NO MERCY

AXEL BLAZE THRILLER

(BOOK NINE)

BILL RUNNER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by Bill Runner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission from the author except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First eBook edition December 2024

www.bill-runner.com

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 1

“Ninja, you got eyes on this?” I asked in a whisper, my scope cutting through the night.

“Yeah, boss. About twenty tangos, west side. Could be more. They’re spreading out, moving fast,” Ninja Man replied, his voice calm and steady, like always.

No second-guessing, no nerves. Ninja was a rock, reading the terrain like it was second nature. That’s why he was one of the best. You don’t get to be a Delta operator by being anything less.

“You think they know?” I asked, sweeping the scope for more movement.

“Hell, yeah, they can smell blood. Won’t be long before they crash the gates.”

I nodded, taking it in. “Long-range is a no-go. Too many tangos out there. We close the gap, get in their faces. Fast and dirty.”

“Copy that, Cowboy. Slash and dash,” Ninja replied, his voice carrying that familiar edge of dark humor, even as we stared into the jaws of hell.

I dropped the scope, eyes locking on the dark outline of the monastery perched on the cliff. The wind howled, slapping against those old stone walls. The place looked like it had been dropped from a different time, ancient and barely holding together. Built centuries ago, it now served as a sanctuary for those who had nowhere else to go.

That night, it held a different kind of flock—a team of four undercover CIA analysts, on the run from Hezbollah militias, their cover blown by a rogue analyst, their lives hanging by a thread. They were the “package” we were there to extract. They were holed up inside with Father Elias, the old priest who had put his life on the line to hide them. Hiding wasn’t going to save them, because outside, the wolves were closing in. Those crumbling walls were barely able to keep out the elements—they surely weren’t stopping an armed force.

“How do you think the package is holding up?” I asked.

Ninja Man shifted. “Shaky. They’re not built for this. Desk jockeys, all of ‘em.”

“Think Father Elias can keep them steady?”

Ninja scratched his chin. “Well, he’s got balls, that old padre. He’ll do what he can to keep them from falling apart, but let’s be real—they’re scared shitless. Won’t hold if Hezbollah goes heavy. No amount of Hail Marys will save them then.”

“Think we should give them a pep talk?”

Ninja smirked. “Not sure, boss. Might just scare ‘em into running for the hills.”

I chuckled, despite the weight of the situation. But Ninja had a point. The CIA crew barely made it out of Beirut alive. They weren’t trained for this. They were researchers, data crunchers—this shit was way out of their league. Hezbollah wasn’t stopping until they got the kill, and we were the only thing standing in their way.

The first wave had been a cakewalk—six Hezbollah scouts, dropped before they even knew what hit them, each one taken out before they could radio back. Now the second wave was on us—twenty men, moving fast, coming in from all sides, tightening the noose around the monastery, ready to finish the job. I ran through our options, none of them good.

I glanced at Ninja. “We don’t wait. Hit them hard, make them think twice about getting any closer.”

“And if they don’t back off?”

My voice turned to ice. “Then they find out why they call us Delta.”

Ninja Man chuckled, low and dangerous. “That’s the card I like playing. Hell, I’ve got it framed on my wall—‘Plan B: Scare the crap out of them.’”

Samir Haddad, our local scout, slid up beside me, staying low. He knew these hills like the back of his hand, a must for navigating us through this hellhole. Samir had that cold, dead-eyed stare—same look you see in men who have spent their whole lives fighting in warzones.

“I count twenty-one, including a heavy weapons operator,” he said in that thick accent, barely audible over the wind.

“What’s he packing?” Ninja asked, eyes scanning the ridge.

“RPG,” Samir replied.

That wasn’t what we wanted to hear. One dude with half a brain and an RPG rocket launcher could turn that monastery into a smoking crater.

“Got any good news, Samir?” I muttered, glancing his way.

He cracked a rare grin. “Only if you like a challenge, Captain.”

I smirked back. “Lucky me.”

Ninja Man snorted. “I like this guy.”

Samir wasn’t just another local guide. He was a battle-hardened operator, buried deep in the shadows as a CIA asset for years. The guy knew the terrain and the players, especially Hezbollah. Hell, he probably knew some of them by name. When Hezbollah got their hands on the list of agents, Samir stayed off the radar, untouched, because CIA Director Davis had kept him off the books—hidden even from Langley’s files. Samir was Davis’s personal asset. That’s why he was still breathing.

Samir had spent years undercover, studying how these militias moved, watching their patterns like a hawk. He knew how they softened up a target with waves of fighters before bringing the hammer down.

He had warned us already—after this group of twenty-one, the real storm was coming. The third wave. Fifty or more, heavily armed, packing serious heat, with a few Russian toys in the mix—RPG-7 rocket launchers and PKM machine guns. If that wave hit before we got the package out, we were done. No way did we have the firepower to slug it out with that.

The plan was simple—take out this second wave fast and quiet, extract the package, and get the hell out of there before the big guns rolled in. Time to flip the script and go on the offensive.

“Raptor, Hawkeye, you in position?” I asked over comms.

Raptor’s voice crackled through. “Affirmative. Hawkeye’s got overwatch. We’re talking about twenty strong.”

“I’ve got eyes on them. Ready to engage,” Hawkeye cut in, his voice calm as ever.

Hawkeye—Sergeant First Class Robert Compton—was dug in higher up on the ridge, tucked into the tree line with a clean line of sight on the western and northern approaches. His Remington Mk 13 Mod 7 sniper rifle was prepped, suppressor attached. Hawkeye’s call sign said everything you needed to know. The man could hit a gnat at 800 meters, and if you needed targets eliminated with precision, you called him in.

Raptor and Samir were covering the east side of the monastery. They were closer to the entrance, ready to engage any hostiles that managed to slip past Ninja and me. Raptor—Staff Sergeant Jackson Cole—was a bear of a man, towering two inches over my six-foot-two and carrying 20 more pounds of muscle on top of my 200. Built for close-quarters combat, he was a one-man wrecking crew when things got up close and personal.

Ninja and I were perched on a rocky ledge about 200 yards out, overlooking the western approach. It was where we had already dealt with the first wave of scouts. From here, we had enough distance to engage without getting bogged down in hand-to-hand, but close enough to hit hard when it counted.

Ninja Man—Staff Sergeant Buck Conway—was exactly what his call sign implied. The guy had a ninja tattooed on his back and carried a custom nine-inch blade like it was an extension of his arm. His speed and lethal precision earned him the name. He was right beside me, ready to cut through the second wave before they even knew we were there.

As for me, I was Captain Axel Blaze, 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta (1st SFOD-D), Sabre Squadron. Folks know us as Delta Force. My call sign was Cowboy. I grew up on a ranch in Colorado, and back in 2014 when this went down, my mom still ran the place like a true cowgirl. But it wasn’t just the ranch life that got me the name—I had a reputation for blazing my own trail, kicking the system when needed.

Ninja, Raptor, Hawkeye, and I all earned our stripes in the Rangers before stepping up to Delta. Now, we were the ones they called when failure wasn’t an option. Delta’s the sharp edge of the blade, and when we get the nod, it means there’s only one outcome: mission complete. Period.

I glanced at Samir. “Time to link up with Raptor. Ninja and I’ll tear through these groups until we neutralize that RPG operator. You know the drill. When we push, you hold the flank. No second chances.”

Samir gave a sharp nod. “Roger that. No one’s getting past us.”

I shot a look at the monastery. We had to get the “package” out before Hezbollah turned this place into rubble. The monastery was perched on a steep mountainside, a fortress in its own right but a death trap if they got boxed in. The place was ancient—carved into the rock, with high stone walls and narrow windows. The only approach was a winding path up the mountain, a bottleneck, perfect for holding back an assault.

The enemy didn’t know it yet, but they had just stepped into the kill zone. We weren’t there to hold the line—we were there to bury them in it.

CHAPTER 2

The second wave—twenty one militia fighters—was spread out in four squads, moving carefully, trying to avoid an ambush. They were using the rocky terrain and trees to their advantage, creeping in with discipline. What they didn’t expect was Delta operators lying in wait.

“Cowboy to all units. Commencing assault. Wait for my signal,” I relayed over the comms.

The replies came back immediately. “Copy that.”

“Ninja, on me. We’re intercepting.”

“Roger,” he replied.

We slid down the rocky incline, staying low, our movements muffled by the wind whispering through the scattered trees. I could just about make them out—six silhouettes moving with caution, rifles at the ready, scanning their surroundings but missing the real threat.

“Hawkeye, you ready for the shot?” I whispered into the comms.

“Lined up,” Hawkeye replied.

“Take it.”

A soft thwip sounded in my earpiece, and the first man crumpled, dead before he hit the dirt. A second later, another one fell silent, just as clean.

Two down. Four to go. None of them had a clue their two partners had just gone down.

“Ninja, now,” I whispered.

We closed the distance fast. I came up behind the nearest man, his rifle hanging low, too focused on the terrain ahead to notice me. I had my suppressed Glock 22 aimed at the base of his skull before he even knew I was there. One squeeze—clean shot. The 40 S&W round punched through his brain stem and throat, leaving him lifeless.

As he folded to the ground, Ninja dispatched the next one with the same cold precision—a single round to the back of the head. The last two tangos barely had time to blink before we both fired, dropping them with double taps straight to the forehead. The fight was over before it had even begun.

Sixty seconds. Six tangos down. Quick, brutal, clean.

“Clear,” I whispered into the mic. “Group one’s neutralized. Hawkeye, reposition for group two.”

“Already got eyes on them,” Hawkeye replied, as calm as ever. The dude never broke a sweat, even with enemy fighters closing in.

While Hawkeye lined up his shots, I signaled Ninja to follow me. We slipped through the rocks toward the next group—six men spread wide in a loose formation. Hawkeye would take two from the outside, leaving us to clean out the other four.

“Hawkeye, take the two on the left,” I ordered.

Thwip. Thwip. Two more bodies hit the dirt. That left four.

“Ninja, left two are mine. You take the right.”

We holstered the guns and drew our knives, our minds and actions completely in sync. We knew we couldn’t let any of the four men let out a shot. Just one short burst from one of the men, and the other ten fighters would be alerted. The only way through was stealth, and that meant up close and personal.

We moved in, low and fast, silent as the shadows we were slipping through. I crept up on the first guy, his rifle held low, too focused on the terrain ahead to notice me. I came in low, knife in hand. My knife slid into his side, right between the ribs, a grunt of surprise escaping his lips before he crumpled. The second man barely had time to react before I switched to my Glock, putting him down with a suppressed shot.

Ninja was a blur in the dark, slicing through his targets with fluid precision. The last guy tried to scream, but Ninja was already on him, hand clamped around his throat, silencing him for good.

Twelve tangos down. Nine more to go.

We crouched in the shadows, adrenaline pumping but controlled, our night vision goggles painting the world in shades of green. The two groups lay scattered behind us, bodies where they fell, but we weren’t done. The next group of five hostiles was moving through the trees, rifles up, sweeping the area like they sensed something was off.

No RPG. Not on this crew.

Samir’s intel had been clear—there was a heavy weapons operator in the mix. One of the twenty-one hostiles was packing a grenade launcher. If he got close enough, the monastery would be rubble.

I leaned in toward Ninja, keeping my voice barely a whisper. “You got eyes on an RPG?”

“Negative. Just rifles,” he replied, sharp and focused.

I frowned. “Then the RPG operator’s gotta be with the last group. Four left unaccounted for.”

“You want to hit this squad now?” Ninja asked, all business, but I could feel the tension rising.

I shook my head. “Negative. If we engage, we could tip off the RPG guy. He’s the priority.”

Ninja gave a sharp nod. “Roger. We let these ones pass, then circle around. Hit the RPG group from behind.”

We stayed low, pressed into the rocky terrain as the five-man patrol moved in. My finger rested on the trigger, but I held back. Timing was everything. They moved past us, unaware of how close they were to death. That wouldn’t last long.

I keyed the comms again. “Raptor, Samir, you copy?”

“Copy, Cowboy,” Raptor’s voice came through clear.

“Third group’s moving. We’re letting them pass. You and Samir take them down, but keep it quiet. Ninja and I are circling to hit the last group, neutralize the RPG. We’ll cut off their retreat.”

“Roger that,” Raptor replied. Samir chimed in with a quiet acknowledgment.

I signaled Ninja, and we cut wide, moving fast and silent to flank the last group. We moved like shadows, avoiding every twig and loose stone underfoot. A soft breeze rustled the brush around us, helping mask our approach.

The air was tense, and I could feel the adrenaline rushing through my veins, but we couldn’t afford any mistakes. We slid into position behind a thick patch of brush, peering through the NVGs to spot the last group. Sure enough, four men were making their way toward the monastery, the one bringing up the rear hauling an RPG across his back. Bingo.

I tapped Ninja’s shoulder, signaling him it was time. We moved fast—silent and lethal. Ninja peeled left, coming in from the flank while I angled right, my suppressed M4 carbine locked on the heavy weapons operator. One of the guys shifted, like he felt something was off, but it was too late. Two quick shots from my M4, and the RPG carrier dropped where he stood. Ninja took out the remaining three in a heartbeat, none of them had a chance to even blink.

“RPG neutralized,” I whispered into the comms as I rolled the body and grabbed the launcher and the ammunition—two extra rounds. Heavy, but worth it.

“Raptor, Samir, you’re up,” I said, slinging the rocket launcher over my shoulder.

We backtracked to the position where the third group of five had passed, moving quietly, expecting to hear gunfire any second. It didn’t take long. Raptor and Samir had already engaged, and by the time we reached them, they had efficiently neutralized the remaining hostiles. No gunfire—just brutal, hand-to-hand takedowns. It was clean.

Raptor stood over one of the bodies, checking for intel, Samir scanned the area. “All clear here,” he said.

“Good work,” I replied. “We’re heading to the monastery. Package moves in two.”

The second wave was down, but the clock was ticking. The third wave, a much bigger group of fifty or more, with heavier firepower, wasn’t far behind. Priority now was getting the package out before hell came knocking.

CHAPTER 3

We hauled ass along the narrow cliff path, heading back to the monastery. The package was right where we left it—four CIA desk jockeys, two men and two women, huddled inside the stone walls, looking like they had seen a ghost. Way out of their depth. Not a shocker, though. These weren’t field operatives; they were intel geeks, the type who connect dots from behind a desk, analyzing Hezbollah’s weapons smuggling routes. They knew how to sift through data, link it up, and write reports—but out here, they were fish out of water.

“They good to move?” I asked, giving Father Elias a nod.

“As ready as they’ll ever be,” he replied, his voice low but steady.

I sized up the analysts. Civilian clothes, no tactical gear, and none of them looked like they could hold their own in a firefight. One guy, pale as a ghost, looked like he might pass out. Just what we needed!

“You’ve been gathering intel on Hezbollah’s smuggling routes, right?” I asked one of the women.

She nodded nervously. “Y-yes, sir. We’ve been working undercover in Beirut, but after we got outed… it’s been…”

“It’s been a mess,” I finished for her, before adding in a comforting tone, “But now you’re with us. We’ll get you out.”

Problem was, they would slow us down. And with that third wave on its way, speed was the one thing we couldn’t afford to lose.

I pulled Raptor aside. “You, Hawkeye, and Samir move with the package. Take the direct route west, over the next mountain to the exfil point. About a mile out in the valley.”

“What about you?” Raptor asked, brow furrowed.

“Ninja and I’ll run a diversion. We’ll draw the third wave off in the wrong direction. Make them think we’re headed east. Buy you time to cover ground.”

Raptor nodded. “Roger that, Cowboy.”

Samir gave me a firm handshake. “Stay safe, Captain. We’ll see you at the exfil.”

Raptor, Hawkeye, and Samir took point, leading the CIA crew out into the night. I gave them a few seconds before signaling Ninja to follow me.

“Time to give them something to chase,” I muttered, the weight of the RPG pressing against my back.

Ninja smirked. “Just another day in paradise, huh?”

Despite Ninja’s smirk, we both knew the third wave was going to be hell—more fighters, better trained, heavy firepower. RPGs, mortars, PKM machine guns. But we had the element of surprise, and in this line of work, that’s your best friend. You could plan an op to death, but the reality could often turn out to be more of an improvised dance with chaos. Surprise would help us keep that chaos under control.

We moved east, away from the exfil, fast and low through the trees. The third wave would be pushing in from the west. If we timed this right, they would take the bait. After a quick scan, I found a decent spot to set up.

The night fell quiet again. Too quiet. Ninja glanced at me. “You hear anything?”

I shook my head. “Nope. But you know what that means.”

He nodded. “Yep. Big show’s about to start.”

We crouched behind some rocks, NVGs on, watching the direction the third wave was coming from. The seconds dragged. Ninja wasn’t one for silence.

“You smell that?” he asked.

I sniffed the air. “What? Gunpowder? Sweat?”

“Victory,” he said, deadpan.

I smirked. “Yeah, well, don’t get cocky just yet, Ninja.”

That’s when we saw it—tiny dots in the distance. Not moving like the foot soldiers we had been dealing with. This was different. I squinted through the scope, my night vision enhancing the view. Headlights. Vehicles. Lots of them.

“There we go,” I muttered. “Looks like the cavalry’s coming.”

Ninja swore under his breath. “Hell, that’s a lot of headlights. How many trucks you think?”

“At least four. Could be more behind.”

Four trucks, packed with fighters. Could be fifty, maybe more. This wasn’t just a clean-up crew. They were coming in full force. The lead vehicle was a big truck, probably armored. Typical militia move—send the big boys to make a statement. I figured we would have to make one right back.

“Looks like they want to make this interesting,” I said, pulling the rocket launcher from my back and loading a round.

“Think you can hit the lead?” Ninja asked.

“That’s not the question. The real question is, how many of them do we wanna piss off in one shot?”

Ninja grinned. “I like to piss off as many as possible. Keeps things fun.”

I scoped out the terrain one more time. The trucks were still a way off, but they would be here soon enough.

“We’ll hit them from different angles. I’ll take out the lead vehicle with the RPG. You light them up from the flank. They’ll be too busy figuring out which way to run.”

“And after that?”

I smiled grimly. “Then we run like hell. Two hundred yards, and we’ll be shielded by the mountain. Mortars and RPGs won’t touch us there.”

“Run like hell—that’s the plan?”

“Yup. Unless you got a better one.”

“Nope, boss. But somehow feels like we’re winging it.”

“Get savvy, Ninja, they call it improvisation.”

“Always a pleasure working with you, Captain. Non-stop on-the-job training,” Ninja quipped, sliding into position behind a rock.

I cracked a grin and began lining up my shot, bringing the RPG up to my shoulder. The trucks were coming fast, kicking up dirt and dust as they barreled down the narrow mountain pass. The headlights cut through the night like searchlights, practically begging to be hit. The lead vehicle was right in my sights, and I could make out the shapes of guys hanging off the sides.

“Hold...” I muttered, feeling the weight of the launcher as I aimed. My finger itched on the trigger, but patience was key.

“Hold...” Ninja echoed from his spot across the rocks.

The first vehicle came into perfect range. I could almost see the driver’s face in the green glow of my goggles.

“Here we go,” I muttered, keeping my breathing steady. “This is gonna get loud.”

I fired. The grenade whooshed out of the launcher, trailing a smoke plume behind it. It hit the lead truck dead center, the explosion lighting up the mountainside like a fireworks show. The front of the vehicle disintegrated, throwing debris and flaming wreckage into the air. The other trucks slammed on their brakes, and the entire convoy came to a screeching halt.

“Nice shot,” Ninja said, already laying down suppressive fire. His rifle spat bullets as he opened up on the disoriented fighters scrambling out of the burning wreckage. I saw one man drop, then another.

“Just getting started,” I said, loading up another round.

The second truck tried to swerve around the burning mess of the first, but not fast enough. I fired again, and the grenade streaked toward it. Boom. The second truck skidded off the narrow road and down into the valley below. The crash echoed through the night, followed by an angry chorus of shouts from the rest of the convoy. Ninja kept picking off anyone who tried to make a move.

The third and fourth trucks had stopped dead in their tracks, the men inside spilling out, firing blindly in our direction.

“Time to move,” I yelled, already packing up. “I don’t think they liked that.”

“Oh, you think?” Ninja hollered back, already on his feet.

We sprinted hard, hauling ass across 200 yards of open ground. Without the RPG weighing me down, I was light on my feet, but rounds were zipping past, buzzing like angry hornets, kicking up dirt and bits of stone as we pounded across the rocky ground. But we had planned for this. Two hundred yards of open ground, and then we would be shielded by the mountain ridge—safe from any rockets or mortars they might throw our way.

CHAPTER 4

We were soon clear of the open ground and dove behind some rocks just as we heard the sound of heavy fire starting up behind us. Bullets pinged off the cliffside, and I heard the distant thud of mortars.

“You think we pissed them off a bit?” Ninja asked, grinning like a damn lunatic.

I laughed, catching my breath. “Not feeling too much love back there, pal.”

We were on our feet again, pacing it out at a fast jog. We had bought Raptor and the others more than enough time to hit the exfil.

“Hell of a shot back there. I owe you a round,” Ninja huffed.

“You? Picking up a tab?” I snorted. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

As we hit the ridgeline, the valley stretched out below, shadows swallowing everything but the faint outline of Raptor and the others moving down the slope. The crunch of gravel under our boots and the occasional hiss of wind were the only sounds cutting through the night. My legs were burning, and the weight of my kit felt like a damn anchor, but we had to keep moving. Exfil was still half a mile out, but we were making good time.

“Looks like they made it,” Ninja broke the silence.

“Yeah. And we’re still in one piece. Not a bad night,” I replied, scanning the horizon for any sign of trouble. Nothing. No headlights, no militia, just the slow hum of night insects.

Time to call in the ride. I tapped my comms, patching into the warship’s relay. “Echo One to Warhorse, this is Cowboy. Come in, over.”

A crackle, then a voice. “Warhorse, we copy, Cowboy. What’s your status?”

“We’re ten strong, package secured. ETA to exfil, twenty mikes. Need the bird in the air,” I said, my eyes tracking the valley ahead, scanning for any sign of movement that might screw up our plans.

The response crackled back through. “Roger that, Cowboy. Stand by.”

There was a pause, and I could picture the comms team on the ship relaying the call to the Black Hawk crew, getting them prepped. USS Monterey was about fifteen miles offshore in the Mediterranean. Close enough for a fast in-and-out, but not so close that we would spook any enemy vessels sniffing around the coast.

A few seconds later, the response came back. “Bird’s ready. Wheels up in three, ETA at your exfil point in twenty. Keep it tight, Cowboy.”

“Copy that,” I replied, glancing at Ninja beside me. “Bird’s inbound. Time to roll.”

Ninja gave a nod. “About damn time.”

I tapped my radio. “Cowboy to Raptor. You guys clear?”

A crackle, then Raptor’s deep voice came through. “All clear, boss. Package is intact.”

“Good. We’re heading your way.”

I motioned to Ninja, and we made our way down the rocky slope, careful not to kick any rocks loose. Samir had warned us this valley echoed like a canyon. Last thing we needed was to advertise our position.

As we got closer, I could see the group more clearly—Raptor, all muscle and menace, towering over the package: two men and two women, looking ragged but still standing. Father Elias, calm as a rock, and Samir, still keeping a sharp eye out, even in the dark.

We finally caught up to them, slipping into the group like shadows. The CIA crew looked like they had seen better days, but they were still on their feet.

“Everyone holding up?” I asked.

Father Elias gave me a nod, his face calm despite everything.

Raptor grunted. “As ready as we’ll ever be, Captain. They’re not exactly dragging their feet, but…” he glanced at the package, “we’ve had faster exits.”

One of the women—the younger one, pale and wide-eyed—gave me a shaky smile. “Not exactly what we signed up for.”

“Trust me, it never is,” I replied with a grim smile. “You’re doing fine. Just a little farther, then we’re out.”

Five minutes later, we hit the exfil point. Right on cue, I heard the low hum of the incoming helo. Flying blacked out, no lights, just the whine of the rotors slicing through the air. Those pilots of 160th SOAR didn’t mess around. They were called Night Stalkers for a reason.

“Right on time,” I said, already feeling the tension ease.

“Think they brought snacks?” Ninja muttered, barely audible under his breath.

“I’m sure they’ve got a menu just for you,” I replied.

The sound of the helo grew louder, its blades cutting through the night air. The Black Hawk flew in low and fast, a sleek shadow against the sky. It hovered for a moment before setting down in a clearing near the base of the valley. Dust kicked up, whipping at our faces as the rotor wash hit us.

“Let’s move!” I shouted, waving the package forward. Raptor and Hawkeye flanked the CIA crew, Samir trailing just behind them. I brought up the rear with Ninja, making sure no one was lagging.

The crew chief was already leaning out the side. “C’mon, folks, get your asses in here! We ain’t got all night!”

Ninja glanced at me and smirked. “Oh great, Sergeant ‘I’m too cool for ground pounders’ is our ride. Sounds like a real charmer.” Then, looking at him, shot back, “Nice to see you too. Hope you boys had a nice joyride over the Med.”

The chief chuckled, shaking his head as he reached out to help Raptor haul the package inside, one by one. Samir followed, guiding Father Elias and the analysts in with the kind of care you wouldn’t expect from a guy who had just been in a firefight. Hawkeye was next, then Ninja and I brought up the rear, slipping into the Black Hawk with practiced ease.

As soon as we were all aboard, the crew chief slid the door shut and threw a thumbs-up to the pilot. Ninja yelled over the engine noise: “Hey Chief, got any snacks on this fancy ride?”

The crew chief turned with a deadpan look. “Only snack you’re getting is a side of wind. Sit tight and enjoy the view, soldier.”

The rest of us stopped strapping in for a second, exchanging glances like maybe this guy had just forgotten who he was talking to. But before anyone could fire back, the pilot’s voice crackled in our headsets, laced with a familiar edge of sarcasm. “Hey, Cowboy, how’s the nightlife down there? You Delta boys have fun?”

I shook my head, a half-grin creeping onto my face. I would know that voice anywhere—Captain Philip Turner, call sign “Havoc”. The guy had a talent for showing up just when things were about to go sideways. “Well, if it isn’t the man himself,” I replied. “It’s a real happening spot, Havoc. Very laid-back crowd. Bit of dancing, bit of shooting. Same old.”

Havoc’s chuckle came through the static. “Figures. I could see the fireworks from up here. You guys leave anything standing?”

“Only what we couldn’t carry. You know how it goes.”

“Damn, Cowboy. You’re slipping. Guess I’ll cancel the champagne.”

“After that party? Champagne won’t cut it. We’re gonna need something stronger than that.”

“I hear you, buddy. The ship’s well-stocked. ETA fifteen minutes. Y’all get cozy back there. And hey, Master Sergeant Jones, play nice with our Delta friends, will ya? Can’t have them getting all cranky.”

As Havoc signed off, the crew chief—Jones, apparently—turned to us with a wide grin. “Ah, c’mon, fellas. You didn’t really think I was gonna let you starve, did ya?”

Ninja raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile creeping onto his face. “Chief, you’ve got no idea how cranky we guys can get when we aren’t fed.”

Jones chuckled, pulling a bag from behind his seat. “Yeah, yeah, tough guy. I figured you boys could use some ‘Delta-approved’ grub. After all that ‘dancing’ down there, you gotta be hungry.”

He tossed a few protein bars and beef jerky our way. Raptor snatched one mid-air, flashing a grin. “Well, would you look at that? Chief does have a heart under all that armor.”

Jones strapped himself in, laughing. “Trust me, I’ve flown enough ops with you Delta boys to know better. Snacks keep you guys from getting cranky, and I like my passengers happy. Can’t have a mutiny on my bird, now can I?”

Ninja ripped open a protein bar. “Guess we’ll let you off the hook this time, Chief.”

The Black Hawk soon lifted off, the ground dropping away as we ascended into the night. I glanced around at my team. Raptor was already half-asleep, leaning against the wall, while Hawkeye had his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling, probably replaying every shot he had taken that night. Samir sat close to Father Elias, speaking quietly in Arabic. The package huddled together, looking relieved but still shell-shocked.

I leaned back against the cold metal of the helo’s interior. The adrenaline was still pulsing, but for the first time in hours, the tension in my gut started to ease. But as I stared out into the dark, I knew full well this rescue had been the easy part. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

What was about to come next would make Lebanon feel like a warm-up. We were headed into Syria next. This time, it wasn’t just an exfil mission. We had to find a CIA asset buried deep in a hornet’s nest, and drag him out right under the noses of Assad’s boys, Iran-backed militias, and the Russians. And there would be no margin for error.

This mission wasn’t over. Hell, it was just getting started. The real fight was waiting for us across the border.

CHAPTER 5

The ops in Lebanon and Syria were never on our radar. Hell, we were supposed to be lying low after grinding through a hellish month of operations in northern Iraq.

The year was 2013. We had been camped at Al Asad Airbase, smack in the middle of the western Iraqi desert in Anbar province. It was a place where the sand always found a way to crawl into your skin, your gear, even your soul if you stayed long enough.

