4. Welcome to the Jungle
Chapter four
Welcome to the Jungle
Matt
The gear room at Aegis is a controlled storm—six men moving quickly, swapping batteries, loading mags, and running last-minute comms diagnostics. The air smells of gun oil, sweat, and adrenaline as each of us gets into the mindset needed for what’s coming.
I check my rifle, seat the mag, and give the sling a final tug. The weight grounds me. Across the room, Ramirez tests the edge of his knife with quiet satisfaction. Hale leans against a crate, casual as hell, like we’re not about to drop into cartel territory.
“Lock it in, boys,” Bishop calls out, strapping his plate carrier into place. “We’re rolling in ten.”
When Callahan steps into the room, everything shifts. He runs through the key points again, but it’s not the words that matter. It’s the weight behind them.
Bravo Team’s relaying live intel—guard rotations, patrols, possible breach points. Nothing concrete. If they’ve already moved her, we’re fucked.
Steele, still glued to his tablet, doesn’t look up. “Bravo’s calling two dozen armed inside. No movement from the girl.”
Callahan scans the room, voice sharpening. “We go in dark. Bravo holds overwatch. Alpha breaches, extracts the girl, and gets the hell out.”
Ramirez flips his knife once, catching it without looking. “And if the cartel’s expecting us?”
Callahan doesn’t blink. “Then we improvise.”
That’s all there is to it.
“Gear up. Move out,” Bishop says.
A few moments later, I grab my pack and fall in behind the others, pushing down the unease crawling up my spine.
The convoy ride to the airfield is quiet, the weight of the mission settling in. The sun sets low as we arrive on the tarmac, shadows stretching long beneath our boots. The C-130 waits under floodlights, engines already roaring.
Inside, the belly of the plane is dim and loud, air thick with the smell of jet fuel. Overhead lights cast a soft yellow glow across the steel, highlighting the hard edges of packs and weapons. We move up the ramp, figures shifting like ghosts in the night.
Bishop sits across from me, his eyes sharp and calculating. He isn’t loud but commands naturally—the best team leader I’ve ever served under. Steady, unshakable, and deadly in a fight. We’ve bled together more times than I can count.
To his right, Hale’s still grinning, arms crossed over his chest. He has that easy confidence that all Raiders carry—controlled, lethal, unbothered. Colton Hale is a sniper, and a damn good one. If there’s a better long-range shot out there, I haven’t met him yet.
Next to him, Diego Ramirez—or “Demo,” as we call him—twirls his custom-handled combat knife, the blade catching flashes of yellow light.
He’s our breacher, heavy weapons expert, and demolitions man.
Green Beret before this, fluent in Spanish and Portuguese, trained in CQB and pure fucking destruction.
He could build a bomb out of a soda can and duct tape.
Wes Brooks, our medic, sits beside me, checking his gear with the kind of focus that comes from years of dragging men back from the edge.
He’s one of the best para-rescue jumpers the Air Force ever spit out, and Bishop swears he’s seen him pull off miracles—patching wounds that should have killed a man ten times over.
Sitting a little further down is Garrett Steele.
If Demo’s the wrecking ball, Steele’s the scalpel.
A former Marine Raider turned CIA SAD, he can hack a cartel-encrypted server, reroute their offshore accounts, and drop a virus that fries their entire system…
all before breakfast. But Steele isn’t just a hacker, he’s an operator first, trained for wet work like the rest of us.
Our commander is staying back at HQ—monitoring from the ops center, coordinating live feeds from Bravo, and relaying intel to us in real-time. If shit goes sideways, he’s the one who decides whether we get extracted or fight our way out.
Once we’re in the air, the hours pass in a blur. We take turns closing our eyes, but no one manages to sleep. The hum of the engines never stops, serving as a constant reminder of what’s coming. Quiet conversations fade into silence. The weight of the mission settles in like a second skin.
Somewhere over the Caribbean, we enter Colombian airspace. Steele glances up from his tablet to mutter a quiet update, but no one responds. Dense foliage gives way to the black water’s edge as the shoreline slips past.
Thirty minutes out, Bishop gives the signal. We gear up in silence—chutes, harnesses, weapons. Every motion is now second nature, pure instinct.
Five minutes out, we stand. I move to the door with the others, locking my static line into the overhead anchor cable with a sharp metallic click. We’re wired in, comms live, and Demo’s already running his mouth.
