it.
My head throbbed in deep, pulsing waves. Every heartbeat sent agony ricocheting behind my eyes.
My mouth tasted of copper and chemicals, my tongue thick and useless. I tried to move and realized I couldn’t.
I was upright.
My arms were wrenched painfully behind me, wrists zip-tied to a metal pole so tight the plastic bit into skin and bone.