The airbase was a sprawling beast of concrete bunkers and tents, serving as our forward operating base for nearly two months. It was like a mini warzone of its own—dusty, chaotic, always alive with noise. F-16s roared overhead, Black Hawks came in hot at all hours, and the constant hum of mission planning and debriefs filled every corner. This wasn’t a place for coffee and chats—this was where shit got done. Soldiers didn’t come there for staying—they were just passing through, doing the dirty work and moving on.

For guys like us, that hot, dry wasteland was about as close to home as we would get. It wasn’t luxury, but I was looking forward to a couple days to decompress—maybe catch some sleep without an IED threat lurking in the back of my mind.

But when you get a call from your CO, all that goes out the window.

When Lt. Colonel Flynn came on the line, he didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Blaze, my office, now.”

“Roger that, sir.” I knew that tone, and it wasn’t for debriefs or a pat on the back. Something big was going down.

When your CO calls like that, you don’t ask questions—you move. I grabbed my kit, shot a nod to the team, and hauled it over to the command center.

Flynn’s office was just a few concrete blocks away, past the armory and barracks, where the boys were suiting up for another training run. That command building was like our second home—a place operators knew all too well. But the second I walked in, I knew this wasn’t just another briefing.

Flynn stood behind his desk, hands on his hips, looking tense. And sitting across from him, looking as grim as ever, was James Davis, the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations. Davis wasn’t the kind of guy who showed up for just any op. Last time I saw him was during an op in Afghanistan when we took down a Taliban faction. It was also the op where I dragged Davis’s daughter, Madison, out of a hot zone, earning myself a lifetime of goodwill with him.

Back then, I was still running with the 3rd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment. Good times, but since then, me and some of the boys moved up the food chain to 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta. Different game now. The ops we were running as Delta weren’t just high-speed takedowns, they were a little more… varied. Still dangerous as hell, though.

But the looks on Davis and Flynn’s faces told me this wasn’t a time for catching up. Something big was on the table.

Flynn gave me a quick nod as I stepped inside, his mouth a tight line. “Captain Blaze, I believe you know Director Davis.”

Davis stood when he saw me, giving me a nod and a rare smile. “Captain Blaze.”

“Good to see you, sir,” I replied, stepping forward and shaking his hand. “Been a while.”

“Too long,” he said, but his smile faded quickly.

Flynn gestured for me to sit, his eyes already locked onto Davis. There wasn’t much in the way of pleasantries.

Davis wasted no time cutting to the heart of it. “Captain, we’ve got a situation. A bad one.”

I locked eyes with him, already sensing where this was going. “Go on.”

“One of our analysts has gone rogue. Guy called Roger Kessler. He leaked intel—critical intel. Names of undercover operatives. We’ve already lost four of our best agents.”

Davis paused, letting the weight of it sink in. The air in the room got heavy.

Losing four agents wasn’t just bad; it was a disaster. These weren’t just names on a list—they were people who had put their necks on the line for their mission. And now they were being hunted. Once those names are out, it’s open season in this part of the world. We all knew how fast those identities get turned into death warrants.

I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing. “Where exactly?”

“Lebanon and Syria,” Davis replied, his voice heavy. “Some managed to scatter and get to safety. But we’ve got five pinned down. They need an extraction, fast.”

I nodded, the weight of the situation settling in. “You want us to go in and pull them out?”

“Yes. Four are in Lebanon, holed up in a monastery in the mountains up north. But Hezbollah knows those four are inside the country and it’s just a matter of time before they catch up to them.”

“So, they’ll need to be extracted quickly. And the fifth agent?”

I could see something flicker behind Davis’s normally stoic expression, something personal. “It’s Nate Foster,” he said, his voice heavy with meaning.

That name hit me like a gut punch. I leaned back, the memories coming fast. Dr. Nate Foster—CIA’s brainiac analyst. His intel had been key when we took down a Taliban faction and cracked a Bulgarian mob’s trafficking ring a couple of years ago. Nate was instrumental in helping me track down the bastards responsible for kidnapping a friend’s daughter and selling her to the mob. We had cracked skulls and made sure none of those lowlifes came out alive from that sewer.

Nate was the kind of guy who could find a needle in a hundred haystacks, but he was a desk jockey through and through. No business in the field. This wasn’t his world.

“Nate? What the hell was he doing in Syria?” I asked, surprised. “Guy’s an analyst, not a field op.”

Davis let out a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, that’s the problem. He’s a damn good analyst. One of the best. But… he did something stupid.”

“Stupid how?” I pressed, my interest piqued.

Davis straightened, locking eyes with me. “Nate had been bugging me for months, saying he wanted to get some field experience. Kept pushing for it. Syria, of all places. Naturally, I told him to shove it—no way was I letting a rookie analyst cut his teeth in one of the most dangerous places on Earth.”

“Makes sense,” I said, thinking about the meat grinder Syria had become. Between the civil war and the Russians, it was a death trap, especially for a desk jockey like Nate.

“But it didn’t end there,” Davis continued, his voice dropping. “Turns out Nate’s been seeing this Syrian girl, Farah. She came to the States on a research scholarship before the whole Syrian mess kicked off. Then the civil war hit. A few months back, her parents got killed in a bombardment. One of the factions leveled their neighborhood. Her kid brother, Zain, survived, but is stuck in Syria.”

“That’s rough,” I said. “But what’s that got to do with Nate?”

“Nate,” Davis continued, “took it upon himself to track the kid down. And he did. Problem was, there was no way to get the boy out. Damascus is a no-go zone right now.”

“So that’s why he wanted a posting in Damascus?” I asked, starting to connect the dots.

“Yeah. Nate met the girl at some lecture he gave on the Arab Spring, and well… things got personal real fast after that. Nate must have wanted to impress her, or he might have genuinely felt bad for the kid. I don’t know exactly what happened.”

I frowned, seeing where this was headed. “So Nate’s brilliant plan was to hop on a plane to Syria?”

Davis shook his head. “Not really. Nate was on leave, but instead of taking a break, he went to Beirut. He contacted one of our operatives in Damascus, a seasoned vet who knew the ropes, knew how to work the system. The plan was simple—get the kid out of Damascus and deliver him to Nate in Beirut.”

“Let me guess,” I said, “the leak got your man in Damascus killed.”

Davis nodded grimly. “Names were leaked. Our guy in Damascus didn’t stand a chance. And Nate, being Nate, thought he could go in and fix things himself. He pulled some strings with his CIA contacts, crossed the Lebanese border into Syria, and made it to Damascus.”

“Jesus!” I shook my head in disbelief. “So now he’s stuck in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. How’d you find out? He give you his location?”

Davis’s face darkened. “No. He’d be too scared to own up to me about such a major fuck up. Instead, he reached out to Madison. They’ve been the best of friends for like, forever. When things went sideways, he called her, and she came straight to me. That’s how I found out he’d crossed into Syria.”

I remembered Madison vividly—beautiful, smart, kind, and maybe a little too compassionate for her own good. That kindness nearly got her killed back in Kandahar.

I let out a long breath. “So we’ve got Nate running solo in Damascus with a kid in tow. Great. He’s not just in over his head—he’s drowning.”

Davis nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m here. We need to get him out before the Syrians or any of the Iran-backed militias or the Russians, or even worse, ISIS figures out who he is.”

What Davis said brought out how much of a hornet’s nest Damascus had become. It wasn’t just a warzone—it was layers of wars stacked on top of each other. Assad’s forces were trying to hold on to what they had, backed by Russian firepower and Iranian muscle. The Iranian-backed Hezbollah fighters were there too, operating like shadows in the street—loyal to Assad but playing their own game. And then there were the militias, those pro-Assad gangs that answered to whoever paid them. They weren’t just fighting the rebels, they were fighting for control, for turf.

But the rebels weren’t a single enemy either. The Free Syrian Army, the original opposition, was still around—what was left of it—but they were fractured, weaker than before. Then there were the more extreme groups like Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham, what was left of Al-Qaeda’s influence in Syria. That was another damn mess—they were supposed to be on the same side, fighting Assad, but they were just as willing to kill other rebels if it meant securing more power.

And then there was ISIS (Islamic State of Iraq and Syria)—the third front. They didn’t care about Assad, the rebels, or anyone else—they wanted their own caliphate, their religious state. They would fight anyone who stood in their way, which was pretty much everyone: Assad’s forces, the rebels, you name it. Hell, we were all on their hit list. They used the chaos of Syria to plant their flag, and now they were dug in deep, waiting for any chance to swoop on an opportunity—like Nate.

Everyone in the city was fighting someone else—sometimes all at once. And we were about to drop ourselves right in the middle of it.

“Oh right, we’ve got ISIS in the mix as well. Talk about being in a tough spot. So, what’s the play?” I asked, looking at Davis and Flynn in turn. “Are we looking at two extraction teams?”

“It’ll have to be one team,” Flynn replied. “After this leak, we’ve got only one solid local asset with the chops to help you guys pull this off.”

Davis chimed in. “We’ve got a Lebanese operative deep undercover. Knows Hezbollah inside out and how these guys operate in Syria. He’s the only guy who can go in with you and help get you the intel to pull both jobs.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Can he get inside these places again? He wasn’t burned with the others?”

Davis shook his head. “No, I kept him off the books. Recruited him myself a decade ago when I was still in the field. He’s one of my personal assets. Not everything goes on the official record,” he said, giving me a meaningful glance.

I nodded. “Alright, so let me get this straight. You want us to extract four CIA agents from a monastery in Lebanon, then cross into Syria, under the nose of Assad’s and Putin’s guys, and pull Nate and this kid out of Damascus?”

Davis gave me a thin smile. “That’s the job. The team in Lebanon is the primary extraction target. They’re pinned down, and Hezbollah’s closing in. Once they’re out, your next stop is Syria to extract Nate before Syrian forces, Hezbollah, or the Syrians’ Russian ‘advisers’ catch wind of them.”

“And what about the kid?”

Davis hesitated. “Technically, he’s Syrian. So, not officially part of the mission. But…”

I finished for him, “But we’ll probably have to knock Nate out to get him to leave the kid behind.”

Davis gave a reluctant nod. “Pretty much.”

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face. I had heard the worst of it, but I needed to know if we could get in touch with Nate directly.

“Does Nate at least have a cell phone on him?” I asked. “We need to make contact and pin down his exact location.”

Davis shook his head. “No, he doesn’t have a phone.”

I frowned. “Why the hell not? That would’ve been our easiest way to locate him.”

Davis leaned forward, his expression serious. “Assad’s regime monitors all networks. We’re talking advanced SIGINT capabilities, especially with Russian and Iranian support. They can intercept calls and trace phones, even encrypted signals. If Nate kept that phone on him, it would’ve been like holding up a neon sign. He already used it to contact Madison and the missing asset. Any further use would’ve been suicide.”

I grunted, leaning back in my chair. “So we tell him to throw away his only lifeline... That’s a real bummer.”

Davis nodded, understanding the frustration. “Yeah, I get it. But it wasn’t just about going dark. With Assad’s forces and Hezbollah crawling all over, any signal could’ve been intercepted. They’re hunting for anyone connected to foreign intelligence, especially after his contact went dark. The risk was too high.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Syria was a hornet’s nest of surveillance and paranoia. But still, it left us in the dark too.

“I’ve heard all the bad news,” I said, trying to keep the frustration from leaking into my voice. “Is there any good news? Because I don’t see us strolling through a war-torn city searching for one guy in hiding. That’s not a quick in-and-out op—it could take days of recon.”

Davis leaned back, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Actually, there is some good news. Before Nate went into Syria, he had the presence of mind to follow protocol for entering a high-risk environment. He got a subdermal tracker implanted in his arm.”

The mention of the subdermal tracker lightened my mood somewhat. Those things are a hell of an asset in hostile territory. It’s a small device—tiny enough to fit under the skin and implanted with a quick injection. It sends a GPS signal that gets relayed through satellites. Damn near impossible to detect unless you know it’s there. The battery life on these things is solid, around three weeks, sometimes longer. These things make tracking a guy in the middle of chaos a lot easier, assuming he stays alive long enough for us to get there.

“You’re telling me we have his exact location?”

Davis nodded. “Yes. Real-time feed. He’s holed up in a dilapidated apartment building in a Damascus neighborhood called Jobar. But he’s trapped. The area is under the control of Syrian forces, Hezbollah, and Iranian militias. The Russians are in the mix too, providing them military support. And to make things more fun, there are rebel forces and ISIS cells scattered throughout, everyone at each other’s throats.”

I let that sink in for a moment. Nate was in a real mess. But having his exact location was the one thing that could turn this from a needle-in-a-haystack nightmare to a mission we could actually pull off.

“If we have his location, it makes the op doable,” I said, my tone slightly optimistic.

Davis gave a small nod. “Exactly. Now it’s about getting in—and out—alive.”

That was always the tricky part—but that’s what we signed up for.

CHAPTER 6

Flynn leaned back in his chair after Davis laid it all out. He eyed me for a moment before asking the question he didn’t really need to ask. “Blaze, you up for this? I know you boys just came back from a grueling op.”

I knew it was just Flynn being polite, giving me the illusion of choice. But deep down, we both knew it was a done deal the moment I walked into that office. Not that it mattered.

“Of course, sir. Hell of a way to start the week. But you know the boys, always up for an adventure. And with Nate involved… let’s just say it’s a little personal.”

I could already feel the weight of the mission settling in. This wasn’t just about pulling stranded assets out of a bad spot—it was about getting Nate out of the mess he had landed in.

“But I’ll need full intel on both locations. Local assets, anything to help plan this out,” I added.

Davis gave a slow nod and leaned back in his chair. “Good. It’s time you meet one of my top assets in Lebanon—Samir Haddad.”

The door opened, and in walked a man who immediately commanded attention. Samir wasn’t just any asset. He had the look of someone who had been through hell and back, still standing tall. His dark, piercing eyes surveyed the room with a kind of calm authority, and the way he moved screamed combat experience. Battle-hardened didn’t even begin to cover it. He was tall, lean, and carried himself with the sort of quiet confidence that immediately put me at ease. No swagger, no arrogance—just a guy who had seen it all and then some. I liked him already.

He shook my hand—firm, solid grip. “Captain Blaze,” his voice was deep, raspy, like gravel under boots. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” I replied. “Director Davis doesn’t trust many people, but he trusts you. That’s all I need to know.”

Samir gave a thin smile, the kind that said ‘don’t expect miracles, but we’ll figure something out’. “Let’s get your team in and out safely. That’s all that matters,” he said.

We headed down the hall to the briefing room. The table was already set with a tactical map of Lebanon. Samir leaned over it, tracing his finger across the northern region. “The team’s holed up here,” he said, tapping a spot deep in the mountains. “In a monastery. It’s remote, high up, and hard to reach. A good place to hide—for now.”

“For now?” I asked, eyes on the map.

Samir nodded, his face serious. “Hezbollah know their identities. The only reason they haven’t been caught yet is because Hezbollah must’ve initially searched for them in Beirut, setting up roadblocks all over the city, thinking they’d head to the embassy.”

“Weren’t they in Beirut?”

“No, they were in Tripoli. Small city in northern Lebanon—not the Libyan capital city.”

“Right. Go on.”

“Had they been in Beirut, they would’ve made a beeline for the embassy. But these guys were in the north, getting a lay of the land, gathering intel on Hezbollah’s weapons smuggling routes,” Davis explained. “The Israelis have been on our backs, wanting to shut the routes. You know how they work—if we let them loose, they’ll level half the country. We needed confirmation before giving the green light.”

“Yeah, I get that,” I replied.

Samir continued. “When their identities got blown, they had to ditch and make a break for the mountains. They didn’t have any other choice. We’ve got a small window before Hezbollah tightens the noose.”

“How long do you think?” I asked, my eyes tracing the mountainous terrain on the map.

Samir rubbed his chin. “Not long. Hours, not days. But now, Hezbollah’s probably already got the intel they were in Tripoli. They’ve got eyes and ears everywhere in these parts. It’s only a matter of time before they start hitting those monasteries. They could get lucky sooner than later.”

I nodded. “We’ve got to move fast. How are we getting into Lebanon? Israeli airbase?”

Flynn shook his head. “Negative. This stays off the books. Bringing the Israelis into it complicates things, especially for an op inside Lebanon. We’re launching from a U.S. warship—the USS Monterey. Part of the Sixth Fleet, stationed in international waters, just off the coast. Close enough for a quick in-and-out. It’s the best shot we’ve got.”

I checked the map again, calculating the distance. The mountains where the team was hiding weren’t far from the coast, and that made the USS Monterey the perfect staging point.

“Alright,” I said, looking around the room. “Let’s get this done.”

Samir leaned over the table again, his finger drawing a route from the monastery to the exfil point. “I’ll get you in, but we’ve got to move fast. If we delay, they’ll pin us down before we even get close.”

I met his gaze, saw nothing but steel in his eyes. He was ready. So was I.

“Then we move fast,” I said. “Let’s go get them out.”

Just as Samir finished laying out the plan, Davis called me over. I was still running through the mission in my head—monastery, Hezbollah, tight timeline—when he dropped something unexpected.

“Madison flew in with us,” Davis said, arms crossed. “She’s waiting to meet you.”

I blinked, momentarily thrown. I hadn’t seen Madison in two years—not since that op in Afghanistan when I yanked her out from under the Taliban’s nose. There was always something about her, but it never went anywhere. The timing was off, and duty had a way of getting in the way. Still, the thought of seeing her again stirred something I hadn’t expected.

“Madison? Here in Iraq? I don’t get it,” I asked, trying to make sense of it.

“She’s got intel and contacts you might need for the Damascus op,” Davis explained, his voice steady. “I’ll fill you in once she’s here, but she’s in a meeting room next to the reception area. Could you go grab her?”

I nodded, still a little surprised. “Yeah, of course.”

Davis paused for a moment before adding, "She doesn’t know you’re here, by the way. Hell, even I didn’t know either until I landed. I came to get a Delta team together for the op, and the first surprise was when I ran into Colonel Flynn, who told me you and most of your men are part of Delta now. Gotta say, it boosts my confidence in this op.”

I allowed a small, dry smile to cross my face. “We don’t make it easy, but we get the job done.”

Leaving Davis and Samir behind, I stepped out of the briefing room, making my way toward where Madison was waiting.

CHAPTER 7

The door to the meeting room was cracked open, and I caught a glimpse of Madison before stepping in. Her blonde hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling across her face.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but this area’s off-limits to civilians,” I said, my tone clipped, like I meant business, as I pushed the door open.

Madison spun her head around, a flicker of nervousness in her eyes. Damn if she hadn’t gotten even more stunning since the last time I saw her. The Madison I remembered was always striking, but two years had given her this calm, effortless grace. She was dressed simply, but she didn’t need much—Madison could light up a room without trying.

That moment of alarm on her face vanished the second she saw me smile. I was caught by the way her green eyes lit up—moving from disbelief to shock, then settling on pure excitement in the span of a heartbeat.

“Oh my God! Captain Axel Blaze,” she exclaimed, her face breaking into a huge smile as she jumped up from the chair and walked over to give me a hug.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as we stepped back, looking each other over.

I rubbed my chin with a thoughtful expression. “Well, let me see, this is a military base and I happen to be a soldier… what on earth could I possibly be doing here?”

Madison rolled her eyes and let out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, I do. Real question is, what are you doing here? And while we’re at it, how do you always seem to end up in every hotspot on the planet?”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “When you put it like that, it does sound like I’ve got a death wish. But what’s really funny is, every time I’m in trouble, you manage to show up. I still remember you walking into that Taliban cave with warpaint smeared across your face.”

“That was just for effect. Meant to scare the bad guys,” I grinned.

“Oh, it worked. And by the way, thanks again.”

I shrugged. “No big deal. Chasing Talis was the fun part. Pulling you out was just the bonus. But what you did for those kids—that was the real deal. You’re not planning to set up shop in Iraq this time, are you?”

Madison laughed. “Well, now that you mention it…,” she began, before turning serious, as a shadow of worry appeared on her brow. “Actually, I’m here for a friend. You might remember him—Nate.”

“Yeah, of course I remember Nate. Your dad filled me in. Don’t sweat it, we’ll figure something out.” I motioned toward the door. “Come on, let’s go see your dad.”

“Sure,” she said, her smile returning. “I’m already feeling better. Never in a million years did I think I’d bump into you here.”

We headed back to the briefing room, where Davis was still studying the map. As we walked in, he glanced up.

“Bet that was a surprise,” he said with a grin toward Madison.

“Oh, you’ve got no idea,” she replied, smiling wide.

Once we sat down across the table, I turned to Madison. “Alright, take me through everything about Nate. I need all the details to help me track him down.”

Madison took a deep breath, her face serious as she recounted what Davis had already told me, adding a few new bits of intel. Finally, she pulled out a small notebook and slid it over to me.

“These are contacts I’ve been working with in Damascus. Mostly humanitarian types, but they know the lay of the land, and how the system works. They can help with info, safe passage, whatever you need.”

I glanced over the list, impressed. Madison had always been resourceful. No wonder Nate leaned on her.

“This’ll definitely help.”

“And I’ll be on call 24/7 if you need anything. I can even come along if…”

“That’s not happening, Maddie,” Davis cut her off.

“He’s right,” I added. “We need to do this our way. But we could surely use your help. Once we extract the team in Lebanon, I’ll loop you in. We’ll figure it out. Deal?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks,” she said, her voice soft. “I know this is going to be dangerous. This mission… it’s different.”

I gave her a reassuring smile. “We don’t do ‘normal’ at Delta, Madison. Don’t worry about it. We’ve got this covered. But when we get Nate out, I’ve got one request,” I said, turning to Davis.

“Anything,” Davis replied.

“Make sure Nate’s ass gets nailed behind a desk for the rest of his life.”

Madison stifled a laugh, and even Davis cracked a smile. “That’s the plan, Captain.”

“Good. I’ve got to get to my team and brief them.”

“Good luck out there, Captain Blaze,” Davis said, shaking my hand.

“We’ll get it done,” I said, glancing at Madison, before heading out, my mind already shifting back to the mission. Nate had gotten himself into a hell of a mess, but he was part of the package now.

Lebanon, Syria, Hezbollah, Russian assets on the ground—it was shaping up to be one hell of a ride. Time to get the team ready for a trip into the lion’s den.

I gathered the squad in a dimly lit briefing room—barebones, like a supply closet with maps and intel scattered across the table. Ninja Man, Raptor, and Hawkeye were already posted up, leaning back in their chairs like they had all the time in the world. Samir stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he was already three steps ahead of the mission.

I stood at the head of the table, hands resting on it. “Alright, listen up. This one’s gonna be tight, but nothing we haven’t handled before. We’re headed into Lebanon, pulling four operatives out of a monastery in the mountains. Once that’s done, we’ll head into Syria to grab an analyst. We’re going in dark—no support, no eyes. We hit, we extract, we’re gone before anyone knows what happened.”

They didn’t need the details—they already knew the drill.

Ninja was the first to break the silence. “You sure they don’t want us to invade Iran while we’re at it? You know, solve all the Middle East problems in one shot.”

Hawkeye, cool as ever, just shook his head. “Don’t give ‘em ideas, Ninja.”

I shot Ninja a grin. “Keep it up, and I’ll put in a request for Iran next week. Maybe grab some souvenirs while we’re at it.”

Ninja chuckled. “Hell, let’s just do a world tour. Start a collection.”

Hawkeye leaned forward, rubbing his chin. “So we’re flying out to a warship, then running the whole thing from there?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “We’ll be wheels up in two hours. Black Hawks will take us in for the Lebanon leg. After that, we shift gears for Syria.”

Raptor, ever the quiet one, shrugged. “Sounds like a regular Tuesday.”

Samir spoke up for the first time. “The monastery’s location is solid, but Hezbollah’s closing in. We’ve got a small window before they tighten the noose. We’ll have to move fast.”

“We always do,” I said, looking around at my team. “Get your gear ready. We leave in two hours. Weapons loaded, everything tight. No room for error.”

The team moved out to prep, and I headed to Flynn’s office. He was buried in paperwork but set it aside when I walked in.

“You’re good to go, Captain?” he asked, though we both knew it wasn’t really a question.

“Good to go, sir.”

He gave me a nod, then a rare, genuine smile. “Bring them home, Blaze. This one’s personal.”

“We’ll get it done,” I replied, giving him a firm handshake before turning to leave.

Just before I stepped out the door, Flynn called after me. “And Blaze?”

“Sir?”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I knew Flynn was just going through the motions. We didn’t run on luck—just skill and a lot of grit. Two hours and we would be wheels up, knee-deep in the next storm.

CHAPTER 8

Less than two hours later, we boarded a C-130 Hercules, the dull roar of its engines vibrating through the tarmac at Al Asad. The plane’s belly swallowed us up, the ramp closing behind as we strapped into the webbing seats. The crew didn’t ask any questions—they knew the score. We were just ghosts passing through, part of an op no one wanted on the books.

Ninja sat across from me, eyes closed like he was catching some z’s, but I knew better. The second we hit dirt, he would be switched on. Raptor was next to him, absent-mindedly running his thumb over the handle of his combat knife, while Hawkeye stared out the porthole, eyes locked on nothing in particular. Samir’s face was a mask of quiet focus. He knew these mountains and valleys better than anyone. I trusted him to get us in and out without leaving a trace.

The plane taxied, its engines spooling louder, and then we were airborne, heading west toward Cyprus. We touched down at RAF Akrotiri, the British military base on Cyprus, as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The air was warm and thick with the scent of the Mediterranean.

An MH-60 Seahawk waited for us on the tarmac, blades chopping the air like an impatient signal to move. It would take us to the warship waiting off the coast of Lebanon. The fewer people involved, the better. Kept the Israelis, Syrians, and the whole mess of the Middle East out of this.

As soon as we boarded the bird, the crew chief gave us a thumbs-up, and we lifted off, skimming the waves as the sun fully dipped behind the horizon. In under an hour, the USS Monterey came into view, a guided missile destroyer cutting through the dark waters. Our Seahawk circled once and then set down on the deck, kicking up a storm of saltwater spray as we jumped out. No fanfare. Just a few handshakes with the deck crew as we touched down and prepped for the next ride—the Black Hawk that would take us into Lebanon.

We would be dropping into a valley about a mile from the monastery. It would be tight and fast. The pilot’s voice crackled in my ear as we neared the drop zone. “Ropes out. You’re fast-roping in.”

Of course. No smooth landings on this one. “Copy that.”

The door slid open, wind screaming in our faces. One by one, we fast-roped down, boots hitting the ground softly, shadows moving quickly into the brush. The Black Hawk peeled away silently, leaving us in the quiet of the valley, the only sounds being those of our steady breathing and the wind rustling the trees.

“Samir,” I said, nodding to him. “Lead the way.”

Samir took point, moving with the ease of a man who knew these mountains like the back of his hand. We followed, weapons up, eyes scanning the surroundings. The climb was tough but nothing we couldn’t handle. The moonlight filtered through the trees, giving us just enough light to navigate without using night vision. We kept the chatter low, just hand signals and the occasional word when necessary.

After about thirty minutes, the monastery came into view—a stone relic clinging to the mountainside. It looked ancient, like it had been there for centuries, watching over the valley. The door creaked open as we approached, and a gaunt man with a weathered face, wearing a priest’s robe stepped out. Father Elias. He gave us a quick nod and ushered us inside.

“Father,” I greeted him.

He bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for coming. The others are waiting inside.”

We followed him into a small, candlelit room where four people sat on wooden benches, tension etched across their faces. Two men, two women in civilian clothes, posing as couples for their undercover work until the op went sideways. Now, Hezbollah was hunting them down.

Hawkeye was already on overwatch, scanning the approach. His voice crackled in my ear through comms. “Hawkeye to Cowboy, we’ve got movement. Six hostiles moving in. About half a click out, approaching from the east.”

“Cowboy here. How much time do we have?”

“Five minutes. They’re moving in fast, looks like they’re sweeping the area.”

“Copy that.”

“It’s the first wave. Forward scouts. There’ll be more on their tail,” Samir quietly informed me.

I nodded, clenching my jaw. It was showtime.

I turned to Father Elias, who stood quietly with the four CIA operatives. “Father, keep everyone here. No movement until we give the all-clear.”

He nodded without a word, understanding the weight of what was about to unfold.

“Hawkeye,” I said into the comms, “stay on overwatch. Keep your eyes peeled for any more surprises. Let me know if you see anything else coming our way.”

“Roger that,” Hawkeye replied.

Turning to Raptor and Samir, I added, “You two stay close to the perimeter. Watch for anyone slipping through. If they do, you know what to do.”

Raptor gave a sharp nod, his eyes already scanning the darkened hills. Samir, silent as ever, nodded once, the gleam in his eye letting me know he was more than ready.

I motioned to Ninja. “Let’s go.”

Together, we moved into the night, slipping into the cover of darkness. Our NVGs cast everything in a ghostly green glow, making the jagged mountains and the rugged terrain look otherworldly. But it didn’t matter. We trained for this, lived for this. We moved in silence, our footsteps barely making a sound on the rocky ground. The world was reduced to movement, shadows, and night sounds.