The red jump light flashes above the door, casting a faint glow across our faces. I roll my shoulders and steady my breath. Across from me, Hale runs a final rig check on his chute. Demo grins sideways at him.
“Try not to break your legs on landing, Marine.”
Hale scoffs. “Marine? That’s rich, coming from you. All you Army boys know how to do is follow orders and hope you don’t fuck anything up.”
Bishop’s voice cuts in, low and firm. “Less talking, more locking down your gear. You wanna be the guy whose rig slips mid-air?”
I smirk at them. “That would be embarrassing. At least Steele could track your fall and tell us how hard you crater.”
Steele snorts, glancing up briefly. “Like I’d waste my time. Besides, Hale’s not wrong.”
“Damn right. We Raiders gotta stick together.” Hale adjusts his straps and turns to Demo with an exaggerated sniff. “You smell that?”
Demo narrows his eyes. “The fuck you on about?”
“The unmistakable stench of fear coming from your side of the plane.”
Demo snorts. “Cabrón, Raider… you think you’re funny.”
“I try.” Hale flashes a smug smile. “You’re just mad because the Corps makes us better looking, smarter, and faster than the rest of you assholes.”
I shake my head and mutter, “Marines.”
“Rangers,” Hale shoots back with a smirk.
I survey the team—six men, one unit—ready to jump into hell. We either walk out together or not at all.
Across from me, Bishop pulls his gloves tighter and shoots me a knowing look. “Been a while since you made a real jump.”
My mouth twitches. “I don’t know, old man. Think you still remember how to land?”
Bishop rolls his eyes as Steele chimes in. “Pretty sure Delta boys just tuck and pray on the way down.”
Demo snorts. “Shit, at his age, we’re gonna have to drag his ass to the objective.”
“You Rangers always come in hot. Try not to shatter a hip on the way down, Mason,” Hale says with a shit-eating grin.
I shoot him a look. “You Raiders don’t even know how to jump out of a plane. Pretty sure you guys just swim everywhere.”
“Is that why you smell like a damn fish?” Demo sneers, smirking.
Hale flips him off, but the tension remains, coiling beneath the humor. It’s always present before a mission like this. That edge—the unspoken awareness that one of us might not make it back.
Brooks says nothing, methodical as always, adjusting the cinch on his harness while the rest of us mouth off.
Then—Callahan’s voice crackles over comms. “One minute to drop. Final checks.”
The joking ends as the team snaps back into focus. We stand shoulder to shoulder, secured to the anchor cable running the length of the fuselage. Wind screams through the side door, hot and fast. Below us, the jungle blurs into an endless sea of black-green shadow.
Green light. Go.
Bishop turns and nods at me. “See you on the ground.” Then he’s gone, swallowed by the darkness. One by one, we follow.
I step into the void, the static line snapping tight. My chute deploys with a quick yank, pulling me upward.
The harness presses into my ribs as the canopy fills above. Below, the rainforest stretches out—overgrown and uneven, broken only by a narrow clearing, maybe twenty meters wide. Our drop zone is tight and unmarked, just enough space for six men and a plan.
I adjust my descent, steering toward the zone. The others land clean, boots down, hard PLFs. Everyone except Steele. His chute flares early, wind catching wrong. He attempts to correct, twisting his body, but he’s off course. He sails past the DZ and drops straight into the tree line.
Fuck.
Branches snap as he crashes through, landing hard and disappearing into the wilderness.
“Steele, come in.” Bishop’s voice is sharp and commanding as he moves.
I land rough and roll to absorb the impact, then unstrap, rifle up, and scan the darkness.
“Steele, report!” Bishop says, more forcefully this time.
Silence. Then his voice cuts in, ragged—
“Still breathing. Barely.”
Demo is closest, sprinting through the dense brush toward the crash site, Hale right behind him.
“Fucking overshot it,” Steele mutters through clenched teeth. “My left leg is fucked. Landed wrong.”
“Compound’s two klicks out,” I say as I reach them. “Can you move?”
“I don’t have a fucking choice, do I?”
“It’s not broken,” Brooks says, dropping beside him to inspect the damage. “Adrenaline will keep you moving.”
“You always gotta be the dramatic one, huh?” Demo says, helping him up.
Steele grunts, slinging an arm around Demo’s shoulders. “Gotta keep things interesting.”
Callahan’s voice cuts in. “Alpha, status?”
“We’re good,” Bishop says. “Steele’s injured but mobile. Moving toward the target now.”
“Copy. Bravo Team reports no additional movement but keep your heads on a swivel.”
We move quickly, cutting through the jungle in tight formation. Every step is precise, every breath measured. The compound looms ahead, lights piercing through the thick vegetation.
I grip my rifle tighter. Something feels off. Then, comms go silent.
“Bravo, status?” Bishop asks.
Nothing but static.
“Command, do you copy?” I try. More static.“Fuck.” My pulse hammers. “We’re jammed.”
Bishop’s jaw locks. “Then we hit fast. No hesitation.”
We stack at the entrance. Demo places the charges as the countdown ticks in my head.
Three. Two. One.
The explosion tears through the compound.
We breach hard and fast. No hesitation as gunfire erupts.
We move like a machine, clearing the corridor with brutal precision.
Muzzle flashes illuminate the darkness. A door bursts open on my left—two hostiles spill out. Demo drops them before they can fire.
“Find the girl!” Bishop barks.
We clear room after room. Each empty space ratchets the tension tighter. Then, Hale slams his shoulder into a locked door. Inside, Isabel is tied to a chair—bruised and bloodied, eyes wide with shock.
Demo leans in, his voice steady. “Somos americanos. Estamos aquí para ayudarte,” he tells her as Hale cuts her restraints.
“We got her!” he shouts. “Move!”
Then the setup detonates. A hail of bullets tears through the walls, plaster and dust filling the air, as ricochets bounce off the concrete. Someone yells, but the sound of automatic fire drowns it out. I drop low, ears ringing, vision swimming in smoke and chaos.
“AMBUSH!” Demo yells, diving for cover.
They were waiting.
“Get her out of there!” Bishop snaps.
I move quickly, yanking the girl to her feet and shielding her with my body. White-hot pain sears across my ribcage, but it barely registers. My focus is on Isabel, the team, and getting the fuck out.
We drive hard through the compound, cutting down anything in our path. The exit looms ahead. We push through and break into the night.
Bishop takes point, covering our six. Demo and Brooks clear the path, Hale dragging Steele behind. We peel off the perimeter under fire, branches clawing at our gear as rounds snap through the jungle. Static thins in my ear.
We push deeper into the trees. “Command, do you copy?” Bishop calls out.
Nothing but dead air.
He tries again, sharper this time. “Callahan, do you copy?”
A crackle, then Callahan’s voice cuts in— “Alpha, report.”
Relief punches through my chest as Bishop answers. “We’re not making it to the LZ on foot. We need the bird. Now.”
“Copy. Diverting to your location. Chopper inbound. Three minutes. Hold perimeter.”
We burst from the tree line and lock into defensive positions. Distant fire rattles through the night.
Overhead, the thrum of rotor blades cuts closer. For a moment, it’s just sound—the deep chop approaching, rattling the canopy.
Then the Black Hawk bursts through the darkness and drops into a hover. The downdraft tears at the clearing. Bishop pops smoke, and the air fills with dust and haze.
I hold Isabel in my arms, her weight sinking against me, dazed but alert. Brooks and Hale lay down cover fire as I sprint toward the helicopter. Hale meets me at the open side door, hooking beneath her shoulders and hauling her inside.
Behind us, Steele tries to stand, but his leg buckles. Demo’s there first, grabbing one arm while Bishop takes the other. “Up you go, hero,” he mutters.
Bullets cut through the haze. I pivot and fire at the enemy. Hale pulls me up, and I land hard inside as the bird lifts, rotors screaming, the jungle falling away beneath us.
We’re out—battered and bleeding—but breathing.
Steele grimaces as Brooks tends to his leg. Isabel is wrapped in a blanket, trembling but alive. I lean back against the metal hull, breath ragged, pain flaring in my side.
Bishop nudges my boot with his. “Not bad for your first real mission.”
I snort. “Could’ve done without the bullet graze.”
“You’ll live.”
I glance at the girl. She’s looking at me silently, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and gratitude.
I give her the only reassurance I can. “You’re safe now.”
And just like that—the mission is complete.