I could sense my targets before I even saw them. The first group of six hostiles came into view—spread out into two teams of three, covering ground in a tactical sweep. They were heading straight for the monastery, their rifles slung low but ready. They were smart enough to fan out, but that also made them easier to pick off, one by one.

I tapped Ninja’s shoulder, signaling a silent takedown. We split off, each targeting a man. Ninja crept up on the first one, his suppressed Glock whispering into the night as the man dropped like a rag doll.

I closed in on the second, drawing my knife. In one fluid motion, I pulled him into a chokehold and buried the blade in his throat. No sound, just a gurgle as he slumped to the ground. Ninja had already dispatched the third man by the time I wiped my blade clean on the dead man’s shirt.

A quick glance exchanged between us—three down, three to go.

We moved again, slipping through the night. The second team was farther out, but no less oblivious. They were moving slower, like they knew something was off but couldn’t figure it out. I could feel the tension in the air—the kind of tension that could break a man’s focus if he wasn’t used to it.

Ninja and I moved in silently. The first guy didn’t even know what hit him as I came up behind and shot him point blank—a bullet in the back of his head. Ninja took out the second with a single suppressed shot to the back of the skull. The third one spun around, trying to bring up his weapon, but I was faster. Two rounds to the chest, one to the head. He fell without a sound.

Six men down. No noise. No drama.

I tapped my comms. “Hawkeye, all six hostiles are down. Perimeter’s clear for now.”

“Roger that,” came the calm reply. “No other movement.”

We turned and made our way back toward the monastery, the cool night air filled with nothing but the hum of our NVGs and the distant sound of the wind whistling through the mountains. We weren’t done yet—but we had bought ourselves a little more time. And in this game, time was everything.

It didn’t take long before the second wave of twenty hostiles began bearing down on our position. Taking down those twenty tangos without tipping off the third wave had been flawless—a textbook ambush. Once they were neutralized, the element of surprise helped us stall the third wave just long enough to get the package to the exfil. That’s how these ops go—tight planning, split-second execution, and just enough luck to keep you breathing. But that was just a warm-up. It set the tone for what was coming.

The next mission was a whole new level of chaos. We were about to drop into a battlefield where the lines were blurred—militias that looked like civilians, rebels who might flip on a dime, and Assad’s goons everywhere. And the Russians mixed in made this the most volatile cocktail you could ask for. It was a goddamn powder keg, no way to tell who’s who until they are shooting at you. We couldn’t afford a single screw-up. One wrong move, and the whole thing goes sideways.

I pushed those thoughts out of my head as the helo banked hard, snapping me back to reality. Ahead, the lights of the USS Monterey broke through the dark. Below us, nothing but the cold, unforgiving sea, stretched out like an endless void, as if reminding us what was at stake.

CHAPTER 9

The Black Hawk touched down with a sharp whine of the rotors cutting through the night air, sending a spray of saltwater mist across the deck of the USS Monterey. The crew chief opened the door, and the salty sea air hit me in the face. The bird’s belly scraped lightly against the steel deck as the operators hopped out, each moving with the precision of men who had done this a thousand times. The rescued CIA analysts, weary but alive, followed behind.

As we cleared the landing zone, my eyes fell on Davis. He was waiting for us with his arms crossed. His eyes scanned the four analysts we had pulled from the monastery, relief flashing across his face. Davis didn’t waste time with fanfare, but there was a glint in his eye. He was pleased.

“Hell of an extraction, Blaze,” he said, stepping forward, his voice steady but carrying the weight of tension. He gave a nod to each of my men. “You got them out when the clock was ticking. You’ve earned the thanks of a lot of people.”

I exchanged a glance with the team—all standing tall, but quiet as usual. “That was just the warm-up,” I said, shrugging. “We’re ready for round two. Sounds like this next op is going to be a hell of a lot trickier.”

Davis didn’t argue. He just motioned for us to follow him. “Let’s get to the briefing room. There’s a lot we need to go over.”

We moved off the deck and into the ship’s corridors. The USS Monterey had the cold, efficient feel of a warship—everything designed for function, not comfort.

I turned to my team. “Take a breather, boys. Briefing in twenty. Midnight chow, grab what you can.”

Ninja Man stretched his neck, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll take a steak if they’ve got one.”

Hawkeye chuckled. “Hell, if we’re lucky, they’ll have something hot left in the galley.”

Raptor smirked. “If not, we can always raid the fridge. I’ll find something edible, even if it’s mystery meat.”

I gave a nod. “Grab me and Samir something too. Something that won’t kill us.”

“Can’t promise that,” Raptor shot back with a grin as they headed off to the galley to scrounge for whatever they could manage to get their hands on.

Davis, Samir and I entered a small briefing room where a large digital map of Syria was already projected on one wall, lines and points marking the territory as we dug into the next phase of the operation. Samir, standing beside me, wasted no time. He grabbed a marker and began sketching out our route on the map.

“We’ll insert north of Damascus,” Samir began, tracing a line from the mountains to the outskirts of the city. “The Black Hawk will drop us at a mountain pass. It’s a narrow area—remote, but safe enough to avoid regime patrols or checkpoints. From there, we’ve got about two hours on foot, descending into the valley.”

I leaned in, studying the map. “And from the valley?”

“We’ve arranged a vehicle,” Samir replied. “It’ll meet us at the foot of the mountain. From there, we drive toward Jobar, sticking to unpaved country roads where we won’t run into checkpoints or random patrol vehicles,” Samir said, tapping the map near the eastern part of Damascus. “That’s where things get dicey.”

“In what way?”

“Jobar’s still under regime control, so we’ll have to navigate carefully. We’ll be dealing with checkpoints, patrols, and plenty of Syrian military.”

I folded my arms, narrowing my gaze. “We’re going to stick out like a sore thumb in our Uncle Sam uniforms. How do we blend in?”

“Good question. We’ve got that covered,” Davis stepped in. “You’ll all pose as UN workers. We’ve got everything right here—jackets, caps, helmets, armbands, flags and stickers you can stick to any vehicle, all of them with UN written in bold letters. We’ve even got authentic ID cards for all of you.”

“Sounds good. With all that stuff, passing checkpoints shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“Mostly, yes, unless the guards happen to be in a bad mood, or overly suspicious, or just looking to make a fast buck,” Davis replied. “And there are only some areas where UN vehicles can move unhindered. It doesn’t give you a free pass to the city. But you’ll have to figure it out on the ground once you’re there.”

“Right, we’ll figure that out. This place, Jobar… is that where Nate’s holed up?”

“Yes, in an apartment complex. Dilapidated building. An old couple, family ties with Nate’s girl, Farah, are sheltering him and the kid. The building’s falling apart—been bombed out more than once. It’s a risky location, but it’s better than being on the streets.”

I nodded, processing the risks. “And after we get Nate?”

“We extract him and the kid—Zain—and head north about four miles into a Damascus neighborhood called Qaboun,” Samir continued. “That’s rebel-held. The tricky part is the transition between Jobar and Qaboun. We’ll be crossing between regime and rebel lines. It’s not just regime checkpoints; we’ll need to be careful with the rebels, too. Not all factions are friendly, and some of them are just as likely to shoot us as the regime is.”

“Any alliances we can count on?”

Samir sighed. “I have contacts in Qaboun, but they can’t guarantee safe passage. We’ll have to rely on my local ties. They know me, but once again, no guarantees.”

“Got it. And if it’s a rebel-held area, there will also be the risk of airstrikes?”

Samir didn’t flinch. “Exactly. The regime’s been bombing rebel areas and anything that moves between them. Even at night, there’s the risk of random airstrikes. They hit with no warning, no pattern. We have to keep our movements tight and fast.”

Davis cleared his throat. “Airstrikes are a constant threat. Assad’s forces don’t hesitate to bomb rebel targets, and if you’re spotted in the wrong place at the wrong time, it’ll rain hellfire. Not to mention, the regime's artillery pounds Qaboun daily. The rebels are entrenched there, but that doesn’t make them friendly.”

I crossed my arms. “So we need to get Nate from Jobar to Qaboun without triggering every gun in Damascus or getting smoked by Assad’s bombs. Anything else?”

Samir gave a grim smile. “Just one more complication. Rebel alliances. Qaboun’s controlled by a mixed bag of anti-regime factions. I’ve got contacts there, but they’re divided. If we don’t make the right introductions fast, they could see us as enemies.”

I took a moment, mentally walking through the mission as Samir laid out the obstacles. “We’ll have to hit Jobar before dawn breaks, grab Nate and the kid, and move to Qaboun by dawn. Any longer, and we’ll be trapped in the city.”

Davis had a grave expression when he replied. “It’s a tight window. If it doesn’t happen before daybreak, you’ll have to stick it out until nightfall.”

I nodded, before a thought struck me. “Where’s Kessler in all this? The guy who leaked the names. Is he still out there and an active threat?”

Davis’s expression hardened. “Kessler’s a ghost right now. We’re still hunting him. He was assigned to the Rome office, but he slipped out before this whole mess began. He told a colleague he’d got an Italian girl he was trying to impress and taking her on a Mediterranean cruise for a long weekend. And then he slipped off the grid. No one sounded the alarm until chatter popped up about CIA operatives being exposed on the dark web. By then, he had traded the entire list of our assets in Lebanon and Syria for… whatever they gave him. We’re working to contain the fallout, but so far, there’s no trace of him.”

I clenched my jaw. “Any other assets left in-country?”

Davis shook his head. “Hard to say. We put out word for everyone to either go underground or get out. The only SOS we’ve received so far was from the team you just pulled out of Lebanon—and Nate. No other reports in the last twelve hours. I’d like to think that means they escaped, but it could just mean they’re cut off. We’ve got nothing definitive.”

I took a breath, letting the frustration pass. No point in dwelling on what I couldn’t control. We had a job to do. I glanced at Samir, then back to Davis. “Alright. We’ve got our mission. We’ll get Nate out.”

I stood up and looked at Davis. “I’ll grab my men for a quick briefing. In the meantime, I need weapons and ammo prepped and laid out. We’re going in heavy, so everything’s got to be ready to roll.”

Davis gave a sharp nod. “I’ll have it taken care of. There’s a supply officer on the ship, Lieutenant Owens. I’ll get him to set everything up in the briefing room.”

“Perfect. We’ll be back in ten. The guys will need to do a weapons inspection before we roll out.”

Davis was already reaching for his radio. “Consider it done. Owens will have everything laid out by the time you’re back.”

I left the briefing room with Samir and we headed to another briefing area where Raptor, Ninja, and Hawkeye were already sitting, chowing down on sandwiches that smelled better than any midnight MRE (Meals Ready-To-Eat). A Navy cook had rustled up some hot grub for them.

“Well, look who’s got it made,” I said, my eyes suddenly glued to a plate with a couple of sandwiches set aside for me and Samir.

Raptor grinned, wiping his mouth. “You know how Ninja’s got a way with words. Begged like a kid who forgot his lunch. The Navy cook fell for it. He whipped up some steak sandwiches—best you’re gonna get at this hour.”

Ninja laughed. “Man even threw in some fries. Told him we’d settle for a bootleg cheeseburger, but he went all out.”

I sat down and grabbed one of the sandwiches. “Nice of you to think of me, for once.”

Hawkeye shrugged. “Figured you could use something that didn’t taste like cardboard.”

As we wolfed down the sandwiches, I gave the men a quick rundown on the mission. I looked around for questions. All eyes fell on Ninja as he dutifully raised a hand.

“So, to recap,” Ninja said, deadpan. “We sneak through regime territory, dodge airstrikes, avoid getting lit up by rebels, all while driving a couple of clunkers through one of the most dangerous cities on Earth. And we gotta do it all before sunrise.”

I gave a nod with a serious expression, trying hard not to let a smile break through. “That about sums it up.”

“No problem, boss. Let’s go kick ass,” he said with a grin.

“Just the words I needed to hear. Let’s go do a weapons check,” I said, signaling them to follow me to the other room.

We gathered around the table where the loadouts were spread out.

“It’ll be tricky, especially getting through checkpoints,” I began. “And the area’s crawling with regime forces, so we’re going in under cover—UN jackets, trucks, the whole nine yards. But, in case things go sideways, we go heavy.”

I glanced at the table, where our gear was laid out. “We’ll be running HK416s as primaries. Suppressors on. Glock 19s as sidearms, same deal—suppressed. Hawkeye, you’re on overwatch, covering us with the Mk 13 Mod 7. It’ll give you the range. Stay flexible—you might have to move with us or hang back depending on the situation.”

“Got it, boss,” Hawkeye replied, checking the scope on his sniper rifle.

I moved down the line, checking each piece of gear. “Explosives—let’s not get crazy, but we need some insurance. M67 frag grenades for crowd control, M84 flashbangs for inside jobs, and we’ll take some breaching charges. If we hit any locked doors, I don’t want to be knocking politely.”

“Claymores?” Raptor asked, cracking his knuckles.

“Yeah, we’re not leaving anything to chance. Everyone got it?”

Nods all around. Ninja cut in with a wisecrack. “You sure they don’t want us storming Assad’s palace too?”

I shot him a grin. “We’ll leave that for next time. For now, we just get Nate and the kid. If it all goes smoothly, no one even knows we were there.”

The team nodded, already mentally prepping. I could see the anticipation in their eyes. We were ready.

Twenty minutes later, we were making our way back to the main deck again for the ride into Syria. We were short on time—we had to be in Jobar before daybreak. The clock was ticking. I didn’t have time for a call to Madison. I sent her a text telling her I would contact her once I had eyes on Nate. Her message wishing us luck landed a few seconds later.

Davis walked with us as we moved out on to the deck. I locked eyes with him. “We’ll get Nate,” I said.

Davis nodded, but there was a tightness in his expression. “Good luck, Blaze. You’re going to need it.”

I knew the real hell was waiting for us beyond the Lebanese border. But luck or not, we were Delta. We made our own.

CHAPTER 10

We boarded the Black Hawk, its rotors cutting through the night air like a relentless hum of adrenaline. Havoc, our trusted pilot from the last op, was at the controls again. I gave him a quick nod as I stepped in, and he returned it with a grin under his visor.

“Back for more, huh?” he said, flipping switches with an almost casual rhythm.

“Can’t get enough of the five-star service,” I said, strapping in. “You guys do warm towels on this flight?”

Havoc smirked. “Only for first-class. You guys are flying coach, remember?”

“Right, so no peanuts, either?” Ninja Man chimed in from the side, adjusting his vest with mock disappointment.

“Nope. But I hear there’s a great snack cart in Damascus,” Havoc shot back. “You guys managed to grab any midnight snacks?” he asked.

“Best damn steak sandwiches we ever had,” Raptor chimed in, real emotion in his voice.

“Good. Now sit back and enjoy the ride.”

We buckled in, the Black Hawk lifting off from the deck of the USS Monterey smoothly, the ship’s lights shrinking behind us as the bird turned southward, engines purring like a beast in the night. The Mediterranean sea below was an inky void, only the faintest shimmer of moonlight glinting off the waves as we cut through the air. We flew dark, no running lights, no chatter, just the drone of the rotors carrying us into the unknown. Once again, Havoc was working his magic, navigating us through the night like a ghost.

As we flew along the Lebanese coast, the distant lights of Beirut flickered in the horizon like stars on the ground. The chopper turned inland just before Beirut, banking hard as it made its way across Lebanon toward the Syrian border. Below us, the lights of small Lebanese villages flickered sporadically, patches of civilization in a sea of darkness. We were flying low, skirting the ridgelines, keeping below radar and avoiding detection. The Black Hawk shuddered slightly in the wind, but Havoc kept her steady.

“Crossing into Syria in about one minute,” Havoc’s voice came over the comms. “We’re going in dark. Anything stirs below us, it’ll stir big.”

The time on my watch ticked toward 0100 hours as we passed over the border into Syria, slipping quietly into enemy territory. The terrain began to change—rockier, barren, more desolate. The lights thinned out, replaced by long stretches of empty land. But the threat level was still high. Assad’s regime forces controlled parts of the area, and there were always eyes in the dark. If anyone caught wind of our Black Hawk moving in Syrian airspace, it wouldn’t take much for either Assad’s or rebel forces to start shooting. Either side could decide to take a shot at a random bird flying over their turf.

As we neared the mountains north of Damascus, the lights from scattered regime outposts blinked in the distance. It felt like we were threading the needle—one wrong move, and we would be a lit-up target. The bird hugged the mountainside, just scraping over the ridgeline as Havoc brought us in close to the drop point.

“Couple clicks to the drop zone,” Havoc called out, his voice now serious.

“Alright, boys,” I said over comms, “this one’s no stroll in the park. We hit the drop zone, make the descent, and we hustle. No time to get lost sightseeing.”

“Yeah,” Ninja muttered, “because Syria’s the top of my travel bucket list.”

We checked our gear one last time before Havoc announced: “Thirty seconds to drop.”

“Copy that,” I replied.

“I hope I’m the one picking you up when this is all over.”

I nodded, appreciating the weight behind his words. “You and me both, pal.”

“Good luck, Blaze,” Havoc said, his voice low and steady. “Bring your boys home.”

“Roger that.”

The Black Hawk slowed, coming to a hover over a narrow mountain pass. Below us, the rocky terrain stretched out like a broken spine. I glanced at the others—Raptor, Ninja, Hawkeye and Samir—everyone ready, waiting. Time to move.

The hatch slid open, and the cold Syrian wind rushed in, sharp and biting. Below, the rocky pass yawned up at us, jagged and hostile. It was time.

“Let’s move!” I shouted, grabbing the rope.

I fast-roped down, the rope hissing through my gloves as the wind whipped hard around me. The rocky ground came up fast, with my boots hitting it with a solid thud. I quickly unclipped and moved out of the way as the others followed. Raptor hit the ground next, then Ninja, followed by Hawkeye. Samir was last, dropping down smoothly and giving me a quick thumbs-up.

As soon as the last man was down, the Black Hawk lifted off, its rotors roaring as it disappeared into the night sky, leaving us in silence under the blanket of stars. The air was thin and cold, the kind that bites through your gear and reminds you how far from safety you are. I took a second to orient myself, the NVGs turning the landscape into a surreal, green-tinted world.

“Stay tight,” I whispered, motioning for Samir to lead the way.

We moved immediately, NVGs down, rifles up. Samir led us through the rugged terrain like he owned it. The mountains loomed around us, dark and foreboding, as we navigated the descent. The terrain was unforgiving—sharp rocks, steep inclines, and loose gravel underfoot. The mountain pass was narrow, with steep cliffs on either side that made us feel like we were being funneled into a trap. We had no choice but to descend, and fast.

“How’s this for a midnight stroll?” Ninja muttered behind me, his voice low but tinged with sarcasm.

“Just like walking the dog back home, right?” Raptor added, breathing heavily as we picked our way down the rocky slope.

“Yeah, if your dog was a fuckin’ mountain goat,” Hawkeye replied, stepping over a boulder. The ground shifted under his boots, and he had to catch himself.

“Stay on your feet, boys. I don’t feel like hauling anyone’s ass back up this hill,” I cautioned.

The descent was brutal—the uneven terrain just waiting to snap an ankle if we weren’t careful. But this wasn’t our first rodeo. We moved fast, keeping our pace steady, conscious of the time. Jobar wasn’t going to wait, and neither was sunrise.

Hawkeye grumbled as we navigated a steep incline. “Is it just me, or is the ground actively trying to kill us?”

“That’s just Syria saying hello,” I replied.

Samir couldn’t hold back. “You Americans complain too much. This is just a regular hike.”

“Remind me never to ask you about your hobbies, Samir,” Raptor huffed.

We pushed hard, making good time despite the terrain, moving swiftly but carefully over the uneven ground. After an hour and a half, we finally hit the base of the slope. The terrain flattened out a bit, making our progress quicker. The village loomed ahead, a cluster of dark shapes silhouetted against the night. No lights, no noise—just the quiet hum of a place long forgotten by the world around it.

Samir raised his hand, signaling a halt. “Give me a minute,” he said, pulling out a local burner phone and moving off to find a signal. We crouched low, watching the perimeter, the faint glow of the moon barely lighting the rugged terrain around us. The cold night air hung around us, silent except for the occasional shuffle of boots on gravel.

A few tense seconds later, Samir got connectivity and dialed his contact. We stayed alert, eyes peeled, ears sharp. Then Samir turned back toward us.

“Contact’s on the way. He’ll be here in ten minutes,” he said quietly, slipping the phone back into his vest.

It was time to blend into the UN aid worker identities we were assuming on the mission. I didn’t need to tell the team. They were already on it, slipping on the UN jackets over their camo tactical uniforms. Piece by piece, we shrugged into the covers. The pale blue jackets, caps, armbands—UN symbols stamped on all of it. Enough to buy us a pass if we hit a checkpoint.

Even without the jackets, our tactical uniforms and gear were designed to blend in, nondescript with no identifying flags or insignia—just standard military issue that could pass for any country’s forces, nothing that screamed “US Army”.

It was a black op, no question about it. We couldn’t be identified as US soldiers on Syrian soil. We had left every trace of identification back on the USS Monterey. No IDs, no dog tags, no connections to Uncle Sam if things went south.

With the pale blue UN jackets pulled over, our cover felt more convincing. Even the caps and armbands we donned bore the same UN insignia, and it wasn’t just for show—those symbols might be the only thing standing between us and a bullet if things went sideways.

Ninja zipped his jacket, shaking his head with a faint smirk. “Bet the UN doesn’t know they’ve got a Delta team doing their heavy lifting.”

Hawkeye chuckled softly. “If they did, we’d be their poster boys.”

I kept my focus on the road. Samir had made the call, and now we waited. The tension was thick, all eyes on the road ahead. Not long after, the faint rumble of an engine reached us. In the distance, two pinpricks of light grew steadily brighter. Soon, headlights cut through the dark, bouncing along the rough dirt road toward us.

CHAPTER 11

Moments later, the vehicle came rumbling up and ground to a halt near us. It was a beat-up Nissan pickup, caked in dust and mud, with a dented hood and enough rust to make me wonder how much longer it would keep running—the kind of truck that looked like it had seen one too many rough days on these war-torn roads. It wasn’t really the kind of ride we had pictured for a covert op, especially given the sensitive nature of this mission.

“That our ride?” Ninja asked, looking the truck over skeptically.

Raptor shifted his weight, folding his arms. “You sure this thing’s gonna make it? Looks like it’s one bump away from falling apart.”

I kept my thoughts to myself, but yeah, I had the same concerns. Samir stepped forward, signaling us to hold on. “I’ll handle it,” he said, heading over to talk to the driver.

They exchanged words in rapid-fire Arabic. The driver—a wiry dude with a beard that looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in months—took a drag off his cigarette, gesturing now and then to the road behind him as they spoke. I trusted Samir, but I wasn’t a fan of last-minute surprises.

After a few minutes, Samir turned back to us, a relieved look on his face. “It’s all good,” he said. “He brought this old wreck on purpose.”

I raised an eyebrow. “On purpose?”

“Yeah,” Samir nodded. “The main ride’s waiting for us in a village outside Jobar—a white Toyota Land Cruiser SUV, same model the UN rolls in. This truck’s just to get us through the backroads without raising suspicion.”

Ninja cocked his head. “And why not just bring the fancy wheels here?”

Samir grinned. “A shiny ride like that on these roads? That would’ve raised red flags at every checkpoint or patrols on the way. He says the Land Cruiser’s too clean, too nice for these back roads—patrols would stop him, question him, demand papers, and the whole operation could go sideways. But this,” he pointed at the old truck, “no one’s gonna give this a second look.”

I let out a breath, half relieved. “So, the Cruiser’s waiting for us?”

Samir nodded. “It’s parked at a safehouse on the outskirts of Jobar. We ride this heap for about fifteen miles, switch to the Cruiser, and head into the city. It’s safer this way.”

Raptor slapped the side of the truck. “Hell, I like it already. Makes me feel right at home.”

“Alright,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Load up. We roll in two.”

The guys didn’t waste any time. We packed our gear fast. The truck had a hidden compartment in the bed—false bottom for our HK416s, sniper kit, and the heavier stuff. Inside the cabin, a hidden panel under the seat fit our Glocks and extra mags. If we hit a checkpoint, we wouldn’t pass a thorough search, but it would fool anyone just giving us a once-over.

“Ninja, Raptor, Hawkeye—get in the back. Let’s roll.”

They hopped into the truck bed, while I slid into the passenger seat, crammed between Samir and the driver. The interior stunk of diesel and stale smoke, and the dashboard looked like it had been punched a few times, but the engine fired up, and we started bouncing down the rough, winding country road.

The truck rattled over rough terrain, every bump shaking us to the core. The driver took us on a circuitous route, steering clear of the checkpoint he had passed earlier. The night was pitch black, and the road was nothing more than a dirt path winding through open fields and patches of trees. The longer route added time, but it kept us clear of any unwanted eyes.

As we rattled along, I pulled out a satellite-linked tablet from the inside pocket of my jacket. I powered up the real-time tracking software, tapping the screen until a map of Jobar lit up in front of me. The connection was solid—no surprises yet. A red dot popped up on the screen, stationary, exactly where Nate was supposed to be. The subdermal tracker was doing its job.

Relief settled in, but not too much. Nate was still alive—still at the location. If everything stayed quiet, we would be at his position within the hour. I tucked the tablet back into my jacket.

After about fifteen miles, we slowed down as we approached a small village, barely more than a few scattered homes. The driver killed the headlights and we rolled up behind a house, the engine humming low. A man emerged from the shadows, opening a rusty gate and signaling for us to pull inside. No words exchanged, just the bare minimum—this wasn’t a social call.

The truck rolled into a shed, and as the driver killed the engine, we got our first look at the second vehicle—an SUV, a clean, white Land Cruiser.

Ninja hopped out and gave the SUV a once-over. “Now this is what I’m talking about.”

We transferred the gear, fast and quiet—rifles, ammo, explosives—all stashed in the Cruiser’s hidden compartments. This time, we kept our Glocks on us. We were heading into enemy territory, an active war zone—no way we were going in unarmed.

Meanwhile, Samir and the driver worked on the outside, slapping fresh UN and UNICEF stickers on the doors and hood, even adding a small blue UN flag to the front.

As we finished loading up, I glanced at Samir. “These guys,” I said, nodding toward the driver and the man at the house, “can we trust them?”

He didn’t hesitate. “We can. They’re not in this for money. These guys lost family in the war. They know Nate’s out here trying to save a local kid who lost his family —same as them. For them, this is personal. Betrayal doesn’t figure into this.”

I nodded. That’s all I needed to hear. In a war like this, trust came from shared pain. And these guys were all in.

We were soon ready to move again. The weapons were stashed, the UN stickers slapped on, and the blue flag fluttered from the hood. It all looked good. Too good, maybe. We would pass for UN workers at first glance, but out here, first glances didn’t last long.

“Alright,” Samir said, turning back to us. “We’re good to go.”

I nodded. “Let’s roll.”

We piled into the SUV. Samir got behind the wheel while I rode shotgun. The rest of the team got into the back seats. Ninja and Raptor were silent, heads on a swivel. Hawkeye was already locked in, scanning every side street, ready for anything.

The two men who had helped set us up—the driver of the beat up truck and the man in whose house the vehicle had been parked—hung back by the doorway of the shed. Their work was done, at least for now. Neither of them spoke English, but they didn't need to. The way they looked at us, the hand pressed to their chests—it was the universal language of good luck, of hope.

The older man—the one who had opened the gate—raised his right hand in a solemn gesture, fingers pointed toward the sky, then brought it down slowly to his chest. He gave a silent nod, his expression calm.

Samir returned the gesture, offering a respectful nod of his own. I gave them a brief nod, acknowledging their help. Words weren’t necessary. They knew the stakes, and we knew they were risking their necks as much as we were. This wasn’t about cash or favors—it was personal. If all went to plan, we would see them again. But in this line of work, nothing’s ever for sure.

The engine purred softly as we rolled out of the compound, the tires crunching over dirt and debris. The two men stood watching us, their figures shrinking in the rearview mirror. The night swallowed us up again, the narrow streets stretching into shadows ahead. We were on our own again, back onto the dirt roads, making our way toward Jobar—right into the heart of it.

We drove in silence at first, the tires crunching over the dirt roads as we left the small village behind. The air was heavy with the stillness of the Syrian countryside, the quiet deceptive. Samir kept the headlights low as we threaded our way through back roads, avoiding any direct routes that might attract attention.

I yanked out the tablet again, its screen casting a faint glow in the dark. The map of Jobar popped up, Nate’s location marked by a red dot—still holding steady. We were closing in, about fifteen minutes out.

We soon hit the outskirts of Jobar. That’s when the devastation from the civil war really set in. Jobar, once a thriving district, was now a shell of itself.

It was like driving into a nightmare. We passed what used to be homes, their windows shattered, walls collapsed. Buildings were gutted, some reduced to skeletons of concrete and steel, windows blown out, debris scattered everywhere. Whole blocks were razed to the ground. Shell craters dotted the streets, and rubble turned the once-paved roads into obstacle courses. Here and there, small fires smoldered in the wreckage, casting a faint, eerie glow.

The war had torn this place apart, and it wasn’t hard to see why Nate needed to get the hell out. Fast. Every block we passed seemed worse than the last. As we pushed deeper into the district, the presence of armed men became more frequent.

Syrian army patrols moved through the streets, some on foot, others in vehicles, their rifles slung over their shoulders. Every now and then, we would pass an armored personnel carrier or a pickup truck with a heavy machine gun mounted in the back, a half-dozen soldiers riding along, faces set in hard, grim lines. Some barely glanced our way, too tired or indifferent to care. Others stared, their eyes sharp, curious. A white Land Cruiser with UN markings in this wasteland? It stood out like a sore thumb.

“Eyes up,” I muttered, as we passed another group of Syrian soldiers. They watched us from the sidewalk, their faces dark and unreadable. Their eyes followed the Cruiser, studying us, but nobody made a move. The UN stickers on the vehicle and the blue flag fluttering on the hood were doing their job.

“That’s too many uniforms for my liking,” Ninja muttered from the backseat.

“They’re probably thinking the same about us,” I replied, watching the soldiers fade from view in the side mirror.

Occasionally, we would pass civilians too. Most of them had the hollow, wary look of people who had seen too much, worn down by years of war. Some of them stared at the Cruiser like it was a ghost—something out of place in this ruined city. Others barely lifted their heads, too beaten down by the daily grind of survival to care about anything else.

A few times, I caught glimpses of rebel fighters—AKs slung over their backs, moving swiftly through alleys or darting behind cover. They were cautious, constantly on edge, but they knew the streets better than anyone.

Samir slowed as we approached a larger intersection. A checkpoint loomed up ahead, manned by a few Syrian army soldiers—AK-47s slung lazily over their shoulders, cigarettes dangling from lips. They watched as we approached, their eyes narrowing slightly. For a second, I thought they might flag us down, but they didn’t. Lucky break. These guys didn’t have the energy to hassle us—not at this hour.

Raptor leaned forward from the back seat. “We’re drawing too many eyes, boss.”

He wasn’t wrong. Every corner we turned felt like a new threat, another pair of eyes we had to avoid. We weren’t just passing through; we were walking a razor’s edge.

Samir nodded. “Once we hit the next side street, we’ll be out of the main patrol routes.”

I glanced at my watch. Time was slipping fast, and daylight wasn’t our friend. We had to reach Nate and the kid before the sun broke over the horizon. In this city, light meant exposure, and exposure meant death.

The further we pushed into Jobar, the worse it got. The place was a graveyard—bombed-out husks of what used to be homes, schools, stores. The devastation, the soldiers, the destruction—it all felt heavy, oppressive. Every mile closer, every minute ticking away, the mission became more real. And with each second, I knew the window for getting in and out clean was shrinking fast.

For now, we were still in the game. But that could change in a heartbeat. And if anything went sideways, we would have to get creative—fast.

“We stick to the plan,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “Get Nate. Get the kid. Get the hell out.”

Jobar was a powder keg, and we were lighting the fuse just by being there.

CHAPTER 12

We were still two blocks out from Nate’s location. The air was thick with tension, and every street corner felt like it was watching us. The devastation of war was everywhere—collapsed buildings, twisted metal, shattered glass. The Cruiser rumbled along, the UN stickers and logos plastered on the sides doing their job, keeping eyes off us as much as could be expected in a war zone.

“Almost there,” Samir muttered under his breath. “Another left, then straight for two blocks.”

We rounded a corner, and there it was—a checkpoint. Syrian soldiers, leaning on their rifles, half-heartedly watching the road. But as soon as they saw us, their posture shifted. They straightened up, stepped into the street, and motioned for us to stop.

“Dammit,” I whispered. “Heads up, guys.”

Samir eased the Cruiser to a halt, throwing me a quick glance before rolling down the window. Two soldiers approached, AKs slung loosely but ready. Their eyes flicked from the UN stickers to the faces inside. Suspicious, sizing us up.

Samir put on his best calm, diplomatic face and greeted them in Arabic. “We’re with UNICEF. Here on a mission to check on children in one of the shelters. We have paperwork.”

The lead soldier, a wiry guy with a nasty scar running down his cheek, didn’t look convinced. He asked for identification. Samir handed over our fake UN IDs, the papers as close to flawless as fake IDs could be. Scarface studied each one slowly, too slowly, his frown deepening.

While he looked over the IDs, two other soldiers circled the Cruiser, peering inside, taking their time. I kept my hands low, close to my holster. We were all set to go loud if this turned south. We were too close to the target to lose it now, but if we had to make a run for it, the streets ahead were too exposed. We would be toast before we even hit the first corner if the whole Syrian army was on us.

The soldiers paused at the rear, eyes narrowing, but the hidden compartment with our gear was good. They wouldn’t spot it without tearing the Cruiser apart, but if they decided to dig deeper, we were screwed. My muscles tensed, ready to react. One wrong move, and it would be over in seconds.

Scarface finally handed back the IDs, still not convinced. He traded words with Samir, his eyes flicking toward me and the others. I didn’t need to speak Arabic to know things were going south. Samir was smooth, but it wasn’t enough. Scarface was stalling, buying time. One of his guys, a stocky dude with a cigarette dangling from his lips, walked toward the back again. This time, he tapped on the window, motioning for us to open the trunk.

My heart rate spiked. If he opened that compartment…

Then, out of nowhere, the sound of an engine roared behind us. A military truck rolled up, another convoy of soldiers coming through. The guys at the checkpoint turned, distracted, focusing on the new arrival. Scarface waved them over, motioning to the truck, shouting something about inspecting the convoy.

“Now,” Samir muttered, his hand still tight on the wheel.

He smoothly handed the IDs back to us, gave a nod to Scarface, and started the engine. The soldiers were already moving toward the truck, their attention drawn away from us. We rolled forward, slow and steady at first, then picked up speed as soon as we were clear of the checkpoint. I exhaled, the tension still hanging in the air but starting to ease.

“Too damn close,” Raptor said from the back, his voice low but sharp.

The checkpoint was a close call, but we were through. Ahead of us, the rows of apartment buildings rose in the distance, dark silhouettes against the horizon. They weren’t as gutted as the ruins we had passed earlier—though the scars of war were still visible. Some of the upper floors had gaping holes where artillery rounds had torn through, but the structures still stood. The lower floors had light, even the occasional laundry strung across a balcony. People were still trying to survive in this chaos.

One of those buildings held Nate. I could almost feel the tension creeping back as we drew closer—the feeling that something was about to go very wrong. As I reached inside my jacket for the tablet to check on Nate’s location once more, my encrypted sat phone began buzzing against my chest rig at the same moment. I pulled out the phone and glanced at the screen. It was Echo. If he was calling now, it wasn’t for idle chatter.

Corporal Kevin “Echo” King used to run with us in the 75th Ranger Regiment. But while Ninja, Raptor, and Hawkeye followed me into Delta’s Assault Squadron D, Echo went another direction. He took his tech skills and buried himself in cyber warfare, getting into Delta’s elite Computer Network Operations Squadron (CNOS).

The CNOS dudes are called “Digital Devils” for a reason. They are Tier 1 cyber warriors, shredding enemy systems, pulling intel, and disrupting communications in real time. They don’t just hack—they dominate. CNOS was our eyes and ears in the digital battlefield, the thread connecting our boots on the ground to the data streams flowing through enemy networks. Echo wasn’t just one of them—he was the guy. So, when Echo called in the middle of a black op, you paid attention.

“Cowboy here. Go ahead,” I answered, keeping my voice low as the Land Cruiser bounced over the broken streets of Jobar. We were only minutes away from Nate’s location.

“Got something you need to hear,” Echo’s voice crackled through the encrypted line. Cool as ever, but I could feel the urgency threading through.

I shifted in my seat, eyeing my team—Hawkeye was scanning ahead, Ninja watching our six, and Raptor checking the flanks. “Copy, Echo. Go ahead,” I replied, keeping it steady.

“I’ve been tracking ISIS comms. Islamic State psychos and a few other jihadi outfits are stirring things up in Damascus,” he said. “There’s been a sudden spike in chatter.”

My jaw tightened. “Talk to me.”

“They’re planning to hit a high-value CIA asset in Jobar. Just confirmed it with my guy at ISA—this intel’s fresh. It sounds like they’re planning to swoop in any minute.”

My brain shifted gears. ISA was JSOC’s (Joint Special Operations Command’s) special ops unit, Intelligence Support Activity—aka Task Force Orange. Those guys were JSOC’s top-tier spooks, specializing in real-time, actionable intelligence. If CNOS and ISA were both flagging the same op, then we were walking into a goddamn furnace.

“Shit. You think they’re gunning for ‘the package’?” I asked, referring to Nate as “the package”, which was standard procedure in such ops, even if we were using a secure satellite phone.

Echo didn’t even pause. “Damn near certain. ISA’s confirmed it. They’re coming for the package. I can’t give you a hard ETA—could be minutes, could be an hour. But you’ve got company headed your way. Whatever you’re gonna do, do it fast.”

My grip on the phone tightened as I felt the temperature in the Cruiser drop. We were minutes away from Nate, but so were they. “Got it. We’ll move quick. Anything else?”

“Not yet, but I’ll keep digging,” Echo said.

“Roger that, Echo. We’ll handle it.”

“Good luck, Cowboy. If you need another set of eyes, you know how to reach me. Echo out.”

We were in enemy territory, minutes away from a critical rescue, but that intel changed everything. We knew we weren’t the only ones hunting.

I turned in my seat and glanced at the team. They were already alert, eyes on me. “Echo just confirmed ISIS is en route. They’re coming for Nate. We need to be ready for contact as soon as we get there.”

Each man cursed under his breath.

“Samir, step on it. Find us a spot to gear up before we hit the building.”

Without a word, Samir floored the gas pedal, and the SUV shot forward, the rough Syrian streets blurring past us. I shoved the phone into my vest and checked the tablet. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the screen. The red dot showing Nate’s location minutes ago was gone. Vanished.

“Dammit,” I muttered under my breath.

The Cruiser screeched to a halt in a tight alley, tucked beside a dilapidated building that shielded us from view.

“This’ll do,” Samir said, as the dust settled around us.

“Let’s go!” I barked, throwing open the door. The team didn’t waste a second.

We piled out of the SUV, heading to the back. Raptor yanked open the hidden compartment in the rear of the Cruiser, and there they were—our weapons, carefully stowed for this exact moment. I pulled out my HK416, the weight reassuring in my hands as I checked the mag and slung it over my shoulder.

“Grab what you need. We’re short on time,” I said, watching as the team moved with precision. While Raptor slammed a mag into his HK416, Hawkeye was sliding extra rounds into his tactical vest. Ninja pocketed two grenades and slipped flashbangs into his vest.

In the back of my mind, I was still focused on Nate’s tracker. It wasn’t adding up. I pulled out the sat phone again, calling Echo.

“Echo to Cowboy. What’s up?”

“Our package has got this subdermal implant. I was tracking him on my tablet. But the tracker’s suddenly gone dead. It was live a few minutes ago, now nothing on the screen,” I said, glancing back at the building we were about to storm.

“Tracker’s dead? Man, that’s not good.”

“Could it have been discovered?”

“Doubt it,” Echo replied. “Chances of an ISIS raid party having equipment to detect a subdermal tracker are pretty much zero. More likely, they’ve gone underground.”

“Underground?”

“Yeah, literally under the ground. A lot of the areas in Damascus where the fighting’s been heavy have tunnel systems. Rebels and militias use them to move supplies, fighters, you name it. If Nate’s signal went dark, that’s the best bet. You know what that means, right?” Echo asked, sounding very concerned.

My blood ran cold. If Nate was in an underground tunnel, it could only mean one thing—Nate had been taken. ISIS didn’t take prisoners, at least not for long. And a prized CIA asset like Nate? I had seen what they did to captives like him. There would be no negotiations. No bargaining. ISIS wasn’t interested in deals. They would use Nate for one thing—a public execution. A broadcast to the world designed to send a message. They would butcher him, and we would all watch helplessly.

But Echo’s next words raised some hope. “It’s not all bad news. Not until I’ve taken a crack at it. Send me the tracker ID. I’ve got better tools on my end. I’ll pull it from our satcoms. Your tablet’s not designed for this kind of terrain interference.”

I tapped the tablet, pulling up the tracker info, and transmitted the code to Echo. “You really think you can pull it when I can’t even get a blip?”

“I’m running stronger antennas, better decryption and triangulation software. I’ve got access to satellite feeds and ISR drones, which you don’t have on that tablet. Your signal’s bouncing off too much concrete and debris. My gear can isolate it and punch through the noise. If Nate’s tracker is still transmitting, I’ll find him.”

My grip on the phone tightened. If anyone could get a lock on Nate, it was Echo. He didn’t need me to say it out loud, but I did anyway. “We can’t let him vanish, Echo. If ISIS has him underground, they’ll take him straight to one of their execution chambers.”

“I know, Cowboy. I’ve got this. I’ll track him, and I’ll get back to you the second I’ve got a hit,” Echo said, urgency heavy in his tone. He knew the stakes too.

“Good. Do it quick.” I cut the line and slipped the phone into my vest.

I could feel the team’s eyes on me before I turned to them, my expression grim. “Nate’s been taken. ISIS has him.”

The weight of that statement hit everyone in the gut. No one said a word, but the looks we exchanged said more than words could—this was bad, the worst-case scenario. A CIA asset in ISIS hands meant an automatic death sentence unless we got to him first.

“We’re going in heavy,” I said, locking eyes with each man in turn. “We get him out. No matter what.”

The air felt heavy, the tension palpable. But there was one fact that we all knew for sure—we were a well-oiled machine of destruction. And we were ready as ever to do what we were good at—rain hell on the enemy.

CHAPTER 13

We had one shot at this. One shot to get Nate out before ISIS turned him into another gruesome spectacle. Failure wasn’t an option.

Raptor broke the silence, his voice low and steady. “Let’s get cracking.”

The words were calm, but the intent behind them was razor-sharp. This was extraction under fire, plain and simple. There was no bravado. Just cold determination. We were about to step into a hornet’s nest with ISIS at the other end. Nate’s life was hanging by a thread, and if we didn’t move fast, that thread would snap.

“Let’s move,” I said.

We piled into the Cruiser. Samir floored the gas as we raced toward the next apartment building. A third-floor apartment in that building was Nate’s last known location. We had studied the building plans enough times to know the layout. Two flights up, a left into the corridor, second door on the right.

Our intel said the building was mostly civilian, no reports of gunmen inside, but that meant nothing. In this place, anyone armed was a threat, and we would treat them as such. It was time to take off the gloves.

The Cruiser came to a halt at the rear of the apartment building, its tires crunching on debris scattered across the narrow alleyway. I scanned the area as the engine cut off. The rear entrance was just an open stairwell—no doors, no barriers—leading up into the building. Bullet holes riddled the walls, remnants of past battles. Chunks of concrete were missing from the steps, but it would hold. For now.

The team didn’t need more of a briefing. I checked the tablet again—still no signal from Nate’s tracker. We didn’t have time to second-guess. The longer we stayed exposed out here, the higher the chances we would get spotted.

“Let’s move,” I said. “Ninja, take point.”

We exited the vehicle in a tight formation, covering each other’s six. We moved in quick, but controlled, each step deliberate. The stairs were rough, chunks of cement missing, cracks running up the walls. It screamed danger—snipers, IEDs, ambushes. You never knew what was waiting for you in a place like this.

Ninja moved without hesitation, rifle up and eyes locked on the stairwell as he led the way. Raptor, Hawkeye, Samir and I followed, rifles angled, each step precise and controlled. When you enter a hostile building, the first rule is simple—don’t assume anything. Every door, every hallway, every shadow could hide an enemy. We were ascending into the unknown, where the only certainty was danger. And in this city, where every faction was at war, danger could come from anywhere.

Stairs were the worst. Moving up an open stairwell was like walking into a kill zone, completely exposed from above. Every turn, every corner was a gamble. If anyone was waiting for us, we would be easy targets. That was always at the back of my mind when we moved like this, but there was no room for hesitation. You hesitated, you died.

Ninja hugged the wall, his back flat against the rough cement, as he ascended the first flight of stairs. His movements were slow, deliberate, each footfall silent. I followed close behind, my rifle raised and ready, eyes darting between the steps ahead and the second-floor landing above us. Raptor, Hawkeye and Samir covered our six, keeping a careful eye on the rear. One man moved, the others covered. It was second nature by now.

Before we entered the building, we could hear the distant sounds of the war outside. But up here, in this enclosed space, it was eerily quiet. Ninja reached the second floor landing, pausing just short of stepping into the corridor. He leaned out, checking the hallway, then flashed me a quick hand signal—“Clear”.

I took a breath, moving past him to take point for the final flight. The third floor was where things would get real. This was where Nate was supposed to be, where we would likely face resistance. I kept my back tight to the wall, rifle angled up, finger hovering near the trigger, prepared for anything.

I paused at the top of the stairs. I could hear something—a faint shuffle ahead. I leaned just enough to peer around the corner.

There he was—a gunman, AK-47 in hand, standing at the entrance to the apartment. He wore black fatigues, headband with the familiar white scrawl of Arabic script across his forehead. ISIS. He hadn’t seen me yet, but it wouldn’t take long. I could feel the tension in the air as he scanned the empty corridor, clearly sensing something wasn’t right.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was already dead.

I was locked on him before he even started to react. The moment he lifted his rifle, I squeezed the trigger twice. Two suppressed shots, fast and clean. The rounds found their mark, center mass. The gunman crumpled to the floor, his AK slipping from his grip as his body hit the cold concrete.

“Clear,” I whispered into my mic, stepping into the corridor, my senses still heightened.

I moved quickly toward the downed gunman, stepping over his body as I glanced around for any sign of movement. The corridor was quiet, but the silence could be deceptive. I motioned for the team to take up positions outside the entrance.

There were voices inside, low, murmuring in Arabic. And then—another sound—someone crying out in pain, a man. Could be Nate. Or someone else. Whoever it was, they were being worked over hard.

The front door must have been forced open. It was barely holding on, hanging off its hinges, but still partially closed. I moved in closer, signaling Ninja to cover me as I took out the tactical inspection mirror from my vest and extended it just enough to see beyond the door without exposing myself. I angled it to catch the layout of the living room.

I could see two ISIS men torturing a soldier—Syrian Army by the look of his uniform, blood streaming down his face. But when I moved the mirror slightly, it was a third man who caught my eye. Standing beside a table, working with something that looked suspiciously like a detonator. My eyes narrowed as I caught sight of it. Could be rigging explosives or setting up some sort of trigger.

I whispered to Samir, who was crouched beside me, “What are they saying?”

“Trying to get intel on the Syrian army’s positions,” Samir murmured back. “The soldier’s resisting, but they’ll break him soon.”

We didn’t have time to figure out the full layout of the apartment. The only thing I could see was that the living room wasn’t hiding any more hostiles, but the rooms beyond were a mystery. I made the call. We couldn’t wait. I signaled for the team to ready themselves. They all gave me tight nods, fingers on the triggers.

I grabbed the dead ISIS fighter by the vest and hauled him up. “Here we go,” I muttered, my voice barely a whisper.

With one swift motion, I pushed the door open just enough to prop the dead fighter in the doorway, making it look like he was stumbling in. It worked—inside, the two men torturing the soldier hesitated, confusion flashing across their faces. By the time they realized what was up and began to react, it was too late for them.

I let go of the body and dropped low, rolling clear of the line of fire. Ninja and Hawkeye moved like shadows, silent and deadly. Hawkeye’s HK416 let out two quick suppressed bursts. Two of the ISIS men dropped before they could raise their weapons. Ninja shifted to the third one by the table and took him out with surgical accuracy, three rounds to the chest. All three bodies hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Clear!” Hawkeye called out. But there was no time to relax.

I was up before their bodies were fully still, signaling Hawkeye to follow me as we moved toward the first bedroom. Ninja and Raptor, without a word, moved toward the second.

Danger could be lurking around every corner, and we all knew it. I had already noticed four blocks of C-4 and a detonator laid out on the table in the living room, which the guy was busy working on before he came in Ninja’s crosshairs. There could be more fighters waiting in the shadows. This wasn’t the time for mistakes.

I kicked open the bedroom door and swept my barrel across the space, finger steady on the trigger. Inside, an old couple lay sprawled out on the bed. Bloodied and beaten.

“Hawkeye, check them,” I said, keeping my weapon ready while he knelt to check their vitals.

“Alive,” he confirmed, but they were in bad shape.

Across the hallway, I heard Raptor kick in the second bedroom door. “Clear. No one here. No sign of Nate.” His voice was tight.

We were running out of options, and fast. The tunnel theory suddenly felt all too real. Nate was out there, underground, in ISIS hands. If we didn’t move fast, we would lose him.

CHAPTER 14

The old couple lay on the floor, barely alive but breathing. Hawkeye was already working on them, and I knew they would pull through if they didn’t have anything internal going on. Ninja and Raptor were already positioned at the door, weapons ready. We couldn’t afford any surprises.

I gave Hawkeye a nod and turned to Samir. “Let's go check on the soldier,” I said, moving toward the beaten man still tied to a chair in the corner.

The man was a mess—bloodied, bruised, and staring blankly ahead, his body slumped from whatever hell the ISIS scum had put him through. He had a knife wound below his right shoulder, still oozing blood, and his face looked like it had taken a hell of a beating—swollen, bruised, and slick with sweat.

His uniform, though tattered and bloodied, was unmistakable—olive drab with a dark, distinct shoulder strap. But he wasn’t a grunt. I noticed two stars on the shoulder strap.

Syrian Army. First Lieutenant.

I crouched in front of him and pulled my blade, slicing through the ropes that tied him to the chair. He groaned but didn’t speak, just glanced up at me with tired, bloodshot eyes.

I wasn’t sure if the guy even spoke English, but I figured I would try anyway. “Why were they torturing you?” I asked, my voice low but direct.

No response. He just stared, like he wasn’t sure if I was real or just another part of his nightmare. Meanwhile, Samir got him some water, which he gratefully gulped. That seemed to bring him back to the land of the living.

“Ask him why they were torturing him,” I looked at Samir.

Samir nodded and quickly translated, speaking softly in Arabic.

The soldier didn’t respond right away. He blinked, kind of refocusing. Then, in accented but clear English, he asked, “What are American soldiers doing in Damascus?”

Sharp. Despite the torture, the guy was switched on. Observant. I hadn’t expected that. Kind of caught me a little off guard.

I leaned in, narrowing my eyes. “What you should be asking is how you’re still breathing right now. We just saved your ass from a pretty brutal death, Lieutenant.”

The man’s expression shifted, genuine gratitude flashing in his tired eyes. He sat up straighter, wincing from the pain but holding himself together. “I owe you my life,” he said. He brought his hand to his chest in a small bow. “I am in your debt. Thank you,” he added, before extending his hand.

I shook his hand, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked like hell. “Ali Hassan,” he said, “Mulazim Awwal of the Syrian Army. First Lieutenant.” He paused, nodding toward the star on his shoulder strap.

“I figured that much,” I said, pointing to the insignia. “I’ve seen enough of your uniforms to know what that star means. Call me Cowboy—for now.”

Ali smiled, weakly but earnestly. “Thanks, Cowboy.” He understood real names weren’t gonna be part of this conversation.

Then he dropped the bomb. “I know what you’re looking for,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine, his voice serious. “The American man. ISIS took him. He’s going to die a very bad death unless you save him.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, though I didn’t let it show. “What do you know about him? What happened here?” I asked, keeping it vague. No names. Not yet.

Ali glanced toward the bedroom where the old couple were still lying, knocked out but breathing. “Those two… they were brave. Foolish too. Or maybe they were just kind. Hiding an American man in Damascus is suicide. But whatever the reason, ISIS knew he was here. When they came to the apartment, the old man saw them through the screen door and tried to close the door, but it didn’t take them much effort to break it down. They came inside and started beating him and his wife. Kept asking about the American. They kept denying it, swearing they didn’t know what they were talking about. But it didn’t matter. ISIS tore through the place, searching.”

Ali’s face hardened, the memory clearly fresh in his mind. “Didn’t take long before the men found him. Hiding under the bed, terrified. He must’ve known who they were the second he saw those black outfits. Four of them dragged him out and took him away. The rest stayed. One started setting up that C-4 on the table. The other two focused on me, trying to make me talk,” he said, looking down at the two dead men.

“And that’s when we showed up,” I said, piecing it together. “Bet you weren’t expecting company.”

Ali gave a small shrug, winced at the movement. “Neither were they. I was hoping my men would come, but I knew the odds were slim. I wouldn’t be missed for some time, so no one would come looking. But you can only hope in such a situation.”

“I know. And I’m glad we landed before they really got to work on you. But how’d they get you? What were you doing here?”

“I’d heard there was a tunnel opening somewhere in this building. My men and I were on a break from patrol, so I wandered off for a look leaving my men behind. Stupid mistake.” He shook his head, clearly annoyed with himself. “Before I knew it, they were on me. Came up from the utility room on the ground floor. Surrounded me before I could even pull my weapon. Then they dragged me up here.”

“And the American? You know where they took him?”

Ali shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t know where they took him. But it must have been through the same tunnels they came from. They can’t have driven away. My men are all around—they wouldn’t have made it far. They’ve got a head start on you—fifteen minutes, maybe more.

“That’s not much, if they’re on foot.”

“The problem is those tunnels are a maze. They run in every direction. Unless you figure out which direction they went, you’re not going to find him. You rush in blind, you’ll end up miles away.”

I gritted my teeth. Ali was right. Charging into those tunnels without a clue was asking to get lost. I had seen enough warzones to know how easy it was to lose your way down there. “You’re right,” I replied. “We’d end up in a different district if we take a wrong turn.”

The best move was to wait for Echo to lock onto Nate’s location, but waiting felt like watching a fuse burn down.

Ali shook his head, clearly frustrated. “I really wish I could help find him. No matter what sides we’re on, we’re soldiers. And we have a common enemy. These terrorists—they’ll kill him brutally.”

That hit close. Despite him wearing Assad’s uniform, I respected that. It wasn’t about politics at this point. It was about being a soldier and understanding a soldier’s code. There was something in his tone—something real. I believed him. And honestly, I respected him.

“Why were they torturing you?” I asked, switching gears.

“They wanted intel on our army movements,” Ali said, no hesitation. His tone was flat, factual. “They were planning to use me to lure more of our men into this apartment. Booby trap the whole place. Kill them all.”

I nodded, processing. “You were prepared to die before giving them up?”

Ali met my gaze. “I would’ve rather bled out than see my men walk into a deathtrap.”

I believed him. Hell, I even liked him. It didn’t matter what uniform he wore. At the end of the day, the guy had a code, and that counted for something, even in this hellhole.

I gave a small nod of approval. “Good to know.”

We were still standing there, sizing each other up in the thick silence when Hawkeye stepped out of the bedroom. He gave a quick nod to me and said, “Those two are awake. Conscious and responsive, but they don’t speak much English.”

I glanced over at Samir. “You got this?”

He gave a sharp nod. “On it.” He pushed off the wall and headed into the bedroom without another word. I knew he would get what we needed out of them, and fast.

My sat phone buzzing in my chest rig suddenly got my attention. It was Echo.

Leaving Hawkeye to patch up Ali’s shoulder, I moved out of the living room and into the adjacent bedroom, away from the others. I answered quickly, voice low but sharp. “Echo, you got something?”

“Yeah,” Echo replied, his tone intense. “I managed to get a hit on the package’s tracker. He’s on the move. They’re taking him north through the tunnels.”

“North?” I glanced out the window, eyes scanning the urban wasteland outside. “How far ahead?”

“About three-quarters of a mile from your current position. I think they came overground for a short spell and went below again. The signal is patchy as hell—comes and goes. I’m guessing the tunnels run under large buildings, and that’s what’s cutting the signal. It keeps disappearing when they hit a bigger structure.”

I paced, mind racing. “We can’t just hop down into the tunnels and follow him like it’s a straight shot,” I said, kind of thinking aloud. “Those things are a maze. One wrong turn, we’re lost.”

“That’s what I was thinking. It’s a rat’s nest. I can try to guide you, but it’ll be touch-and-go. If we lose signal underground, when they go deeper or under structures, you’re on your own until I pick it up again. And until then, you’ll be flying blind.”

I ran a hand over my face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Overground wasn’t a great option either, but at least we would cover distance fast. “What if we move overground, track from above?” I asked. “We’ll get close to where they are in minutes… but how the hell do we find an entrance?” I ended up countering my own suggestion.

“That’s the problem,” Echo replied. “Those tunnel openings are hidden like needles in a haystack. They could be in a basement, or behind some fake wall in a building. If you don’t know exactly where to look, it’s like trying to find a ghost.”

“Yeah, and day’s broken. Moving around in broad daylight isn’t exactly low-key,” I muttered, feeling the walls close in on the time window. We were racing against the clock, and the margin for error was slim to none.

“Yeah, you’re going to be more exposed, especially in broad daylight. But you might have a better shot at catching them on the surface if they pop up. What do you think is the best play?” Echo asked, leaving it in my court.

I stared at the wall, trying to piece it together. There was no easy answer here—both options had serious risks. I needed more intel, something to tip the scales.

That’s when Hawkeye knocked softly on the door and stepped in. His expression said it all—he had something important.

“Hold on, Echo,” I said, lowering the phone. “What is it?”

Hawkeye came in, with Samir following behind him.

“We overheard your conversation,” Hawkeye whispered. “These walls aren’t really soundproof. We could make out that you’re in a real fix about Nate. But Ali’s offering to help. He says if we have a fix on Nate’s position, he can get us into a tunnel near his location. I grabbed Samir as well so we could have a quick huddle.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You think he could do that?”

Samir shrugged. “I don’t doubt he’ll have the contacts. When it comes to ISIS and Al Qaeda, the Syrian army works closely with the Mukhabarat—that’s the Syrian intelligence service. Those guys are good—got eyes and ears across the city. If anyone can find those tunnels, it’s those Mukhabarat guys. And the only shot we have at those guys’ intel is through Ali.”

I paused, letting that sink in. What Samir said made sense. That could be a game-changer. If Ali could get us in, it might be the fastest way to intercept Nate’s kidnappers. But trusting a Syrian army officer… it wasn’t a risk I liked to take lightly. Then again, we didn’t have time for a better plan. This wasn’t just about trust—it was about necessity.

I nodded slowly, making my decision. “Alright.”

I brought the phone back to my ear. “Echo, hang tight. We might have a way into the tunnels. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Roger that, Cowboy. Stay frosty.”

I ended the call, turning to Samir and Hawkeye. “Let’s see what Ali’s got.”

The window was closing, but we just might have a shot. Time to roll the dice.

CHAPTER 15

I stepped back into the living room, my eyes locking onto Ali. Hawkeye had patched him up in the best way possible under the circumstances, sticking a large bandage under his uniform and putting his right arm in a sling to keep the bleeding under control.

He was standing beside the table, eyeing the blocks of C-4 and the detonators like he was thinking about a thousand different things at once. One hand was holding pressure on the makeshift bandage over his shoulder, the other resting lightly on the table, eyes scanning the explosives. When he saw me, he straightened up a bit.

“I’m sorry,” Ali said, his voice low but steady. “I couldn’t help but overhear the problem you’re facing. Trying to save the American man, yes?”

I narrowed my eyes, reading the room. This guy had sharp ears, no doubt. He still didn’t know Nate’s name, but the urgency in his tone told me he knew damn well what was at stake. I met his gaze, arms crossed.

“Yeah, we’ve got a problem. We’ve got a rough location, but we can’t get to him underground. Not until ISIS brings him out of the tunnels.”

Ali nodded, and I saw the intensity in his eyes flare. “That’s why I offered to help. Even if you know the exact location, you can spend hours wandering around the buildings and still not find the way into those tunnels. I think you already know that.”

I nodded, not really wanting to say out loud that we were stuck in a confounding situation.

Ali’s eyes flicked to the C-4 on the table before meeting mine again. “You didn’t only save my life just now. You saved my men too. I knew what these bastards were planning. They would’ve lured them into a death trap, told them I was bleeding out in here.”

He paused again for a couple of seconds. I waited for him to continue. “That piece of shit,” he jerked his head toward the body in the corner, “bragged about the soldiers he personally executed. He boasted about one of my men… they captured him two months back and they set him on fire… and broadcast the video. Burned alive. I can still hear the screams. That is a wound that rankles in the heart of every Syrian soldier.”

There was fire in his voice, and for a second, I saw the weight of it all bearing down on him. Ali wasn’t just a soldier anymore—he was a man with unfinished business.

He looked at me, hard. “I don’t want to see another innocent man die a horrible death, no matter where he’s from.”

I crossed my arms, weighing the situation. His words felt sincere, but we were in the middle of a war zone, and trust was a rare commodity. “I appreciate the offer,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “But even if you want to help, how do you know enough about these tunnels to make it work? If your army knew, why haven’t they sealed them off and flushed out the rats?”

Ali gave a slight nod, understanding my skepticism. “I don’t know all the tunnels,” he admitted. “But if you give me a location, I can get my sources to apply pressure on their informants in that area.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Your sources?”

He smiled faintly, despite his injury. “Mukhabarat,” he said. “Syrian intelligence service. When it comes to putting pressure on people, there’s no one better. Trust me, when the Mukhabarat wants information, men talk.”

I wasn’t sold yet. I didn’t trust involving Syrian intelligence, and my gut told me it could complicate things more than it helped.

Ali sensed it. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But understand, with ISIS and Al Qaeda, the Mukhabarat don’t care where the intel comes from. I have worked with one agent on many operations recently. If I tell him I’m tracking ISIS in a certain area, he’ll act first and get the info fast. No red tape. He’ll ask questions later.”

I leaned against the wall, considering it. The last thing we needed was more attention, but we were out of options. Ali wasn’t wrong—his men had no love for ISIS, and that might be our best ticket to tracking Nate in those tunnels. I also knew that the only option to get the intel about the tunnels was through their intelligence guys. And there was only so much Samir and the CIA could do when it came to street intel in Damascus.

Ali continued, his voice even. “I know when you move out, your plan will be to knock me out and leave me tied up in some dark corner so I don’t cause trouble.”

“I guess that’s the only decent option, considering we aren’t planning to put a bullet in you,” I replied, not making any attempt to mince my words.

“I know. I’d do the same if we switched places. But a better use for me is to come with you and help get your man out. All I ask in return is a couple of ISIS men. Alive.”

“Alive?” I raised an eyebrow. That was a tall order.

“Yes. That dead man told me it was his group that killed the soldier in that barbaric way. These men are invisible and almost impossible to trace. I have a real chance to get to that group if I help you track your man. Once you get your man, you go your way and I’ll wish you well. All I need is someone from that ISIS group to take to the Mukhabarat. They’ll make sure I get the intel I need to finish this group for good.”

I didn’t doubt it. The Mukhabarat weren’t exactly known for their soft touch.

The room was heavy with tension. He wasn’t bluffing. I looked him in the eyes, reading him for any signs of bullshit, but there weren’t any. He was sharp, and he had skin in the game. His motivation wasn’t just survival—it was revenge, pure and simple. And that was something I could use.

Ali stood straighter, his face grim. “One more thing. I don’t know how you plan on moving through the streets looking like that,” he gestured at me and my team, decked out in full kit, looking anything but Syrian. “You look like professional soldiers, and you’re clearly neither Syrian nor Russian. Day’s broken. You’ll be spotted within minutes. People will notice, checkpoints will stop you. I can help you get past all that. Roadblocks, patrols—they won’t question me. I can get you where you need to be.”

I sighed. He was right about that too. No way we could just stroll around Damascus without drawing attention. I mulled it over, glancing at the door where Ninja and Raptor were keeping watch. Every second we stood here was a second Nate was deeper in the tunnels, getting further from us. Ali’s offer wasn’t just a shot in the dark—it was our best option.

“Alright, Ali. You’re in. But our priority is saving our guy. No one gets in the way of that.”

Ali nodded, completely unfazed. “Understood.”

I stepped forward, holding out my hand. “Good. Once we get our guy, we’ll deal with your ISIS friends.”

He took my hand with a firm grip, nodding. “Agreed. I’ll get you inside the tunnels.” He looked me dead in the eye, his voice like iron. “We’ll get him out.”

We had a plan, and as shaky as it was, it was better than nothing.

I pulled out my phone. Time to get some answers. I dialed Echo.

“Echo, I need the coordinates,” I said, keeping my voice low. “We’re moving overground to reach the last location. Give me the latest location and we’ll head out.”

“I got you, Cowboy,” Echo’s voice crackled over the line. “Sending the coordinates now.” A ping hit my tablet as he spoke. “They’re about a mile north of you. And heads up, there’s been no movement for a few minutes. Whatever they’re doing, they’re not moving right now.”

That could be a good sign—or a really bad one.

“Roger that. We’re moving overground. Keep tracking, and update me the second you see movement.”

“Copy that. I’ll keep eyes on it.”

I ended the call and turned to see Samir stepping back out of the bedroom. “The couple’s fine. What Ali said checks out—they confirmed it. They also told me about the kid, Zain, the one Nate came to rescue. He’s not here. They sent him with someone they trust. That guy will take him across the border into Lebanon.”

I rubbed my jaw, feeling the frustration churn. One more complication. “We’ll deal with the kid later. Nate’s the priority right now. We hit the road, now.”

Before we moved, I glanced at Ali. “What about the old couple? Are they going to be in trouble for hiding Nate?”

Ali didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle it, as long as they keep their mouths shut about harboring an American. No one has to know.”

I gave him a hard look. “You sure?”

“They’ll be fine.” His voice was steady, no bullshit.

I nodded to Samir. “Tell them the deal, and let’s get ready to roll.”

Samir nodded, ducking back inside. A moment later, he emerged with the couple in tow—both of them in their sixties, faces lined with age and worry. The man had on a worn brown jacket and khakis, the woman a long black dress with a scarf wrapped loosely around her head.

Kind faces, but they looked scared as hell. It wasn’t hard to guess why—there were three ISIS gunmen lying dead in the middle of their living room. On top of it, there was Ali in his Syrian army uniform—not the guy they wanted to see when it was clear that they were harboring an American alien.

Ali stepped forward, his voice calm and non-threatening as he spoke in Arabic. I didn’t get the words he uttered, but I saw the tension in their faces soften a bit. They both nodded, though their hands trembled slightly.

Ali turned to me. “I’ll need to make a call. To my sergeant. He’ll manage the scene here, keep these people from getting dragged into this mess. Do we trust each other enough?”

I studied him. Every instinct in me said I could trust the guy. “Do it. But make the call once we’re down. We’re moving, now.”

Ali nodded. “This guy took my stuff,” he said, bending over one of the dead gunmen and retrieving his phone and wallet from his jacket.

Before we stepped out, I gave the old couple a reassuring look. The man caught my eye and shuffled toward me, extending a weathered hand. His face was tired, but there was a quiet strength in his eyes. “God be with you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. His other hand pressed over his chest in a gesture of respect, a small nod accompanying it.

I took his hand, giving it a firm shake. “God bless and thank you,” I replied, locking eyes with him. For a moment, there was a silent understanding between us despite the language barrier. One after another, the old man did the same with the rest of the team.

I turned to Samir. “Thank them for protecting Nate,” I said.

Samir turned to the couple, speaking in quick, smooth Arabic. The old man’s face softened, and his wife, standing beside him, gave a weak but sincere smile. They looked relieved. Happy, even.

It was time to move. With a final look, I motioned to the guys. We turned and headed out.

CHAPTER 16

We set up a tight formation as we made our way down. Raptor took point, scanning the hall with quick, controlled movements. Ninja followed, sweeping the flanks. I kept Ali right in front of me, making sure we stayed tight and ready. Hawkeye and Samir covered the rear. Weapons at the ready, we moved down the narrow stairwell, each of us covering our angles, hyper-aware of any threat lurking around the corner.

When we reached the SUV parked in the alley, Ali’s eyes went straight to the UN stickers slapped on the side. He cocked an eyebrow and gave a quick nod. “Smart move using these,” he said, impressed.

I grunted, slipping into the UN jacket. “Worked so far.”

“But,” Ali continued, leaning closer to inspect the stickers, “in daylight, any experienced soldier would know the UN has no business in Jobar. They’re only allowed in certain zones. To get into places like this, you’d need an army escort. Luckily, you’ve got one now,” Ali ended with a half-smile.

He had a point. And that made me wonder about our seating arrangement. This wasn’t just about comfort; this was about blending in. If we got stopped, we needed Ali out front to handle the situation. I glanced at him, his right arm still hanging in a sling from the stab wound we patched up earlier.

“How do you think we should sit?” I asked, turning to him.

Ali didn’t hesitate. “I think it’s better if I’m up front. Samir drives. It’ll keep us clean if we hit a checkpoint. All questions go through me. You and your men will stay in the background, just overseas UN guys under my jurisdiction.”

I nodded. Made sense. I gestured to my guys, and we piled into the backseat. Tight fit, but no one complained. We had ridden worse.

Ali shifted in his seat. “Is there a map in the vehicle?”

Samir reached into the glove box and pulled one out, unfolding it across his lap. Ali leaned over and traced a route with his good hand.

“This way,” Ali said, pointing to a back route that snaked through several neighborhoods. “It’s a longer drive, but we’ll avoid the main checkpoints. While I can smooth-talk my way past most soldiers, we don’t want to risk running into a senior officer. They ask tougher questions.”

I leaned forward slightly, eyeing the route. It was a long detour, but it beat getting stopped and interrogated. “Good call,” I said. “Take the route.”

Samir fired up the engine, and we rolled out. The sun was already hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows on the war-torn streets. With daylight creeping in, the risk of getting spotted or questioned shot up. We had no time to waste.

Ali turned in his seat, fumbling with the phone in his left hand. He glanced at me. “I’ll make those calls now,” he said.

I nodded. “Go ahead.”

Locking eyes with Samir in the rearview mirror, I gave him a meaningful look. I didn’t say it out loud, but Samir knew the drill—keep an ear on Ali’s conversation, just in case.

Ali kept it short, speaking rapid-fire Arabic as we pulled away from the building. I caught Samir’s eyes in the mirror again, and he gave me the slightest nod. Everything was clean on Ali’s end.

When Ali hung up, he turned to me. “My sergeant will be here in a few minutes. We’ll clean up the mess, and we’ll chalk the ISIS bodies up to a shootout with the army. No cops. No questions. The old couple won’t be dragged into this.”

Just what those people needed—some breathing room after the hell they just went through.

I gave Ali a quick nod. “Appreciate that. They don’t need any more trouble.”

“No one deserves to suffer for being kind.” Ali replied, a hint of sincerity in his tone.

That was a fact we could easily  agree on. This wasn’t about politics.

Next, Ali pulled up another number, his hand awkwardly working the phone again. “This is my contact at the Mukhabarat,” he said, keeping me in the loop. I nodded my approval, watching him closely as he made the call.

He gave his contact the coordinates Echo sent me earlier, asking about any tunnel entrances near that location. His voice was smooth, practiced. He knew how to work this angle, that much was clear. As he spoke, I kept an eye on Samir’s body language. No sudden shifts, no signals. Everything was normal. The call seemed legit.

Meanwhile, my mind was already turning over our next steps. That’s when my sat phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Echo.

I answered. “Any updates?”

“You bet. I’ve got eyes on the tracker again,” Echo said, his voice tight with focus. “Signal’s a hell of a lot stronger now. Your package isn’t moving, but he’s definitely above ground now. Check your tablet. I’m sure you’ll see he’s back.”

That was the best news I had heard all morning. I pulled out my tablet, bringing up the map. Sure enough, the red dot—Nate’s tracker—was blinking steady now. Clear as day. Echo was right. They had to have brought him topside.

“Good work, Echo,” I said. “Keep tracking him and let me know if there’s any more movement. We’re on our way to the last known location.”

“Roger that,” Echo replied, before the line clicked dead.

I ended the call and looked over at Ali, who was just finishing up his conversation. He slid the phone back into his pocket and glanced over his shoulder at me. “My guy’s working on it,” he said. “Shouldn’t take long to get a read on any tunnel openings in that area.”

“Good,” I replied, locking eyes with Samir in the rearview mirror again. Samir gave me a brief nod, letting me know the calls had gone off without a hitch.

I breathed easy for a few seconds. But that’s about all the moments of relief I got. My sat phone buzzed again. When I looked at the screen, I was confused for a second. It was Echo once again.

“Don’t tell me you hit redial by mistake,” I said as I took the call.

Echo’s voice came in tight, laced with tension. I could hear the strain even through the crackling connection. “Cowboy, I’ve got bad news. Real bad.”

I straightened up in my seat, feeling the weight of his tone settle in my gut. “What is it?”

“They’re talking execution,” Echo said, no sugarcoating. “My guy at ISA’s been listening to ISIS chatter while I tracked the package’s signal. Word is, they’re setting up for a live execution within the hour.”

A chill ran down my spine. “Execution? Whose?” I asked, even though deep down, I already knew the answer.

“They keep referring to a vile American CIA dog.” Echo’s voice dropped. “We both know what that means.”

I felt my pulse hammer in my temples. They had Nate, and now they were prepping to turn it into some sick spectacle. These bastards thrived on that kind of brutality. And if Echo’s intel was right, we had less than an hour to stop it.

“Shit,” I muttered, eyes locked on the dusty streets as Samir drove. “Has the package moved? Where the hell’s his signal now?” I asked, pulling out the tablet once again.

Echo sighed, tension crackling through the line. “Still where he was. Hasn’t moved.”

I closed my eyes for a split second, trying to think through the clusterfuck that lay ahead of us.

“How solid is this intel?” I asked.

“Solid enough to make me sweat. ISA’s sure they’re talking about your package, and they wouldn’t drop a live execution chatter if it wasn’t going down soon. They’re planning to film it. You know what that means.”

I gritted my teeth. This wasn’t just an execution. This was a message. A bloody, public one.

“How much time do we have? You said within the hour?”

“Yeah, maybe even less. If they’re talking about it this openly, it’s going to happen fast. They’re ramping up. I’m working with scraps here. All I know is they’re serious, and we don’t have much time.”

“Any chance you can disable their feed? Buy us some time to get to the package?”

Echo sighed, the frustration crackling over the line. “I wish I could, but no dice. They’re using encrypted connections and dynamic routing. I can’t pinpoint their exact location remotely, and taking down their comms would require physical jammers on site. You’d need to be near their transmitter, and we don’t even know where the hell that is yet.”

“Damn!” I slammed my fist on my thigh. “So we’re blind.”

“Pretty much. I’m doing everything I can, but short of boots on the ground at the source, we’re stuck playing catch-up.”

I gritted my teeth. The situation was slipping, fast. “Alright. Keep me posted if anything changes.”

“Roger that.”

The call clicked off, and for a moment, I just sat there, feeling the edges of everything spiraling out of control. A CIA analyst about to get his throat cut on camera by a bunch of bloodthirsty fanatics, all while we were still trying to figure out his exact location.

This mission had officially gone FUBAR, and the clock was ticking.

CHAPTER 17

Before I could relay the bad news to the team, my phone buzzed again in my hand.

The day just kept getting better. The incoming ID said “Overlord”. It was the call sign of Lt. Colonel Flynn. My CO didn’t call unless shit was really serious.

I took a deep breath and hit the button. “This is Cowboy. Come in Overlord.”

A short crackle of static before Flynn’s voice came through. “Cowboy, you must’ve got the intel by now. Chatter’s hot on a live execution. Ironhand’s with me on the call. What’s the sitrep?”

Ironhand was the called sign of CIA Director Davis.

I clenched the phone tight, eyes scanning the road ahead while Samir kept the SUV moving steady. “Affirmative, Overlord, we’ve received the intel. We’ve also got a lock on the target location. En route there now.”

“Is that a confirmed location?”

I could feel the glimmer of hope reflected in his voice. Flynn probably even had his fingers crossed under his desk.

“Not an exact fix yet. Within a 50-yard radius. Echo’s tracking the package.” I glanced at my tablet, watching the small red dot blink back at me. “Still need to zero in on the right house, but we’re close.”

There was a pause on the other end. I could hear Flynn processing. “You’re saying 50 yards? That’s not exact, Cowboy. How confident are you? Can you reach the package in time?”

I paused for a second, knowing he was asking me for more than just facts. He was asking for certainty in a shitstorm where nothing was guaranteed. I straightened up in my seat. “We’ll make the hit in less than thirty minutes. We’ll get him out.”

“Make it twenty,” Flynn snapped back.

Before I could respond, I heard the familiar, gravelly voice of CIA Director Davis cutting in. “Listen, Cowboy. I’m going to say something that’s going to stick with me, but I need you to hear this.” A beat of silence, tension cutting through the call. “Under no circumstances can that execution go live. I would rather level the block with a Hellfire than let ISIS broadcast this. That’s the mercy play.”

The weight of that hit me like a gut punch, but I didn’t flinch. I knew what he meant. I had seen what those fanatics did to captives. It was no way for a man to go.

“If I were in that situation,” Davis continued, “I’d want the same. Better to go out fast than end up in one of their goddamn horror shows. Do you copy?”

“Loud and clear. Copy that,” I said, voice steady. But it was more than understanding. This was personal. No way in hell I was letting them get to Nate. “But I’m confident we’ll get him. Just give us time,” I persisted.

Flynn jumped back in, cutting off any more talk of worst-case scenarios. “You’ve got thirty minutes, Cowboy. We’ve got F-16’s on standby. It will need a fifteen-minute window from the green light to taking out the target. You miss the thirty-minute deadline for extraction, we go to plan B. Clear?”

“Crystal. But I’m confident we’ll be boots on the ground, package in hand in under thirty.”

Silence on the other end. Then Flynn’s voice again, hard as steel. “We’ll check in at 30. Make it happen. Good luck, Cowboy. Overlord out.” The line went dead.

I looked at my watch. The countdown had begun—30 minutes to zero hour.

I pocketed the sat phone and looked at the team. They knew. They had heard enough from what I said in the call. And they had been with me long enough to read the situation just by the tone of the call. But I needed to lay it out straight.

“Alright, listen up,” I started, voice low but firm. “We’ve got thirty minutes. ISIS is going to execute Nate, live on air, and broadcast that shit to the world.” I paused, letting that sink in. “We either find him and pull him out, or Hellfires are going to light that place up, and we’ll be picking pieces of him out of the rubble. We don’t let it get to that. Understood?”

The air in the vehicle turned to iron. Thick, heavy, angry.

“Hell no,” Ninja Man snarled. “Those motherfuckers want a show? We’ll give ‘em a damn show.”

Hawkeye was usually the calm one, but even he was clenched tight. “Sick bastards. We’re bringing him back.”

I nodded, feeling the fire in their words. That’s what I needed from them—focus, anger, and the unshakable determination that we were getting Nate out of there.

“Damn right. We’re not letting it come to that,” I agreed.

Ali’s phone buzzed at that moment, and he glanced at me. I give him a nod to take it.

Meanwhile, Samir slowed the SUV and eased it to a stop. “We’re close. That run-down apartment building two hundred yards ahead,” he muttered, pointing out through the windshield.

Four pairs of eyes looked to where he pointed. “Run-down” was putting it mildly. The building was barely standing—a crumbling, dilapidated mess of concrete and rust. The place looked like it had been shelled to hell and back. Windows blown out, walls crumbling—it was a warzone in itself, but that’s where we needed to go.

Ali finished his call and leaned toward me. “Got the intel from my contact,” he said, keeping his voice low but urgent. “One confirmed tunnel entrance is in the basement of the building across the street. The whole basement level is a storage facility. There should be no one there right now. So, we just break the door and get inside. We need to move toward a small generator room at the back. The generator doesn’t work and it’s only for show. The entrance to the tunnel is behind it.”

Ali’s intel was pure gold. I had been worried about making a frontal assault into the building. It would have meant going in heavy. The chances of getting Nate out in one piece would have been low. The answer lay in using the tunnels to make a surprise attack.

I nodded at Ali. “Solid intel, Ali. You weren’t kidding about the Mukhabarat. Saved us from going in blind.”

I turned to the rest of the crew and laid out the situation. “Alright, boys, we’ve got two plays here.”

The team leaned in, eyes locked on me.

“First option: we make a frontal assault. Go in hard and fast. Problem is, it’s broad daylight. Odds of making a stealthy approach are slim to none. We’ll get spotted before we even touch the front door. If that happens, it’s a full-on firefight. They might panic, move Nate, or worse—execute him on the spot. And we didn’t come all this way just to carry him back in a body bag.”

I let that hang in the air for a second. I could see the fire in their eyes.

“Option two,” I continued. “We hit the tunnel Ali just mentioned. We slip in underground and move toward the building where Nate’s holed up. We keep it quiet, keep the element of surprise. We’re looking at 200 yards in a straight line. With a few turns, it could be double that, but still, a short distance. Chances of missing our mark are low. If we time it right, we could get the drop on them before they even know we’re there.”

I turned my gaze to Ali. “You’re the only one here who’s been in those tunnels. What do you think? Can we move through there without getting lost?”

Ali straightened up and nodded. “Yes. Because the distance is short, it’s not that complicated. Tunnels spread in all directions, but if we stay on course and keep our sense of direction, we’ll reach the building.”

I glanced back at the guys. “You heard the man.”

Ninja Man grinned, the kind of grin you only see from someone who thrives on the fight. “Sneak in under their noses? Hell, I like that better than knocking on their door.”

Hawkeye smirked, cracking his neck. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Raptor tapped his rifle, ready for action. “I like it. Close quarters, up in their face. Let’s get our guy.”

All eyes turned to Samir.

“Oh, you need me to say it loud? Hell, yeah man, let’s rock ‘n’ roll,” he replied, feigning an American accent.

That drew a few chuckles.

I turned to Ali. “You’ll have a passive role in this one. We’re going in hot, close-quarters, suppressed weapons only. We can’t afford a single missed shot. With your right arm in a sling… it’s nothing to do with your fighting skills. You get it, right?”

Ali looked down at his arm and gave a short nod. “I understand.”

I looked around the team, feeling the energy surging. They were raring to go, ready to tear through hell to get Nate out. “Alright. We’re going underground. Once we’re in, we move fast, we move quiet, and we hit ‘em hard when the time’s right.”

With that, we geared up and loaded back into the vehicle. Samir pulled it around to the back of the building, keeping it slow and low so we wouldn’t draw any eyes. While he did that, I tapped into my sat phone and gave Echo a quick call.

“We’re heading inside to grab the package. Moving underground—gonna hit a tunnel.”

“Got it, Cowboy,” Echo replied. “Package is still holding position. No movement yet.”

“We might lose contact when we’re under the building. Once you pick up my track again, monitor our progress. Let me know if we veer off target.”

“Roger that. I’ll keep eyes on you. Good hunting.”

Time was ticking, and the clock wasn’t on our side, but we had a plan, and we were about to execute.

It was time to enter the belly of the beast.

CHAPTER 18

25 Minutes to zero hour

We exited the vehicle, tight formation, and moved swiftly toward the stairwell. Ninja Man took point, followed by me, with Hawkeye and Raptor behind. Ali and Samir brought up the rear. We moved like shadows, silent, hugging the walls as we approached the stairwell.

We hit the stairs, silent but fast, rifles up. We moved down in textbook CQB (Close-Quarter Battle) formation—two steps, cover, two more. No rushing, just steady, smooth. Each of us had eyes locked, scanning every angle as we descended into the basement.

When we reached the basement door, it was locked. Ninja didn’t even break stride. He raised his suppressed Glock and popped the lock with a whisper-quiet shot. One quick turn of the knob, and we were inside.

It looked like a storage room for junk. Dust-covered shelves and old boxes—clearly abandoned. But we weren’t there to rummage around. We pushed through to the back, toward the generator room. The door wasn’t even locked, just latched. Ninja slipped the latch, and we moved in.

The room was cluttered with heavy machinery, old pipes, and a massive generator sitting dead center. I knew there had to be an entrance there somewhere, but nothing jumped out.

“Check the walls, look for anything,” I whispered.

Hawkeye was the one who found it. He fiddled with the side of the generator, and suddenly the thing slid aside like it was greased. Beneath it, there was a hole in the floor—metal rungs leading down into the darkness.

Ninja Man pulled down his NVGs, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and drew his Glock. No room for long guns in tight spaces. He disappeared into the hole without a sound.

A few seconds later, we heard the click of his mic. “All clear,” came his voice, barely a whisper.

We descended into the tunnel single file, one foot after the other. It was pitch black, just like I expected. Nothing but the cool, stale air. Each of us had our NVGs on, the world around us now tinted in that familiar green hue. I had Ali kitted up with a pair too. He had never used them before, and I could tell he was struggling a bit.

“Ali,” I whispered as we moved in. “Stick close to Samir. He’ll guide you. The NVGs take some getting used to—you’re going to feel a little disoriented.”

Ali grunted his acknowledgment, his nervousness masked by determination. I had seen it before, guys trying to prove themselves. Not the time for that.

The tunnel stretched out, running south to north, dark as hell. The walls were stone, old, but they had held. There was barely any sound except the drip of water and the hum of distant power lines.

After moving north for about a minute, we saw a faint light around fifty yards ahead of us, glowing like a signal flare in the distance. I didn’t like it. These tunnels were makeshift, secretive, no wiring, no electrical insulation. The light shouldn’t have been there. I peered through my scope. Just a lantern, nothing more, beyond it was nothing but darkness. But at that point, it looked like the tunnel was splitting into three different branches.

I did a quick mental map in my head. We were aiming for the north-west—where Nate was being held. When we hit that split, we would need to keep that bearing in mind. We had to get the right tunnel—no second chances there.

We pushed north, toward the split in the tunnel. I motioned for Ninja Man to halt about halfway up the tunnel. “Hold it. Someone beyond that light could see us coming. We’ll be sitting ducks.”

Without a sound, I raised my suppressed rifle and fired. Glass shattered with a faint crack, and the tunnel plunged back into darkness. We moved fast, keeping our pace steady, heading for the intersection. When we got there, I took the branch heading west-northwest.

We were moving fast and silent. About fifty yards in, my sat phone buzzed. Echo.

“Echo, you got me?”

“Yeah, Cowboy. Must be under open ground for the signal to push through. You’re on track. Keep pushing northwest.”

“Copy that,” I said and cut the call, knowing we might lose signal again soon.

We pressed on until we hit another intersection. This one had another lantern lighting the way. I signaled the team to stop and took aim again, another suppressed shot sending the tunnel into darkness. This time, we heard voices. Low, in Arabic, but close enough to make out the words.

We crouched low. Samir leaned in, whispering, “ISIS guards. They’re wondering what happened.”

The team held position, dead still. We couldn’t risk alerting the whole nest, not this deep. Through the NVGs, we spotted them—three men, about ninety yards out. Two started moving toward the intersection, flashlight in one hand, AKs in the other. The third stayed back, covering them.

I turned to Hawkeye and whispered, “You take the rear guy, ninety yards out. Ninja, you and I will take the two coming forward. We need to drop all three, simultaneously. No shots fired back.”

They nodded, already lining up the shots. We had this down to a science.

I counted down. Three. Two. One.

Three faint pops echoed in unison down the tunnel, barely more than whispers. All three men dropped without so much as a grunt. Clean. Silent. We moved in fast. As we passed the third guy, I saw it—rungs embedded in the wall, just like the ones at the entrance of the tunnel. They were leading to an exit point. We were close.

We were just about to start up the rungs when I heard a noise, faint, but unmistakable. Something being slid. My gut clenched. Someone was about to come down into the tunnel.

I held up my hand, signaling the team to freeze. All of us pressed back against the cold walls of the tunnel, melting into the darkness. The faint green of our NVGs barely lit the space, but it was enough. We stayed still, silent. We didn’t have the luxury of making any sound down here. Too close to the objective.

The sound of a hatch opening above confirmed my suspicion. Someone was about to enter the tunnel. Sure enough, a man’s face appeared, squinting into the void, trying to get a look in the pitch black.

He grunted, grabbed a rung, put his foot on a rung below, and started to descend. But he couldn’t see a damn thing. He called out, his voice low, but no one replied. He shifted, body language going tense—he knew something was off. I could tell by the way his head turned, the way he froze for a split second. He was about to call out again, this time to someone inside.

Not gonna happen.

I moved fast, stepping forward and squeezing the trigger of my suppressed Glock. The round hit him in the back of his skull, and he went limp instantly. I caught his body, softening the thud as best as I could and laying him down against the tunnel wall. Quiet. No one heard the thud inside.

But I knew what was coming. The next guy was bound to notice when his partner didn’t report back. No time to hesitate.

I signaled the team to hold their position, and in a fluid motion, I climbed up the rungs. When I was halfway up, I heard the second man’s boots scrape as he stepped to the hatch, about to lean in to peer down. He hesitated, no doubt wondering where his buddy was.

With one hand on the rung, I pulled my Glock out with the other, just as the man’s head popped through. I put a round in his face, yanked him forward, and tossed his body down into the tunnel below. Quick and clean. He didn’t make a sound.

I moved up fast, emerging into a small, dimly lit room beyond the entrance. The second I stepped in, I spotted three men sitting by a rickety table. One smoking, two playing cards. Their eyes widened when they saw me, but it was too late.

I sprinted toward them, Glock out, and fired three precise shots. All headshots. They slumped over in their chairs, their faces frozen in disbelief. They never even had a chance to reach for their weapons.

I took a deep breath, scanned the room. There was an open door leading deeper into the building. No movement beyond it. I moved up to the threshold, quickly peering around the corner. It was clear.

“Clear,” I whispered into my comms.

In seconds, my team was up, moving into the room silently, weapons up, checking corners. We had a foothold now. One step closer to getting Nate the hell out of there.

No time to lose.

CHAPTER 19

20 Minutes to zero hour

My head was running through a dozen variables. I pulled out my tablet to confirm Nate’s location once again. The red dot was blinking steadily in the center of the screen. Nate was still in the building. But now came the hard part—figuring out exactly where. The building had five floors and four apartments on each floor. We couldn’t just start busting down doors. We needed precision, or we would risk getting Nate killed.

I turned to Hawkeye. “We’re not charging up those stairs blind. We need eyes in the sky. Get the drone in the air.”

Without a word, Hawkeye unslung a small box-like control module from his vest. Nestled inside was a Black Hornet Nano Drone. It wasn’t much bigger than a dragonfly—just about six inches long, twin rotors barely five inches wide. Weighing next to nothing, it was made for situations like this: silent, small, and deadly efficient. It looked like a toy, but this tiny hunter was built to kill with intel, not claws.

Hawkeye unfolded the control module, a tablet tucked inside with the interface to operate the drone. In the dim light of the wrecked apartment, he held the drone in his fingers and released it through a busted window. It buzzed off, barely a whisper, like a little hummingbird into the war-torn sky.

We watched the live feed on Hawkeye’s screen as the little bird flitted between rooms, gliding through open windows and blown-out walls. The building was a husk, barely standing after being shelled into oblivion. It  hadn’t seen any civilians in a long time. Just us, and the ISIS scum holding Nate. Most of the floors were just shells, debris everywhere, but we had to be sure before moving.

The drone hit the roof first—four hostiles up there, AKs slung over their shoulders, scanning the streets around. No way we could have taken the building from the outside with that kind of overwatch. If we had gone in through the front door like amateurs, Nate would have been a dead man already.

The feed shifted down. The fifth floor was empty. Not a soul.

On the fourth floor, two of the four apartments were empty. But the third was full of gunmen, heavily armed. Couldn’t tell how many at first, but they were dug in. The fourth apartment had movement too—looked like more gunmen.

I waited, breath tight, but the drone’s scan didn’t show Nate. The likely conclusion was he could be locked up in a room inside one of the two apartments. The drone was tiny and almost silent, but we couldn’t really risk having it go room to room. Someone was bound to spot it.

Hawkeye shifted focus to the third floor. Three tangos were posted by the stairwell. They weren’t expecting trouble, but they sure as hell would be ready to react.

The second floor was empty. No movement. Could be useful if we needed to make a quick play.

I held up a hand just as Hawkeye was about to guide the drone down to the ground floor. “Wait,” I said quietly, my eyes scanning the tablet’s display. “Take it over to the end of the second floor—check out that maintenance shaft.”

Hawkeye adjusted the controls, and the drone smoothly banked into the narrow hallway leading to the maintenance shaft. The live feed on the tablet showed a low, three-foot-high wall at the far end of the floor. Above the wall, the space was open, designed for giving easy access to the pipes. The drone hovered for a second, then slipped through the gap above the wall, scanning the shaft. The space was big enough for a workman to enter and exit.

The feed flickered as the drone descended, revealing the guts of the building. A narrow shaft with vertical drainage pipes running from the ground all the way to the roof. They were thick, steel-reinforced, covered in a thin layer of grime but looked untouched by the shelling. The enclosed space must have protected them from most of the blasts.

The pipes were wide enough to grip, and spaced out just right for someone with some climbing experience. Any one of the operators could have done it, but it was especially simple for Ninja Man and me. Ninja grew up scrambling around in the Appalachians, while I cut my teeth in the Colorado Rockies. We had used pipes like these in past ops, climbing up and down in tight spots, unseen. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than getting lit up on the stairwell.

“That’s our ticket up,” I muttered, tapping the screen where the pipes ran like veins through the building. “We can climb those. Go up without being spotted, bypass the guards on the stairs.”

Hawkeye nodded. “Gonna be tight, but we can make it work.”

The drone drifted down to the ground floor. Six gunmen spread across three entrances, two at each—guarding the only ways in or out.

Hawkeye brought the drone back to his hand, landing it like a tiny bird perched on his fingers. We had the intel, we had the layout. The bastards were dug in tight. One wrong move and Nate would be dead. I glanced at the countdown timer on my watch.

15 Minutes to zero hour

I gathered the team in a tight circle. Time was running thin. Everyone had already seen the layout of the building through the drone feed. We needed to hit hard and fast.

“Alright, here’s how we’re playing this,” I said, my voice low but steady. “There’s no way we’re rushing up that stairwell without the guys on the third floor lighting us up and raising the alarm. We make a different approach.”

I pointed to the drone feed on Hawkeye’s tablet, showing the ground floor. “First, we take out the six hostiles on this level. Raptor and Samir take out the four men in the front end. Ninja and I will finish the two near the maintenance shaft, then head straight to the shaft and start climbing the drainage pipes. I’ll come to that in a sec. Samir, Ali—you two keep this floor locked down. Any surprises, you handle it.”

Samir gave me a firm nod. “Understood.”

Ali’s expression was grim, but he gave a sharp nod too.

I moved on. “Raptor, you’re on stairwell overwatch. After we clear this floor, get in position near the stairs and wait for my signal. We’re gonna time this so there’s no warning up top.”

I turned to Hawkeye. “You’re staying on recon. We can’t afford to hang around too long while you scan, but you’ve got ten minutes—max. Track Nate, pinpoint his exact location on the fourth floor. We’ll need that intel before we move in.”

Hawkeye pulled out the Black Hornet drone again, nodding as he hooked it up. “I’ll find him,” he muttered, eyes locked on the screen. “Gimme five and I’ll have a bead on where they’re keeping him.”

I looked back at the others. “While Hawkeye’s scanning, here’s the play. Once we clear this floor, Ninja and I head straight for the maintenance shaft. Ninja, you exit the shaft on the third floor. Come out behind the gunmen in the corridor and take them out. Silent kills. Once you’re done, give Raptor the green light to move up and you two hold the third floor.”

“Good,” Raptor muttered. “Nice and clean. None of the ‘spray and pray’ crap. What next?”

“I’ll keep climbing. I’m taking the shaft all the way to the fifth floor. From there, I’ll use the stairs and hit the roof. Once I take out the lookouts up there, we’ve got the high ground. No one’s calling for backup, no one’s escaping.”

“And the fourth floor?” Ninja asked, crossing his arms, a hard edge in his voice.

“That’s where we end it. Once I’m up top and the roof is secure, we hit the fourth floor from both directions—top and bottom. Hawkeye, if you’ve got Nate’s position by then, perfect. If not, we hit the men in the two apartments fast and hard. Shock and awe. Take out the hostiles before they have time to react or use Nate as leverage.”

Hawkeye glanced up from the tablet, eyes sharp. “I’ll find Nate. You focus on staying alive long enough to hear me.”

There was a beat of silence, the weight of the plan sinking in. No one spoke, just sharp nods all around.

Raptor looked at me. “It’s a solid plan. We get up there quiet, they’ll never see it coming.”

Ninja cracked a tight grin. “Finally, some action. Been too quiet.”

“Alright,” I said, strapping my Glock tighter and giving one last look around. “This is it. We’re on the clock. Let’s move.”

We moved out, all business. The game was on.

CHAPTER 20

13 Minutes to zero hour

Raptor and Samir moved swiftly, taking out their targets with clean, precise shots. The muffled pops of suppressed fire and the faint thud of bodies hitting the concrete floor were the only sounds breaking the silence.

Ninja and I moved toward the two men closest to the maintenance shaft—suppressed rounds, straight to the head. Two pops, like distant snaps of a branch, and they were down. Raptor and Samir were already moving, grabbing the bodies and dragging them into the shadows behind a crumbling wall.

Ninja and I wasted no time slipping into the maintenance shaft. It was dark, cramped, and smelled like rust and old dampness. Four thick drainage pipes ran vertically along the walls from floor to roof. They were old but looked solid enough. I gave one a quick yank, testing its strength. Sturdy enough.

“We’re good,” I whispered, nodding to Ninja, and we both began to climb.

Gripping the pipes with both hands, I started the climb. Feet braced against the pipe and concrete wall, arms straining as I pulled myself upward. It wasn’t the first time we had done this, and I doubted it would be the last. We had to keep it slow, keep it quiet. Every movement was calculated—no noise, no sudden shifts. One slip, one clang of a boot on metal, and we would lose our edge.

The third floor came into view, and Ninja slipped out, squeezing through the space in the wall designed for maintenance. He disappeared without a sound. I kept climbing, knowing he would take care of the three tangos posted on the stairwell. The burn in my arms and legs was familiar, almost comforting. This was the kind of physical pain I was used to. I tuned it out, focusing on the task at hand. My world narrowed to the grip of my hands and the pressure of my boots against the pipes.

By the time I reached the fourth floor, Ninja’s voice crackled through my earpiece, just a faint whisper. “Three tangos down. Stairwell’s clear.”

Raptor’s voice followed, equally hushed. “On my way up. Linking up with Ninja.”

I continued my ascent, my grip firm on the cold metal. The pipes were solid, despite the shelling that had torn the building apart. Whoever built them did it right. Time was burning fast, but the mission was going smooth so far. We needed to keep it that way.

Reaching the fifth floor, I braced my boots against the pipe, held on tight with one hand, and used the other to haul myself out of the shaft. The fifth floor was a ghost town. No movement, no sound. Perfect.

Eight minutes to zero hour

I pulled my Glock, double-checked my surroundings, and made for the stairwell leading to the roof. I had seen the recon feed from Hawkeye’s drone—four gunmen on the roof. The second I stepped through, I could see the silhouettes of the four gunmen posted around the edges, their backs turned to me, eyes focused on the streets below.

They were spaced out just far enough to make a simultaneous takedown tricky. But one of them, to my left, was isolated. He was posted near the stairwell entrance, half hidden by the concrete block, out of direct line of sight from the others. A lucky break. I had my first target.

I moved in quick. One clean shot from my Glock and he dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap without making a sound. His body slumped against the wall, concealed from the view of the others.

I kept my eyes on the remaining three, but none of them noticed their buddy had just gone down. They were too busy scanning the streets below, oblivious to the fact that death had just crept onto the roof.

But taking out those three wasn’t going to be as easy. They were spread out. One man had his rifle slung, but the other two had theirs in their hands. They posed a problem. Taking one out meant that the clatter of his rifle hitting the floor would alert the other two. The second guy with the rifle in his hands could let off a burst before I could blow his lights out.

While I was weighing my options, Hawkeye’s voice buzzing in my ear, laced with urgency, made up my mind for me.

“Hawkeye to Cowboy, I’ve got a lock on Nate,” he said. “He’s in the apartment to the right of the stairwell, locked up in an inner room. Six tangos in the living room. Six more spread out in the inner two bedrooms. Nate’s alone in a third one. The other apartment, the one on the left is packed with ISIS gunmen.”

I needed to know more if we were going to storm this place without Nate getting caught in the crossfire. “Give me the layout,” I said, keeping my voice low as I moved closer to the door.

“Front door opens into the living room. There’s an open kitchen on the right as soon as you enter. A corridor branches off to the left, leading to three bedrooms. Two bedrooms on the right side of the hallway, and one on the left at the end. Nate’s alone in the one on the left. The drone caught a peek inside from the window beside the front entrance.”

“Copy that,” I whispered.

That was the intel I had been waiting for. I checked my watch. Six minutes to zero hour. The time for stealth was over.

CHAPTER 21

I holstered the Glock and unslung the HK416 rifle—I needed some quick one-shot kills from a distance. There was no time for subtlety. These tangos had to go—now.

I lined up my rifle on the closest gunman, steadying my breathing. The first shot dropped him instantly, a clean headshot. No time to pause. I shifted my aim, one after another, and the second man hit the ground before the first had even finished his fall. The last guy turned, but it was too late. I put a round in his throat before he could shout, and he crumpled into a heap.

Three shots. Three clean kills. The roof was clear. I made my way back to the stairwell.

“Roof’s clear,” I said into the comms. “Raptor, Ninja, we’re go. No time for stealth, hit ‘em hard and fast. You two hit the left-side apartment and neutralize all hostiles. I’ll hit the right-side apartment, where Nate’s holed up,” I said as I started rushing down the stairwell.

“Copy that,” Ninja replied, sounding almost excited. “Shock and awe, baby.”

I heard Raptor and Ninja already sprinting up from the third floor. We were on a collision course, ready to hit from opposite sides.

I moved fast, rifle pointed straight out. As I hit the fourth floor landing, I spotted two tangos standing guard outside the far door—the apartment Hawkeye had tagged as the one full of gunmen. I lined them up and took them out with two clean headshots before they even knew what hit them.

By the time their bodies hit the floor, Ninja was on the fourth-floor landing, Raptor right behind him. No time for pleasantries. We exchanged a quick glance. They knew the plan.

I shifted my focus to the apartment on the right—the one where Nate was holed up. The door was half-closed, and the sight of it triggered something primal in me. I slammed my boot into the door, sending it flying open. I had already pulled an M84 stun grenade from my vest. A frag grenade would have leveled the place, and that wasn’t an option.

I lobbed the M84 inside and stepped back immediately, pressing myself against the external wall. The grenade clattered to the floor, and I felt the tension in the air. Ninja mirrored my move, tossing his own stun grenade into the left-side apartment where the gunmen were holed up.

The blasts went off nearly simultaneously.

The M84s detonated with an ear-splitting bang, followed by an intense flash of white light that swallowed the room. The pressure wave rocked the hallway, but it was more the concussive force that disoriented. The stun grenade was designed for disorientation—sound and light overwhelming the senses, scrambling equilibrium. No shrapnel—just a stunning burst that left the tangos inside deaf and blind. Even from outside, I felt the shockwave hit, vibrating through the floor and walls.

There were no screams coming from inside. Just deafening silence.

I moved in fast, my rifle raised and ready for whatever was left standing. As I entered the room, the scene hit me—five men lying knocked out, scattered around the living room. A couple of them might even be dead, not that I cared. The M84 may not have killed them all outright, but it did its job—the men were out of the fight, knocked out by the sheer force of the blast and flash. Even when they eventually woke up, their ears would be ringing for days.

The thing that mattered was those men wouldn’t be getting back up anytime soon. And they sure as hell weren’t stopping me from getting to Nate.

Movement caught my eye. Three gunmen rushed out of an inner room, AKs raised. But I was already on my knee, my rifle locked and loaded. I didn’t give them a chance to breathe, let alone pull a trigger. I cut them down with a burst of automatic fire, the HK spitting brass as I controlled the shots. The 5.56mm rounds tore through them. The first two dropped before they even cleared the doorway. The third didn’t fare much better, caught in the crossfire before he could bring his rifle to bear.

I stayed low, swept the room with my barrel. Nothing moved. Just silence. But something gnawed at the back of my mind—a small detail Hawkeye mentioned. Six men were supposed to be in the living room. There were five bodies in the room. Where the hell was the sixth guy?

Then it hit me like a freight train—he had to be in the kitchen. The kitchen was off to the right when I threw the concussion grenade. He might have walked in there by chance or might have ducked in there, missing the blast.

Luckily, all this thought process happened in a fraction of a second. As the thought hit me, instinct kicked in. That primal gut feeling I had honed and learned to trust over years of combat. I didn’t have time to think, only react. I spun halfway and dropped to the floor in one motion, just as my sixth sense screamed at me that I wasn’t alone.

And sure enough, there he was. A shadow lunging at me, knife in hand. He must have been on his feet and slipped into the kitchen right as I threw the grenade. But that hadn’t given him time to grab a gun. While I was taking out the three gunmen, he had slipped behind me, probably thinking he had caught me off guard. He almost had, but almost wasn’t good enough.

The world slowed down, and I could see the edge of his blade gleaming as it sliced through the air where my neck had been a second earlier. The rush of air told me how close he had come to slitting me open. I let go of my rifle as I hit the floor, no time to line up a shot, not at this range.

I reacted on pure reflex, batting his knife hand aside with my left forearm as I twisted my body. My right hand shot down to my thigh, where my blade sat sheathed, ready for exactly this kind of scenario. In one clean motion, I yanked it free and rammed it upward into his throat. I barely felt any resistance as steel hit flesh and cartilage, his blood spilling over my glove.

The man gurgled, dropped his knife, and crumpled at my feet. I didn’t stop to admire the kill. Rolling over, I grabbed my rifle and kept low, ready for the next threat.

Footsteps—quick and frantic—echoed from the corridor. One of the tangos made a run for it. While I swung my rifle toward the source, I saw a man fumbling with the latch on the door where Nate was being held. I didn’t have time to aim. Instinct kicked in, and I squeezed the trigger before I even registered the intent. The bullet hit his left hand, sending his rifle clattering to the ground. But the man still managed to kick the door open and dive inside.

Damn it.

Before I could follow him, I had to drop low. Two more tangos fired blindly from the doorway of one of the back bedrooms, bullets chewing through drywall and furniture. They didn’t know exactly where I was, but they were doing a damn fine job keeping me pinned in the living room.

But the situation was too urgent to think about my own skin and get pinned down. I popped up just enough to line my HK416 at the doorway. Squeezed off two shots—clean, center mass. The first gunman went down like a sack of bricks. The second gunman barely had time to react before I put a round through his chest. Both tangos dropped before they even knew where I was firing from.

But it wasn’t over. Nate was my mission, and he was still in that damn room. I pulled my rifle tight into my shoulder pocket, eyes locked on the door as I approached. The HK was up, sights sharp, eyes locked through the optics, barrel leading every step. My pulse thudded in my ears, but my focus was razor-sharp.

I kicked the door open and swept inside.

In the middle of the room stood a tall, wiry man, eyes wild, sweat dripping down his face, with a huge knife pressed to Nate’s throat. His hand shook, but his grip was firm, and the look in his eyes told me he was desperate.

Cornered animals are the most dangerous. This could get real ugly.

Nate’s eyes were wide, full of fear, but he was holding it together. I had to give it to him—he hadn’t cracked yet. Nate was barely five foot five, and the guy using him as a shield had a good half-foot on him, making the knife threat all the more real.

Three minutes to zero hour.

I knew I had to act fast; I couldn’t let this drag out into a hostage situation. This wasn’t going to be a standoff—not in the middle of freakin’ Damascus, where the only thing I had top of my mind was to get the hell out of there ASAP.

With the HK lined and steady, I knew I didn’t need much—just a couple of inches. Four inches of the guy’s forehead, right above his nose, was all I had in my sights. More than enough.

I flicked my eyes to the window behind him, just for a second. It was a trick, but one I had used before. The guy flinched, his eyes darting toward the window, and the pressure on Nate’s throat slackened just enough.

That was all I needed.

I fired. The bullet tore into his skull at the junction of his left eyebrow and the bridge of his nose, and exited out the back of his head with a sickening pop. The man’s head snapped back, and the knife fell from his hand before he even hit the ground. Nate stood there frozen, eyes wide with shock, as the man’s body crumpled at his feet. The clatter of the knife echoed off the floor, but all I could hear was Nate’s ragged breathing.

“Package secure,” I said into the comms, never taking my eyes off Nate.

“Copy. Second apartment’s clear,” Ninja responded.

I looked Nate over. He was pale as hell, but he was alive.

“Nate, pal,” I said with a straight face, “whoever sold you the idea of Damascus as a nice place to chill is probably running the worst travel agency in the world.”

Nate blinked, still too rattled to speak, but there was something in his eyes that almost looked like a smile. He finally gasped, breaking his trance, took a shaky step forward and then nearly collapsed. I was there in time to catch him, throwing his arm over my shoulder as I helped him toward the living room. The kid was shell-shocked, but alive—that’s what mattered.

Ninja Man was already in the room, leaning against the wall with a lopsided grin, his rifle resting casually in his hands. Raptor stood at the door, eyes sharp, doing what he did best—watching for trouble. But even he nodded when he saw Nate, a sign of relief if there ever was one.

Ninja’s grin widened. “Well, well, look who survived a Damascus vacation package. How’s that warzone retreat treating you, buddy?” he asked Nate, eyes glinting with amusement.

Nate gave a half-hearted smile, still dazed, barely hanging on. “Could use a refund,” he muttered, voice shaky.

Raptor chuckled under his breath. “Good to see you in one piece, man.”

We had decided we would hold back on the “What the hell were you thinking?” routine. Nate must have been feeling stupid as hell, and any reminders of that weren’t really going to serve any useful purpose. We had more urgent things to deal with.

I looked at my watch. Two minutes to zero hour.

I glanced at the five bodies strewn across the living room, all knocked out from the stun grenade. One of them stirred, a low groan escaping his lips.

I led Nate toward a chair to take a breather and looked at Ninja. “Ali’s gonna want to have a chat with these guys. That was our end of the bargain. Knock out that guy and anyone else that starts to stir. None of these guys are walking out of here.”

Ninja raised an eyebrow, his usual light-heartedness fading into a dead-serious look as he walked over and knelt by the man who had groaned, pistol-whipping him across the jaw with a hard thud. The guy’s eyes rolled back, and Ninja followed it up with a quick shot to the ankle—just in case.

“Better safe than sorry,” he muttered, standing up.

I nodded. “Be ready to move in 30 seconds. I’ll check out the inner bedrooms and be back.”

“Roger that,” Ninja replied as I turned and headed toward the back of the apartment.

The first room was clear. Just mattresses, some scattered clothes, nothing that screamed “enemy”. But the second room… that’s where things got dark. A large black flag was tacked up on the wall, Arabic writing scrawled across it in bold white letters. A chair was placed underneath the flag. A laptop sat on a makeshift table on one side, likely filled with information we couldn’t afford to leave behind.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the plan had been. This was no ordinary hangout spot—this was where they planned to execute Nate.

I grabbed the laptop and shoved it into my backpack, keeping that little discovery to myself. Nate didn’t need to know just how close he had come to being their next propaganda video.

CHAPTER 22

When I walked back to the living room, Ninja and Raptor had Nate ready to move. Nate’s face was still pale, but he was upright, breathing, and not bleeding—so we were already winning.

“Time to move,” I said. “I’ll cover the rear. Need to call Flynn, tell him the package is secure. We’ve got about a minute before he calls in for the fireworks,” I said, remaining vague about Davis’s last-resort option of scrambling F-16s and flattening the place with Hellfires.

They nodded without saying anything—there wasn’t much point in letting Nate in on the backup plan in case we weren’t able to pull the rescue in time. As we began moving down to the ground floor, I glanced at my watch—it was one minute and 30 seconds to zero hour.

I called Flynn on my satphone. “Overlord, this is Cowboy. Package is secure. Repeat, package is secure.”

Flynn’s voice crackled back through the earpiece. “Copy that. Good work, Cowboy. Any immediate threats?”

“Negative,” I replied. “Package is safe, but we’re not out of the woods yet. Still gotta make our way out. I’ll confirm the rendezvous once we’re clear of this rat’s nest. ETA on exfil point once we’re clear.”

“Copy that. Iron Hand is standing by for extraction.”

Davis came through almost immediately. “Good job, Cowboy. Get him out of there. I’ll be waiting on your signal. Iron Hand out.”

I clicked off the comms and nodded to the others. “Let’s roll.”

We made our way down the stairwell, moving fast but steady. Nate was in the middle of our formation, Ninja and Raptor flanking him while I brought up the rear. Nate’s steps were still a little shaky, but he was holding up better than I had expected after everything he had just gone through.

When we hit the ground floor, I spotted Samir and Ali standing watch near the entrance, eyes scanning for any threats. Samir’s eyes locked onto Nate, a flicker of recognition passing over his face, but he didn’t let on. Samir knew who Nate was, even though Nate had no idea who Samir was. That’s how deep Samir had been buried in this op. Off the books, just like Davis wanted.

“Package secured?” Samir asked, his voice low but steady.

I nodded. “Yeah. Couldn’t have done it without you and Ali.”

I turned to Ali, giving him a quick nod of thanks. “Appreciate the assist up there. As promised, we left you some breathing bodies upstairs. Four ISIS fighters, knocked out cold from the flashbang. They won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

Ali gave a tight smile, the kind of smile that said more than words. “That’s all I need. With them, I’ll be able to trace ISIS roots in Damascus, flush them out.” He took a breath, looking up at the building. “This place is crawling with their networks. Time to clean house.”

“Good luck with that,” I said. “But now we’ve gotta part ways. We’ll head back through the tunnel like before, low and quiet.”

Ali shook his head. “Broad daylight isn’t your friend. You won’t make it through without running into trouble. Too many eyes, too many checkpoints.

I knew he was right. We were in the heart of regime-controlled territory, and daylight meant checkpoints and eyes everywhere. “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t need to know your exact exfil plans, but I can make sure you get to a point where army checkpoints won’t give you any more trouble.”

I considered that for a moment. It made sense. We didn’t have the luxury of turning down a clean route. The last thing we needed was to get pinned down with Nate barely hanging on. “Alright, I’ll take you up on that. Appreciate it.”

Ali shrugged, like he wasn’t doing anything special. “You saved me and my men from being butchered. I owe you more than an escort. Before we leave, I’ll ask my sergeant to seal off this building and take those fighters upstairs into custody.”

I nodded. He pulled out his phone and barked a few quick instructions in Arabic before hanging up. “They’ll be here shortly. Let’s move.”

We headed back toward the tunnel we had come through. Hawkeye was standing guard at the entrance, keeping a lookout for any sneaky intruders. We were soon back into the dark, narrow passage beneath the city. The air was heavy with the smell of wet concrete, and the darkness seemed thicker than before. But after what we had just been through, it was nothing. We retraced our steps, emerging into the same basement, the generator standing as a silent sentinel as we made our way out. By the time we came up, Nate had regained some color in his face.

As we emerged from the dungeon-like basement into daylight, the cool, stale air of the underground faded as the dry heat of Damascus hit us. It felt like coming up for air after holding your breath underwater for too long.

We made it to the Land Cruiser with the UN stickers and flag still intact, doing their best to sell the lie. Samir had parked it well away from the action. Before we piled in, Samir pulled a map from the glove box and spread it across the hood. We leaned over it, studying every street and alley.

I tapped a spot near the edge of Jobar. “Here. This is where regime territory starts to bleed into Qaboun. That’s rebel-held, right?”

Ali nodded. “Correct. Army controls part of it, but it fades out as you hit rebel territory.”

“That’s where we can split. We’ll handle ourselves from there. We don’t want to have to come back looking for you if you get taken by the rebels this time,” I said with a chuckle.

Ali laughed. “Yes, I’ve had my fill of being taken prisoner.”

I ran a hand through my hair, tired but focused. “So, that’s settled. We’ll drop you there. What’s the route you suggest we take?”

Ali ran his finger over a long, winding route, twisting through the streets. “This path should get you around the army’s roadblocks. It’s not fast, but it’s safe.”

Ali was giving us our route out, but I could tell he hadn’t quite figured out how he would get back. Couldn’t just jump into a taxi and continue on his merry way. He hadn’t brought it up, probably out of pride, but I wasn’t about to leave him stranded.

“Great. That’s our route. But you’ll need a ride back to your unit. You can’t just walk back,” I said. “You should have someone from your unit pick you up near the parting point. No point making it any riskier than it has to be.”

He met my eyes. “You’re right.”

It was time to move. We got inside the Land Cruiser. Ali made a quick call while Samir drove. The war-torn streets of Jobar stretched out before us, a gutted wasteland of buildings reduced to rubble. Block after block of destroyed buildings, walls still standing, but hollowed out from years of fighting. There wasn’t a building in sight that hadn’t been chewed up by shelling or small arms fire.

Somewhere in the distance, the crackle of gunfire and an occasional boom from an artillery shell echoed. But that was background noise now. White noise. None of us paid it any mind. We had all seen enough to know that’s just how it goes.

We all took it in silently. No one said a word. What was there to say? This was Syria, and we were soldiers on different sides of a multi-sided war that made no damn sense. You don’t waste breath on shit like this. All of us in that vehicle had seen enough action to know that sometimes the world didn’t make sense. But we knew the deal. Sometimes, you just had to move forward. You just did your job, made the best of it, and kept moving.

When we finally reached the border between Jobar and Qaboun, Samir brought the Cruiser to a stop. We got out, and Ali stepped onto the street. Ali’s beat up military vehicle stood parked a little distance away. He turned to face us, shaking hands with each of the men, one by one.

I walked with him half the distance before offering my hand in a final handshake. There was a heaviness in his grip, like he knew this was a parting of ways—two soldiers who had fought different wars, but had stood together, even if only for a while.

“Good luck, Cowboy,” Ali said, his voice low but sincere.

It didn’t feel right to part ways hiding behind my call sign, not revealing my name. This guy deserved that respect.

“It’s Axel Blaze. Stay safe, Ali.”

There was a shine in his eyes as he replied: “Stay safe, Axel.”

Then he turned, and walked up the road toward an old army vehicle waiting for him. A minute later, he was gone.

I climbed back into the Cruiser and slammed the door shut. There was a heaviness in the air that wasn’t from the war. It was from what comes after—the quiet when the shooting stops.

As we started rolling again, Hawkeye leaned back, staring out at the ruins passing by. “Strange, ain’t it? Sometimes you end up making friends with people you’re supposed to be shooting at.”

Ninja chimed in. “Yeah, makes you realize how little sense any of this shit makes. But then again, nothing about war does.”

I shrugged. “Guess we’re all just trying to make it through. Survive the mess, then figure out who’s still standing.”

Raptor grunted in agreement. “Ain’t that the truth.”

For a while, we just drove. The landscape outside remained bleak, but the tension in the car started to lift. Ninja was the first to break the silence, glancing over at Nate, who had been quietly sitting with his head down. He hadn’t said much since we pulled him out of that hellhole.

Ninja burst out, unable to hold back. “Alright, I gotta ask, Nate—what the hell were you thinking coming here? Syria’s not exactly the Bahamas, you know?”

Nate looked up, pale and shaken but managing a weak smile. “Guess the travel agent didn’t mention the civil war.”

Hawkeye chuckled. “Yeah, man. You need to fire whoever booked this trip.”

I looked back at him through the rearview mirror. “You did good, pal. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

He nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Believe me, I won’t.”

The humor lightened the mood, and Nate actually smiled for the first time since we pulled him out. He still looked like he had been through hell, but at least he was alive. That’s what mattered.

CHAPTER 23

We didn’t head north for the rebel-controlled territory of Qaboun. We had realized that we couldn’t roll through rebel territory in a UN-marked Land Cruiser. Sure, it had gotten us through regime checkpoints, but those rebels weren’t going to give us the same pass. Too many factions, too many itchy trigger fingers.

Instead, Samir veered east, pushing us out of the city, leaving the shattered remains of Damascus in the rearview. The city melted away, and I started tracking our route on the tablet in my lap, the live satellite feed keeping us on course. Echo had worked some magic on the backend to keep us plugged in, and I wasn’t about to waste that edge. As the urban sprawl thinned out, we began navigating country roads.

As we drove, I pulled out my comms and hit up Echo. “Echo, this is Cowboy. Package secured.”

There was a slight pause, and then Echo’s voice crackled back over the line. “Copy that, Cowboy. Glad to hear it. Had me sweating over here for a minute.”

“You and me both,” I replied. “That intel you fed us... couldn’t have timed it better. You saved our asses.”

“Just doing my job, brother. You’re still in the clear?”

“Affirmative,” I said. “You got me on a secure line?”

“Locked down tight, Cowboy. No ears on this except us.”

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Good. I need you to dig into something. This op was tight, real tight. Not many people in the loop, but somehow, chatter got out about our guy’s link to the Agency. That and his exact location. I want to know how.”

There was a pause on the other end as Echo processed what I was asking. “You think it was a leak?”

“Yeah. Gotta be. I need you to trace the origin of that chatter, find out who’s talking.”

“I’m on it. I’ll dig around. Send anything I find back to Overlord?”

“Yes. We’re going dark for a few hours. Won’t have comms until exfil.”

“Understood. I’ll get on it. Exfil’s on schedule?”

“Affirmative. 2100 hours.”

“Copy that. Stay safe, Cowboy.”

With the comms line cut, I called Flynn next. “Overlord, this is Cowboy. Package is safe, we’re clear of the city, heading to exfil. ETA 2100 hours as planned.”

“Copy that, Cowboy.”

“One more thing, Overlord. Keep the intel about the package’s rescue under wraps until our debrief. It might work in our favor in the next operation. I’ll explain when we meet.”

“Roger that. Stay frosty, and keep us posted if anything changes,” Flynn replied.

I pocketed the comm, glanced at the tablet screen, and looked at Samir. “Samir, slow it down and take a right there,” I said, pointing to a small dirt road ahead.

Samir nodded, easing off the gas and steering us off the main road and down a path that twisted through the countryside. Dust kicked up behind us as we approached a lone house sitting off the road. A man emerged, grizzled and silent, opening the gate to a shed on the side of the house. We pulled in and Samir parked beside an old beat-up truck, dust-coated and rusty, but serviceable.

I turned to the guys. “Time to switch rides, gentlemen.”

Ninja grinned, climbing out. “Oh boy, back to our old ride. I’ll give it to you, Cowboy, you really know how to travel in style.”

Hawkeye laughed. “Class all the way. What’s next? Camels?”

I chuckled as we quickly transferred our stuff and piled into the truck. It wheezed to life as Samir took the wheel again, and we bumped along dirt roads for another fifteen minutes, moving deeper into the countryside, away from prying eyes. When we finally stopped, it was beside another farmhouse. This one was empty, abandoned long ago. A perfect place to hunker down until nightfall.

I hopped out, scanning the area. Nothing but silence and the faint rustle of wind through the trees. “This is it. We’ll wait here until dark. Exfil in daylight’s not happening—too high a risk of the helo getting spotted. I’ll take first watch. You boys grab some shuteye, we’ve got a rough climb ahead.”

“Oh, man, that climb’s going to make it all worthwhile,” Ninja chuckled, looking at Raptor, who didn’t look too ecstatic about the prospect of the steep ascent back up to the mountain pass.

The team didn’t need convincing about a shuteye. We had been running hot since we grabbed Nate, and everyone was running on fumes. They found spots to crash while I settled in at the door, keeping my rifle across my lap. Nate joined me after a few minutes, looking better than he had earlier, though still pale.

“How’re you holding up? You sure you don’t want to grab some sleep?” I asked.

“I’m good,” he replied, sitting down beside me. “Got some sleep last night before they grabbed me.”

I nodded, giving him a sideways glance. “That must’ve been scary. You’re holding up well, considering. But you gonna tell me what the hell made you come to Damascus?”

Nate sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. “Zain. The kid I was trying to get out. He’s with his uncle now, probably crossed into Lebanon by now. His uncle’s taking him to Beirut. I’ve got a contact at the U.S. embassy there who’ll take Zain into protective custody.”

“Glad the kid made it,” I said, watching the tree line. “But why’d you come? You’re smart, Nate. You had to know it was suicide.”

Nate exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was stupid. I know that. But everything happened so fast. The kid’s got no one else. His parents died, and I felt… I don’t know, like I had to do something. I didn’t think it through until I was stuck in the middle of Damascus with ISIS breathing down my neck. By the time I realized the mess I’d gotten into, it was too late. I called Madison, and… well, you know the rest.”

I let that hang in the air for a second. “Yeah, I get it. Just next time, don’t go running into the fire without a plan.”

Nate smiled weakly. “Trust me, there won’t be a next time.”

I looked over at him. “Good. But something’s still off. You need to figure out who tipped off ISIS about you. How did they know you were CIA? Someone wanted you bagged, and they were willing to sell you out.”

Nate’s face tightened. “I know. Once I’m out, I’ll start digging. Someone’s playing a dangerous game.”

“I’ve got my guy digging into it. But whatever the game, it’s over for now. We’ll get you home. That’s what matters.”

We sat in silence for a while after that, listening to the faint hum of the wind outside. The sun continued its slow crawl toward the horizon. Soon enough, it would be time to move again. But for now, all we could do was wait.

After sitting watch for two hours, I nudged Ninja Man awake. The second I nudged him, he was up like a switch had been flipped. No wasted movements. That’s the kind of operator you need when you are deep in hostile territory.

It was time to hit the sack myself. Didn’t take long—maybe thirty seconds before it was lights out. No dreams, no tossing and turning—just pure blackout.

Raptor was on last watch. He woke me just before 1800 hours. He nudged my shoulder, and I was awake instantly, no fog, no hesitation. The rest of the team was already packing up gear, making no sound but for the scrape of boots and the rustle of packs being strapped on. Ninja and Hawkeye checked their weapons—quick chamber check, safeties on. Samir and Nate were ready too. Nate looked a bit more composed now, though still running on fumes.

“Let’s get moving,” I muttered, shouldering my pack.

We hit the road under the fading light, slipping through the backcountry like ghosts. Samir took the wheel of the beat-up truck as we headed west toward the same mountain pass where we had landed the night before. We rolled in silence, the city now well behind us as we made our way to the west. The mountains loomed, sharp shadows against the fading daylight.

Less than thirty minutes later, we reached the spot. Samir parked the truck by the side of the road and left the keys inside the tire well. He shot a quick text to his guy, who would come by later and pick it up. That was all the closure the truck would get.

From there, it was boots on the ground. The climb up the pass looked even worse in the daylight. Sharp rocks jutted from the ground, loose gravel shifting underfoot, and the incline was steeper than it seemed at night. The moonlight had a way of hiding just how much the terrain was out to get you.

I gave the team a nod. “Let’s move.”

We started the ascent, keeping a slow but steady pace. Each operator was hauling over 70 pounds of gear—weapons, ammo, armor and Claymores we never got around to using, not that I was complaining. Nate traveled light, just hauling his slight frame up, which, for a guy not used to punishing climbs, was no simple task.

Hawkeye groaned, wiping his forehead. “You know, we’re not too far from the Damascus airport. We could’ve just strolled in, grabbed a flight to Vegas.”

Ninja grinned as he pulled himself up a rocky ledge. “Yeah, I’m sure we’d blend right in. Nothing screams low-profile like six dudes with assault rifles strolling into an airport.”

Raptor snorted. “I don’t know, man. We could’ve tried flashing our frequent flyer miles at Assad’s boys.”

I smirked, keeping my eyes on the path. “Yeah, ‘cause you guys definitely have a lifetime membership.”

We pressed on, scaling the pass one foot in front of the other. Sharp rocks bit into our boots, and the incline didn’t let up. Loose gravel made footing tricky, and every now and then, we would have to grab onto a boulder to keep from slipping back down. It wasn’t pretty, but we were making progress.

By the time we reached the exfil point, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving faint traces of a blood-orange glow over the mountains. It was 2045 hours. Fifteen minutes to go.

I took a knee by a large boulder, pulling out my NVGs. The world lit up in shades of green as I scanned the horizon, but everything looked clear.

“Let’s hope Havoc didn’t decide to hit happy hour early,” I said, adjusting my rifle sling.

At 2100 sharp, we heard it. The unmistakable thrum of rotors cutting through the night air. The Black Hawk came in low and fast, barely a whisper against the backdrop of the mountains. Havoc, our pilot from the night before, was bringing her in, like clockwork. The rotor wash kicked up dust and debris as the bird hovered above the ridge, its silhouette barely visible in the low light.

As the helo touched down, I waved the team forward. We moved in quick, sliding up the incline and piling into the chopper. Havoc gave me a nod from the cockpit, a grin splitting his face. “You boys miss me?”

“Like a bad habit,” I shot back, climbing into the cabin. “Figured we’d grab dinner in Cyprus.”

Ninja Man chuckled as he strapped in. “I was hoping for room service.”

Havoc’s laugh crackled over the comms as we lifted off. “I’ll put in a word. Maybe the Brits got some tea and biscuits waiting.”

The Black Hawk lifted off almost immediately, banking hard as we flew into the night, heading west toward Cyprus. The city of Damascus shrank into a cluster of green-lit shapes in my NVGs, fading into the distance.

I leaned back in my seat, the adrenaline starting to wear off, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. But we weren’t out of the woods yet. Not until our boots were on the ground in friendly territory.

CHAPTER 24

We flew in silence for a while, the only noise being the rhythmic thrum of the rotors and the steady breathing of the team. I glanced over at Nate, who sat quietly, staring out the open side of the Black Hawk. He still had that haunted look in his eyes. It would take a while leaving all that shit behind.

“Just crossed the border into Lebanon. We’ll be at the base in thirty,” Havoc’s voice broke through the comms. “Get your beauty sleep while you can, boys.”

Ninja leaned back, closing his eyes. “Beauty sleep? I’m already a damn masterpiece.”

That produced some chuckles, even from Nate.

As we left the mountains of Lebanon behind and approached the Mediterranean, the lights of Cyprus came into view in the distance. The Black Hawk soon began descending toward RAF Akrotiri, the British military airbase perched on the southern tip of Cyprus, surrounded by nothing but sea. It wasn’t the most welcoming place I had ever landed on, but any day on this base beat setting down in Syria—no dust clouds, no hostile eyes, just the distant hum of military operations.

The moment the bird’s skids hit the deck, I unbuckled and grabbed my gear. Havoc turned in his seat, giving me a sideways grin, eyes twinkling behind his visor. “Guess I won’t be hauling your asses out of the fire again until the next world war.”

I smirked back, shaking my head. “Until next time, Havoc. Try not to crash on your next run. We’re running low on birds.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “See you in the next warzone, Cowboy. Try not to have too much fun without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, giving him a nod as I stepped off the bird. It was one of those unspoken goodbyes, knowing we wouldn’t see each other until another slice of hell opened up somewhere.

We moved out, and the whir of the rotors began to fade behind us. A couple of British soldiers were waiting for us at the landing pad, standing by two Land Rovers. Rugged machines, not fancy but good enough for the job. They gave us a quick nod and pointed us toward the vehicles.

“Alright, fellas, let’s move,” I said to the team. “We’re not done yet.”

I hopped in the back of the first Land Rover. The engine rumbled to life as we rolled across the base. RAF Akrotiri sprawled out around us, a mix of British and American flags fluttering under the evening sky. As we passed the main command buildings, it was clear the Americans had their own corner of the base—makeshift, but secure. That’s where we were headed, no doubt. Davis and Flynn would be waiting, probably eager to debrief and get the next op rolling.

The ride was short, the Land Rovers pulling up outside a small, isolated section of the base, cordoned off for the US teams. No frills, just the essentials—small, low-lit compound with a few hastily thrown-up tents and Humvees scattered around. Time to report in.

Davis and Madison stood there waiting as we climbed out. That caught me a little off guard. I had expected Davis, of course—he would want a debrief the second we set foot back on solid ground. But Madison? I knew she and Nate were best pals but had figured that her role in this affair was done back in Syria. Maybe she was there to make sure Davis didn’t throttle Nate the second he laid eyes on him. Not that I would blame the old man.

When we walked up, Madison broke the professional front, rushed forward and wrapped Nate in a hug, tight enough to squeeze the fear right out of him. The guy looked like he was about to lose it. He just stood there, fighting tears like his life depended on it, before finally giving in.

Watching him practically crumble in her arms, I realized that after everything he had been through—almost getting his head cut off on a live feed—the kid needed a little more than a pat on the back from a bunch of hardened operators. He needed some real human TLC, something none of us could offer. We were good at pulling people out of the fire, but emotional support? That was a whole different battlefield.

Madison threw me a look over Nate’s shoulder, one that said more than words. It was a mix of “thank you” and “I’ve got him from here”. Good, because we had enough on our plates. I gave her a small nod, happy to hand over that particular responsibility. We were good at saving lives, not piecing back together broken psyches.

Davis stepped forward then, sizing up the team. “Damn fine work, Delta. You pulled off a hell of an op.”

I nodded, glancing at the rest of the guys. “Got a great team, sir. And having Samir in the mix made all the difference. Couldn’t have done it without him.”

Davis smiled, pleased that his key asset, Samir, had proved his worth. “Knew I could count on Samir.”

Madison pulled back from Nate, giving him a reassuring pat before turning to me. “Did any of my contacts come through for you?”

I cracked a small grin. “We kind of got lucky on the ground. Ended up having some unexpected help from a Syrian army lieutenant, so we didn’t need much more help on the ground. But it was good to know they were in play, just in case.”

That earned me a pair of surprised looks from Davis and Madison.

“A Syrian army lieutenant helped you?” Madison asked, clearly not expecting that twist.

I shrugged. “Yeah, it’s a long story. I’ll fill you in later.”

Madison gave a nod, still a bit thrown, but content to let it slide for now.

Davis turned and motioned for us to head inside. “Shall we have a debrief?”

We followed him into the base, through a series of makeshift corridors that led to a small meeting room where Flynn was waiting, arms crossed, looking over a map. He straightened when we entered.

“Hell of a job out there,” Flynn said, looking each of us in the eye. “You did the job right, got everyone home in one piece. Mission success. You all earned it.”

The operators nodded and filed out one by one after Flynn’s words. I stayed back, sitting across from Davis and Flynn, taking in the dim lighting of the cramped briefing room. Davis rubbed his temples, looking more worn than usual. Every line on his face, every flicker of his eyes was the mark of someone who had barely slept since Kessler went rogue. I was sure the man’s mind hadn’t been at ease in days.

“We’re relieved our analysts in Lebanon and Syria made it out,” Davis began, locking his gaze on me, “but the threat’s not over as long as Roger Kessler’s out there, ready to sell CIA intel and burn the covers of more of our people. This is one of the most damaging breaches we’ve faced in years.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Analysts nearly get executed on camera, Nate barely makes it out…” I shook my head. “How’re you gonna keep the rest safe if Kessler’s still out there? Why not just alert every operative that they could be burned? Have them watch their six?”

Davis let out a slow breath. “If it were that simple, we’d have done it already. But it’s a balancing act, Captain. Warn all our assets, and we risk breaking the trust we’ve spent years building with host governments and their agencies. It’s a high-stakes game. We’re walking a razor-thin line here, between protecting assets and maintaining the integrity of our entire network. You give an alert to every agent, and it’ll start ringing bells in Moscow, Tehran, Beijing. We’ll have to pull agents everywhere, disrupt ops that took years to get into place, and torch covers our teams spent lifetimes building.”

I could get what he was saying, but I couldn’t digest the idea of endangering the lives of operatives putting their lives on the line for their country.

“Where’s the line, though?” I countered. “You’ll pull them when it’s imminent, like in Syria and Lebanon, but anywhere else, you’re gambling. That’s good men and women who don’t even know they’re a target. Don’t we owe it to them?”

Davis nodded slowly. “When the risk’s immediate, they’re out. For Lebanon, Syria, they were hot zones and we pulled everyone. But for other locations, we keep a close watch, quietly—adjusting communication and movements without raising red flags. Even then, you can bet the eyes and ears in those countries are looking for any hints of CIA movement. We pull people too often or too obviously, and those enemies will see we’re up to something. It’s counterintuitive, I get that, but trust me. We’re not in the business of gambling with our people’s lives, Blaze.”

“So, bottom line,” I said, “keep our people’s heads down and pray Kessler doesn’t hit them next?”

“Not exactly,” he replied. “My goal, Captain, is a three-pronged approach: secure any operatives at imminent risk, preserve as many covert identities as we can, and, most importantly, neutralize the rogue analyst himself. If we can get to Kessler, this whole mess starts to resolve itself.”

I leaned back, crossing my arms, looking at Davis and Flynn in turn. “So we’re hunting him down, then?”

Flynn met my stare, eyes hardening. “Yes. With him gone, the threat dies. I want you and your team to put a stop to him. I’m betting after what you just pulled off, you wouldn’t mind taking this assignment?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir,” I said. “After what we just saw—agents in Lebanon left out in the cold, Nate barely making it out alive—I want to end this thing. But where do we start if the guy’s slipped clean off the map?”

Davis allowed a hint of a smirk to form. “Turns out, he wasn’t as slick as he thought. We know he’s in Sicily.”

“Sicily?” I raised a brow, surprised.

“He got cozy with the Moretti mafia, based out of Palermo. Before he disappeared, he let it slip to a colleague about an Italian girl he was seeing. Claimed he was taking her on a Mediterranean cruise and spend the weekend. And then he slipped off the grid.”

I frowned. “So, how did you zero in on Sicily?”

“That was a guess initially. If you head out for a weekend cruise from Rome, Sicily or Sardinia are likely destinations. Right after he ghosted, our channels started lighting up. Chatter on the dark web about someone selling CIA assets. We knew there was a mole. Still, identifying Kessler was like finding a needle in a stack of needles.” He paused, his eyes hardening. “Luckily, we caught a break.”

“How’s that?” I asked, leaning in.

Davis’s expression turned dead serious. “We have a new undercover asset in the Sicilian mafia—the only reason we even have eyes on Kessler. Word came in from this asset that a CIA analyst had approached the Morettis, promising he had precious intel he was willing to sell. Kessler’s out of his depth in this game—like some punk who found a stolen Picasso and has no clue where to move it. The Morettis are not only hiding him, but they’re also running interference and acting as brokers for his sale.”

Flynn spoke up, glancing my way. “Sounds like the Morettis are as much a target as Kessler. They’re holding the cards he wants to play.”

“Exactly,” Davis said, his voice low. “It’s going to mean cutting through the Moretti network and getting to Kessler before he sells off more of our operatives to the highest bidder.”

“And that leak in Lebanon and Syria?” I asked. “That was just the preview, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Kessler needed to prove the quality of his intel, to convince potential buyers he wasn’t just blowing smoke. So he threw that intel out there, to guarantee credibility for the buyers looking at his full package — the entire global list of CIA field operatives. Lebanon and Syria were the appetizer; the main course is everyone on our payroll. If he sells that list, our entire intelligence network is done for.”

I let that sink in, a slow burn of anger heating up my chest. This was bigger than just Syria or Lebanon. Kessler was trying to sell out everyone. “You’re saying he’s selling every agent we’ve got? Putting them up for auction?”

“More or less. And we’re not going to let that happen.”

Flynn looked at me, steel in his eyes. “You understand what’s at stake, Captain? You and your team need to get to Kessler before he can close any deals. Neutralize the threat, one way or another.”

I cracked a half-smile, just as cold. “We’ll put him down.”

I leaned forward, looking Davis square in the eye. “Have you got a solid fix on Kessler’s location within Sicily?”

Davis exhaled slowly, as if considering what to say. “Working on it. If we had his location, this would already be in motion—you’d be set to go in, take him out.”

“We’ve got a time frame in mind, by when we can get a fix on him?” I asked.

Davis shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “My asset is digging. Sicily’s Moretti mafia operates mostly out of Palermo. It’s a matter of time before my asset gives us something concrete.”

A small part of me believed him. But there was something in his voice, a strain, like he was trying to convince himself. I could tell he was forcing confidence, masking the unease churning beneath the surface. I let that hang for a beat.

“Palermo isn’t some small backwater town,” I pressed. “It’s a sprawling city, close to a million people in and around. It’s literally a needle in a haystack. We don’t have local law enforcement to lean on either—another leak or the slightest misstep, and we’re looking at a blown op before we even get close.”

Davis rubbed his forehead. He didn’t argue. “Yeah, that’s a worry that’s been eating at me, too,” he admitted, his voice low. “You’re right—without a break, we’re chasing ghosts. The stakes are… well, you know.”

I looked at Flynn, then Davis. “Maybe there’s another way.”

Both Davis and Flynn leaned in.

CHAPTER 25

“Maybe there’s another way. I’ve been thinking about it since we left Damascus,” I said.

Flynn leaned forward. “Go ahead, Blaze. What’s on your mind?”

I sat back, weighing my words. “Look, I’ve been to Sicily before. Mountains everywhere. When you get in those hills, it’s like Afghanistan. All those canyons, caves, and goat trails—they make tracking down one target a nightmare. No matter how much firepower we have, without specific intel, we’re just as blind as anyone else.”

Both of them looked at me with rapt attention, waiting for me to go on.

“Even with our surveillance assets—drones, satellites—we’re not going to get anything unless we narrow down the area. And if Kessler’s smart, he’s gone dark—no way he’s pinging his location or slipping up on a phone call. If there isn’t a digital trail, SIGINT won’t pick up squat.”

SIGINT—short for signals intelligence—is all about intercepting electronic communications and analyzing patterns. It works well—unless the target’s completely off the grid.

Davis stayed silent, brows drawn. “So what do you suggest?”

“We’re not going to find Kessler by hunting. But we might get him if he comes to us,” I said, leaning in, voice steady. “Make him believe there’s a buyer in Palermo—someone who’s interested in his intel. Set a trap, and let him come to us.”

Davis’s eyes flickered with interest. “I’m listening.”

I glanced at him. “Did you wonder how I got to Nate so quickly, right after ISIS picked him up? Within minutes.”

Flynn spoke first. “Echo caught the chatter on comms, didn’t he?”

I nodded. “True. But it’s not like just anyone could crack that as fast as Echo did. He’s Tier 1 in Delta’s CNOS squadron, they’re ‘Digital Devils’ for a reason. Making sense of that level of chatter takes time for most people. But Echo tracked Nate even when he was underground, right in Damascus’s tunnel network. I’d lost visual, the tablet was dead weight, but Echo kept feeding us intel in real time.”

Davis stayed silent, processing.

“What I’m saying is,” I continued, “putting all our eggs in your asset’s basket is too risky. We should set up a second op alongside it.”

Flynn tilted his head. “So you want Echo to run that on the side?”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “We bring Echo into this, get him to create a new terror group’s profile on the dark web. Set up a profile for a bogus terror organization—something fresh, believable. Populate it with months of fake intel, backdated posts from fake members, and comments from ‘like-minded’ people, and put out the word on the dark web. That way, it looks like this is a serious player who’s looking for intel, someone willing to pay for it.”

Davis looked intrigued, brows lifted. “You think it’d pass scrutiny?”

“With Echo running it, yeah,” I replied. “We can seed the account with months’ worth of ‘conversations’ between these fake members, all of it encrypted and believable. Echo can make it look like I’m a buyer. A legit player. Get the word out in Palermo that I’m in the market for high-stakes intel—something big. It’s highly likely that Kessler and his Moretti ‘friends’ will come sniffing around.”

Flynn whistled low, impressed but skeptical. “You realize you’re painting a bull’s-eye on your back, Blaze.”

I shrugged. “The way I see it, sir, we’re Delta for a reason. With this team I’ve got with me, we can handle whatever the Morettis throw our way. And I’d rather have them coming at us on our terms than risking it all on a single asset who might not deliver. Hell, it might be our only way to get to Kessler.”

Davis’s face broke into a slight smile. “It’s unorthodox, but it’s got legs. Considering our time crunch, it has the highest chance of working.”

“Not just that,” I added, “we can add one more layer to make it look ironclad.” I paused, meeting Flynn’s eyes. “Remember how I asked you to keep the rescue completely under wraps? Didn’t want anyone knowing Nate made it out.”

He and Flynn were both staring at me, realization dawning. Davis leaned forward. “So, Nate’s still a hostage in the eyes of the world…”

“Yes,” I nodded. “We’ll keep the narrative that he’s in hostile hands, under threat of execution. It’ll show that it was this ‘new kid on the block’ and not ISIS who grabbed Nate. That makes us look like we’re dead serious about the intel, with plans to go after every CIA operative we can find.”

Davis drummed his fingers on the table as we hashed out the finer points of my “new identity”. We weren’t about to make the mistake of taking Kessler to be a moron. He had been an analyst for three years. If there was one thing I was sure about, the guy would be sharp, not that made him any less of a scumbag. The bottom line was that the cover had to be tight enough for Kessler to buy it and take the bait.

“If I’m gonna pull this off,” I said, “we need something bulletproof. Kessler will want to know why an American would turn on his own.”

Davis nodded, rubbing his chin. “For this to work, we’ve got to go dark with your backstory. Real dark. Something that explains not only why you’re selling out, but why you’ve got no ties left to loyalty.”

“Agreed,” I said. “You want Kessler to buy I’m a traitor; he needs to see I’d sell my own mother if the price was right.”

Flynn looked my way, squinting thoughtfully. “What about a soldier, dishonorably discharged? You’ve got the soldier part down pat, and it’s a better fit than faking an Agency background.”

Davis leaned forward, all business. “Agreed. A CIA background’s tempting, but it’s a double-edged sword. Kessler could easily trap you with questions about Agency protocols you can’t answer. We don’t have enough time to prep you. One misstep, and he’s gone. But a rogue soldier he wouldn’t be able to pick apart. And there’s plenty of bad blood out there between vets and the service. Kessler will know that line, he’s been around long enough.”

“Yeah, the more we play into my strengths, the harder it’ll be for him to trip me up.” I agreed. “Make me the worst kind of scum. We’ll say I got booted in Afghanistan for drug running, smuggling Afghan girls to traffickers. Something any guy would see as completely irredeemable.”

Flynn nodded in agreement. “A dirty soldier with a vendetta is easier to sell. We can back it up with a full background Echo will layer up. The kind of dirt Kessler can easily verify—prison stints, dishonorable records, stuff Kessler would expect to find if he starts digging.”

I nodded. “I’ll give Echo the details. He’ll set up the background and create a nice, shiny profile for our bogus terror outfit. He’ll make it look like I’m a buyer looking to land this intel list Kessler’s shopping around.”

Davis cracked a tired smile, the first one all day. “Sounds like a plan. Let’s make you infamous, Blaze.”

I pushed back my chair, feeling a sense of clarity. “Leave it to me, sir. I’ll get it done.”

CHAPTER 26

I slid into a different room and punched in the secure line for Echo. The screen flickered, and there he was, in his usual get-up—a half-smirk on his face, headset jammed on, fingers already dancing on his keyboard. “Captain Cowboy. Back to base after kicking ass in Damascus? How’s the package holding up?”

“Not bad, considering.”

“Good. I’m guessing you’re going to see this mission through till the end.”

“Yup, you got that right, pal. That’s the reason I called. Need to pose as a buyer and draw that rat Kessler out from his hidey-hole. I’ll need a new profile, and we’ll need a terror group built from the ground up. Create me a new life, one with a heavy rap sheet and zero morals.”

Echo let out a low chuckle. “My kind of project. Dishonorable discharge, I’m guessing?”

“Yup. Dishonorable discharge out of Afghanistan, disgraced, with a past so dirty even I’m disgusted. Busted running dope and sex trafficking. A real lowlife.”

Echo chuckled. “So, basically, you’re in deep undercover as a piece of human garbage. I like it. What are we calling you? Escobar? Al Capone?”

I snorted. “Something less flashy.”

“How about John Moore? That low-key enough?”

“I guess. Sounds like there’s some history behind the name?”

“He was just this guy I couldn’t stand back in high school. Always knew he’d grow up to be a scumbag. This is karma for him.”

“That’s the spirit. Now we need a fake terror group name. Something with ‘Caliphate’ to get the buyers buzzing.”

“Yeah, let’s go with ‘Brothers of the Caliphate’. Sounds organized, with the right level of threat,” Echo suggested.

“Sounds good. Gives them that whole underground, long-game feel. Not some scrappy band of jihadists blowing up trucks for show.”

“Exactly. More like a crew that’s been around long enough to stay hidden and smart enough to pull big moves when it counts.”

“Sounds credible.”

Echo sounded like he was beginning to have fun creating this thing. “Let’s set them up as a shadow group. Operating out of Jordan, maybe. Kept low-key and built ties, funding from private donors in the Gulf—Saudis if we want to stir the pot.”

I shrugged. “Sounds about right. Especially with their cash flow. We’ll throw Nate into the picture. So, the story is that Nate escaped when ISIS was attacked by the Syrian army.”

“Alright. These guys have got an interest in intel, staying on top of their enemies. So they’d be watching ISIS movements close enough to grab Nate the second he slipped out.”

“Yeah, swept in like a hawk on a rabbit,” I said, picturing it. “Let’s make sure they look like they had eyes all over ISIS.”

Echo tapped the keyboard. “Got it. I’ll leak it so the big players are sniffing. Make it sound like the Brothers aren’t just about battlefield glory but after power—and that list of undercover assets gives them leverage to play with.”

“Solid. Brothers of the Caliphate—it’ll stick. And when Kessler’s boys get wind of it, they’ll know we mean business. I’ll need you to backdate posts and fill it with comments from ‘like-minded’ folks. Load it up on the dark web—make me look like I’m coming in hot as a buyer looking for intel.”

“Got it. Want me to go full throttle with the details, then?” Echo asked. “I can have a few recruitment calls, chats about some imaginary ops, a couple of staged photos, encrypted messages…all the bells and whistles.”

“Exactly. And get the word out in Palermo’s underworld—I want the Morettis and Kessler’s contacts to know there’s a buyer in town with cash and a mean streak. This has to be top-notch if it’s gonna work.”

“No sweat. When do you need all this up and running?” Echo asked, his tone amused.

“Tonight. I’m wheels down in Palermo tomorrow morning. Can you pull that off?”

Echo laughed, full of dry sarcasm. “Oh, I love the last-minute specials. Nothing like some good old-fashioned pressure. Give me a few hours, Cowboy, and you’ll be the most wanted guy in Sicily.”

“Just what I need. I’ll owe you a drink when this is over.”

“Damn straight, Cowboy. Catch you on the other side.”

“Copy that. Keep it tight, Echo.”

Echo hung up, and I felt a rush. With Echo on board, our chances just went up.

After the call, I went to the briefing room where Nate and Madison were waiting. They both looked at me, already clued into the plan.

Nate gave me a nod. “We heard you’re going undercover to get to Kessler. That’s intense, Blaze.”

“And risky,” Madison added, giving me a look that kind of made it all worth it.

“Too many lives at stake here, Madison. We need to catch that rat before he does more damage and disappears.”

“I know, but still…” she left it unfinished.

I looked at Nate. “We may need to stage a live video with you to back up my story if Kessler wants proof I’m serious. You’ll be tied up, with a couple of scary guys behind you and a black flag  in the background. The works. You ready for that?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, of course, I’m in. That’s the least I can do.”

He paused, glanced down at the table, then added, looking a little embarrassed. “I…  look, I know I crumbled a bit after we got back to base. Not really proud of it.”

“Listen, Nate,” I said, voice low but firm, “what you went through was hell. Getting snatched by ISIS and held like that? No one walks out of that untouched. Hell, I’ve seen men break over a lot less. You handled it way better than most. You’re not just some desk jockey anymore.”

Nade nodded, my words having the effect I intended. Madison shot me a grateful look, her hand resting lightly on Nate’s shoulder.

“Just say the word if you need me to get on camera for some sort of ‘execution’ scene,” Nate said, half-laughing. But there was pride behind his words now.

“Thanks. Just that simple scene with you looking scared as hell will be all I’ll need. It’ll have to be in real time to be really convincing. I’ll give you guys a heads up if it looks like we might need it. But it just might turn out that Kessler might not need all that convincing to come out of his hole.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. The guy’s devious.”

“Well, the plan is to outsmart him. Between us, we’ll manage to do that,” I said as I stood up to leave.

Madison stood up as well and followed me to the door. “Be careful out there. You’re walking into the heart of the mafia’s world.”

I gave her a quick nod. “I’ll be fine, Madison. Got a solid team at my back.”

She stepped forward and gave me a quick hug. “Good luck, Axel.”

Then I left. This was it. One shot to bring Kessler in before he got any more agents killed.

CHAPTER 27

I rounded up my team in the dimly lit briefing room and laid out the plan.

“Alright, boys, listen up,” I said, leaning back against the edge of the table, crossing my arms. “We’re going deep cover on this one, so you might as well get acquainted with my new alias—John Moore. Echo picked it. Says it’s the name of some punk he hated back in high school.”

Raptor chuckled, crossing his arms. “Sounds like someone we can all hate.”

“Damn straight,” I nodded. “Now, John Moore is a lowlife. Real scumbag—dishonorable discharge, got kicked out of Afghanistan for running drugs and pimping out girls. Kind of guy who’d sell his own mother for a buck.”

Ninja Man cracked a grin, arms folded across his chest. “Sounds like a real charmer.”

“You bet. Moore’s a heartless SOB, ready to sell out his own country. I’ll be repping the Brothers of the Caliphate, a fictitious terror outfit, kind of the latest ‘rising star’ on the dark web. No one knows squat about it, but we’re playing it off like we’re the new flavor of terror, looking to expand with some intel.”

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Ballsy plan. You think these guys are gonna fall for the fake terror group spiel?”

I shrugged. “They’re desperate enough to sell Kessler’s intel, they’ll go for anything that looks credible. And Echo’s setting up the Brothers of the Caliphate with backdated posts, chatter from ‘members’…the whole nine yards. By the time we hit Palermo, we’ll be as legit as any outfit.”

“I guess that should work,” Hawkeye replied.

“Yeah, I guess so. But Kessler’s paranoid, and he’ll be looking to make a deal only if he thinks the buyer’s serious. And now for the icing on the cake. We’re posing as highfliers, so we’ll be rolling into Palermo like kings, shacking up in the swankiest hotel in town—joint called Palermo Palazzo.”

Ninja Man gave an approving nod. “Now that’s the kind of cover I can get behind. Nothing like playing high roller when it’s all on Uncle Sam’s dime.”

“Enjoy it while you can, ‘cause when we hit the ground, it’s gonna be all business.”

Raptor threw a sidelong glance at Hawkeye. “Swanky digs, fake terror groups… this is the kind of assignment we don’t mind, huh?”

Hawkeye shrugged with a grin. “So long as the minibar’s covered, I’m in.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Just don’t put that on the expense report. This assignment’s about as cushy as it gets, but we’ll be dealing with people who kill for sport. Stay sharp. This kind of op, the danger comes as soon as you start getting comfortable.”

They nodded, and I could see they were dialed in. This wasn’t our usual ‘kick in doors’ type of op, but with the Moretti mafia in the mix, things could go sideways in a heartbeat.

“Remember, they’ll want to vet me, probably test me out before we’re ever face-to-face with Kessler,” I said. “So we’re gonna have to make sure ‘John Moore’ is as real as it gets.”

Ninja Man gave a lazy grin, brushing some dust off his shoulder. “Trust us, Cowboy. We’ll make you look like the sleaziest traitor Sicily’s ever seen.”

“I’m sure you will. Now, grab some shut eye while you can. It’s wheels up at 0500 hours. I want every one of you squared away and ready to go. Get what sleep you can, and make sure your gear is set. Got it?”

Ninja Man cracked his knuckles, smirking. “Got it, John Moore.”

After I finished briefing the team, I called Samir in for a final farewell. He would be staying behind at Akrotiri with Davis, ready to help stage Nate’s hostage video if I needed it to bait Kessler. The guy looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here—standing around on the base while we prepped to head into Sicily’s underworld. I could see the frustration in his eyes.

“Wish you could come along, huh?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“Hell yeah, Captain,” he replied, his voice low. “Would give anything to get my hands on Kessler. Just two minutes with the man—no weapons, bare hands.”

I grinned. “Kessler’s got a reckoning coming, Samir. And when we’re done with him, he won’t be leaking anything to anyone ever again.”

“Then make it quick, Captain. Just knowing he’s out there makes my blood boil.” Samir extended his hand, and I shook it hard. He turned to my team, giving them all a final look. “Good luck, Delta. Make this one count.”

“Count on it,” Hawkeye replied.

By 0500, we were strapped into a C-130, rumbling down the runway out of Akrotiri. The plane lifted, and soon enough, we were leaving the Mediterranean behind, headed for Naval Air Station Sigonella located near Sicily’s eastern coast. The flight was short, a couple of hours, but we had been in the business long enough to use every minute. Ninja Man was already dozing, Raptor and Hawkeye were stretched out, looking like they could have been on a beach somewhere. The mood was light, all of us mentally primed.

When we touched down at Naval Air Station Sigonella, the morning light was just starting to spill across the Sicilian landscape. The base was a mix of American and Italian operations. It sprawled across many acres, blending Italian architecture with the utilitarian layout of an American military post. C-17s, fighter jets, and choppers were parked across vast tarmac stretches. The place was buzzing, but still well-disciplined, with rows of hangars, barracks, and small buildings. Even though we had left the war zones behind, the place felt very much alive.

We met up with our contact by the tarmac, who led us to a standard-issue Humvee waiting outside the base. Climbing in, we started the two-hour drive up to Palermo. Sicily was waking up, the rugged landscape transforming in the morning light. Mountains loomed in the distance, layered like giant stone fortresses, while olive trees and vineyards filled the valleys in between.

Towns were spread out, with ancient, sunbaked buildings and narrow, winding roads that seemed unchanged for centuries. Every few miles, we would pass an old church or a crumbling stone wall. It was a far cry from the chaos I had known in other parts of the world, but still tough country. If Kessler wanted to disappear here, he would have no trouble.

Around two hours later, we pulled up near the outskirts of Palermo, to a nondescript warehouse just a few blocks from the airport. Inside was a black stretch limo and a spacious Mercedes waiting for us. Beside the cars stood Anna—Davis’s hand-picked agent, a former Italian police tactical unit officer turned CIA asset. She had come down from Rome to set up our groundwork here.

Anna had that unmistakable look: lean, athletic, and dressed to blend in with a black tee, dark jeans, and a no-nonsense expression. Her dark hair was pulled back, her jaw set with the kind of confidence that only comes with serious fieldwork. Her sharp, focused eyes that swept the area without really looking, told me she had seen action before. Her stance made it clear she could physically disarm a man as easily as she could disarm with a smile.

“Captain Blaze,” Anna greeted, holding out a hand. “I’m Anna. Director Davis briefed me about everything. Basic groundwork’s in place, and we’ve got the word circulating. Locals think you’re a big player, so watch your six. The Morettis have eyes all over.”

“Appreciate it, Anna,” I replied, shaking her hand. “We’ll take it from here.”

She glanced at our gear. “You can’t move around looking like this—everything about you screams Special Ops. We’ve got to make sure you blend in. I’ve got a change of clothes for all of you on the limo’s back seat. Director Davis asked me to handpick your attire. He gave me your general descriptions. I’m sure the clothes will fit.”

“Sounds good,” I said, giving her a quick nod, and we set to work. The team offloaded our gear from the Humvee, and we moved it to the Merc’s trunk. On the limo’s back seat were four packets carrying our names. We picked them, moved inside the warehouse, and began changing into civilian clothes.

I slipped into designer T-shirt and jeans, paired with a leather jacket that looked like it belonged in a Milan fashion spread. The shoes were Italian leather, the kind that let you blend in at a VIP lounge but still move if things went sideways. A Breitling watch and sleek designer sunglasses completed the look. I caught my reflection in the limo window and almost didn’t recognize the guy staring back—John Moore, the buyer with serious cash to throw around. Not the look I would normally go for, but it was showtime.

The rest of the team kept it upscale too, slick but under the radar, fitting right in with the wealthy crowd they were playing at. Just four loaded guys looking to blow some cash and have a good time in Palermo.

When we were finished, the boys gave me a quick once-over. Ninja Man let out a low whistle. “Damn, Captain, you look about ready to buy half of Sicily.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not sure about that, but if I hear one more wisecrack, maybe I’ll just make it the whole island.”

We were ready to move, but we had decided to split up. I knew damn well I had painted a target on my back the second I decided to go as John Moore. It had “Come and get me” written all over it. That was the point. Palermo’s underworld would be buzzing with talk about the new player in town—John Moore, with cash to burn and shady connections to match. Every thug with a grudge, merc-for-hire, and wannabe wise guy would have their eyes locked on me. And some of them would want to take a shot.

But if Anna and I rolled around with Raptor, Ninja Man, and Hawkeye in tow, it might make the types we wanted to lure out go quiet. I needed to look like a ripe target, strutting around with Anna like any rich buyer with a pretty girl at his side. I would make myself a tempting hit, just easy enough to make them careless. And while they were watching me, my team would be keeping eyes on them. Once we got the lay of the players, we would figure out the exact plan.

So, after getting suited up, Anna and I climbed into the limo. The others would roll after I gave them the go-ahead. We would keep it quiet—until it was time to go loud.

CHAPTER 28

The limo’s tinted windows and plush leather interior practically screamed “money”. I slid into the back with Anna, who looked right at home in a classy jacket and aviators, blending elegance with that ex-cop grit. Soon as the door clicked shut, we were rolling.

I had been to Italy before, but Palermo had a different vibe—rugged, sun-soaked, old stone mixing with palm trees, a city with stories buried in every shadow. We passed wide stretches of golden hills, fields of olive trees dotted with shadows of old farmhouses. The city stretched out in front of us like some ancient beast—beautiful, worn, and scarred from a thousand battles.

It turned gritty and urban as we got closer to town. The city opened up around us as we moved down the narrow streets, crowded with scooters and locals out for an afternoon stroll. Palermo’s grit and grandeur were intertwined, like a boxing ring lined with gold trim. Stone buildings with crumbling plaster facades flanked us, a reminder that the city wore its history openly. In some ways, it was easy to see why the Mafia had such a stronghold here—Palermo had seen the rise and fall of empires, and there was always someone ready to step in and claim power.

“Palermo’s got its own pulse,” I observed, taking in the scene through the tinted windows. I could see Anna studying the view too, her eyes sharp, looking like she was absorbing every detail.

She nodded. “Yeah, it does. All the old-world charm on one end, crime and corruption on the other. And you’re about to step into both.”

“Give me the rundown,” I said, leaning back and watching the city spool by. “Who are the Morettis? What are we dealing with?”

Anna settled in, watching the scenery with a half-smile like she was about to tell me the juiciest secrets of the city. “Alright. Moretti family’s been around for a long time, like every mafia worth its salt in Sicily. Their boss, Roberto Moretti—he’s the classic don, as old-school as they come. Keeps the family business running like a well-oiled machine. They’ve got their claws in every piece of business here—everything from construction, shipping, smuggling, drugs, weapons, you name it. It’s big money, and they’re smart enough to know that anything high profile needs finesse.”

“But I’m guessing finesse isn’t always their first language,” I added.

She laughed dryly. “Yeah, but they’re smart. Their whole thing is adaptability. If they can’t buy you, they bury you. And it’s not just the men with guns—Roberto’s sons are in the business too. Vincenzo and Marco. Vince is next in line. He’s sharper than his dad in some ways, especially when it comes to the money. He’s more of a strategist. Marco’s the hothead, does the dirty work when he’s not racing luxury cars through town. If you cross them, Marco’s likely to be the one showing up at your door with his ‘solution’.”

“And with all that muscle, I’m guessing they have some friends in high places?” I asked.

Anna nodded. “Moretti’s been lining the pockets of a few police commanders for years, at least since the ‘90s. They fund political campaigns, do favors, pay off witnesses. Even the honest cops know when to look the other way. You want to operate in Palermo, you’ve got two options—you either join the Moretti crew, or you pay them off.”

I didn’t say it out loud, but when it came to dealing with the Morettis, I had a third option in mind—they hand over Kessler without much of a fuss, and I would leave them alone. Whatever the Morettis thought they knew, they would quickly forget and relearn the hard way once they faced Delta.

The limo made a sharp turn down Via Roma, past the old Vucciria Market, where vendors were shouting and waving goods around as we passed. I took a second to appreciate the contrast: chaos and control, and all of it run by one family who saw themselves as royalty. Not a bad racket if you didn’t mind blood on your hands.

“Are the Morettis the only game in town?” I asked Anna.

She shot me a glance. “Not really. There’s also the Carletti family—they’re based out in Catania, east of here. They’re the only ones who’ve been able to keep the Morettis on their toes. Whenever one family gets too comfortable, the other makes a play. And if there’s a big payout involved, you can bet they’ll be trying to muscle in. This place might look like a nice tourist town, but it’s one gunshot away from a war zone at any time.”

The streets started to narrow as we entered the historic center. Up ahead, I could see the Teatro Massimo—Italy’s largest opera house, all sandstone and pillars, its arches rising high above the street, a broad staircase leading up to its grand entrance.

Anna spoke up as if on cue. “That’s Teatro Massimo. The grand opera house of Palermo and the heart of its glory days. It’s massive, and all this area—Piazza Verdi, right outside Teatro—is a prime spot.”

I looked at its dome, the grand columns below it, surrounded by old, slightly crumbling buildings in yellows and golds, like it was wearing a century’s worth of dust. I remembered reading somewhere that it was the location for the scene in The Godfather where Michael Corleone’s daughter got shot. Fitting landmark for a meeting with the Moretti crew. The hotel lay just a little distance beyond the opera house.

Anna turned to me, a little more serious now. “How hard are you planning to go on this, Blaze?”

I met her gaze, a half-smile stretching across my face. “We’re Delta operators, Anna. We don’t get brought in for diplomacy. They bring us in when it’s time to play with no holds barred. There’s no second-guessing. We’ll hit as hard as necessary to get Kessler. If we’re lucky, maybe we catch a break and get Kessler clean and quiet. But with the Morettis , and with every other player in town after that intel, I’m not counting on easy.”

She chuckled, but there was respect in her eyes. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t think the Morettis have any intention of making this easy on anyone.”

The driver slowed as we approached the hotel. Palermo Palazzo towered over the street—a grand old-world hotel with marble pillars, a sweeping driveway, and valet staff decked out like they were about to meet royalty. If you were anybody who mattered in Palermo, this was where you would be.

As we pulled up, the hotel’s uniformed staff were already in motion, opening the limo doors, offering assistance, and making it all look effortless. They took our bags, barely blinking at the gear cases we kept a grip on. It was clear they had been tipped off about our arrival.

“Showtime,” I murmured to Anna as we headed inside.

The hotel lobby was just as extravagant: polished floors, crystal chandeliers, and walls lined with art that probably cost more than most people’s homes. A young woman in a sharp uniform met us, all smiles and efficiency. “Mr. Moore, your suite is ready,” she said, giving a little nod and gesturing us toward the elevators.

I raised an eyebrow. “Mind showing me the layout of the penthouse floor before we head up?”

Before we stepped out of the limo, Anna and I agreed on one thing: whatever suite they gave us, odds were it would be wired up like a damn surveillance lab. Mafia, rivals, hell, even a third-party buyer with a bit of clout—all of them would want eyes and ears on the new “big spender” blowing into town. So, we figured we would push the hotel to swap out our suite last minute. Keep anyone listening in guessing and mess with any bugs they had already set up.

My request caught the girl off guard. She hesitated, a hint of confusion in her eyes, but finally handed me a tablet with the hotel’s top floor mapped out. She pointed to a highlighted suite.

“This is the penthouse that’s been reserved. It’s one of our best suites,” she said, trying to sell it hard.

I gave a nod but shook my head as I handed the tablet back. “Yeah… I’m not getting good vibes from the direction it faces. I’ll need a different one on the same floor,” I said, my voice steady and final.

She started to stammer. “Uh, well, this suite has been prepared, and—”

“Non-negotiable,” I cut in. “If I can’t get another suite, I’ll find somewhere else.”

I felt bad for treating the girl like such a conceited asshole. But this was about life and death. With a resigned nod, she clicked a few buttons on the tablet and told us we would be placed in another room.

As we headed for the elevator, Anna turned and raised an eyebrow. “Bad vibes from the direction of the room? Really?”

I sighed, keeping my voice low. “Best I could come up with. Couldn’t bring myself to strong-arm her into changing the room. And you weren’t exactly helping, you know.”

The usually stone-faced Anna stifled a laugh. “I was having way too much fun watching you twist in the wind with that one.”

My top-floor suite, penthouse level, was a showpiece. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a bar that looked like it could keep half of Palermo drunk for a week, and views over the city that stretched to the mountains. The place was dripping with luxury, way above my pay grade, but it fit the profile.

Once the hotel employees left us alone inside the penthouse suite, Anna and I got to work, moving through the place in a tight sweep, checking every corner, outlet, light fixture—anywhere a bug or a camera could be stashed. I had done enough of these sweeps to know where to look, and so had Anna. As we had pulled a last-minute switch, the room came out clean—just as I had figured.

Anna got to work planting our own bugs—small, damn near invisible, but sharp as hell. Hidden cameras and mics, top-end stuff Echo had slipped into our gear. She knew exactly where to place them, and once everything was set up, we had eyes and ears in our own place. Echo was set to monitor the feed remotely, ready to ping me the second anyone tried slipping back in to finish what we had interrupted by switching the rooms.

It was time to get my team to check in. I gave them the all clear over comms.

CHAPTER 29

The three operators were sharing another penthouse on the same floor. While Anna set up the cameras, I headed to their quarters. When I walked in, I found them sweeping the room for hidden bugs.

“Guess we’ll have to ‘rough it’ up here in these digs,” Raptor gave me a rare smile, taking in the plush carpet and panoramic views.

“Yeah, it’s a real hardship assignment,” Hawkeye smirked.

“Don’t get used to it,” I shot back. “Next mission, we’re probably bedding down in the dirt somewhere.”

“I don’t know, man, I could get used to this,” Raptor muttered.

“Try not to steal any towels,” Hawkeye shot back.

The suite turned out to be clean. We kind of expected that. Unlike John Moore, chatter about whom was spreading on the dark web, they were supposed to be just regular guys, not on anyone’s radar.

I laid out the plan to the team. “Alright, boys, we’re mapping the lay of the land. First order of business—Ninja, Raptor, head down to the lobby separately and grab a place to hang around. Clock anyone acting even a hair off, but keep it chill. We’re not aiming to spook anyone just yet.”

Ninja leaned back. “Anyone, Captain? Pretty sure the whole world’s looking to get a piece of you right now.”

“You’ve got a point,” I replied. “Every outfit’s got eyes on Kessler’s list: ISIS, Russia, Iran, China… hell, maybe even Santa Claus if he thinks we’ve been naughty. So we keep it tight, watch our backs, and find out who’s watching us. You two head down separately, spread out, and look like you’re just killing time. Take up whatever cover you can find around the lobby, keep tabs on Anna and me when we head down. Anyone paying us more attention than their espresso, I want clocked.”

Hawkeye cut in, arms crossed, “You want me upstairs, watching the street, I’m guessing?”

“You got it. Watch the exterior—anyone showing unusual interest in our windows, back exits, or that penthouse balcony. Anna and I’ll be down in two. I’m sure that within minutes of us walking out, someone’ll be up here planting fresh bugs.”

Ninja’s eyebrows shot up. “Shouldn’t we grab them in the act and make them talk?”

“We could do that, but I’m not sure we’d get much out of them. They’re likely to be low-level operators. Surely not important enough to know where Kessler might be hiding. And there’s the risk that we blow up any chance of negotiating with the mafia.”

“So, we’re just gonna let them stroll in and plant bugs?”

“That’s the plan,” I replied. “Anna’s installing cameras as we speak. Echo will have eyes on the place, so anyone coming in will give us fresh intel. Whenever someone heads inside and start planting their little toys, Echo will be tapped in and ready to get a look at them. We let them do their thing, then give them a story to chew on. Something that’ll pull Kessler out from wherever he’s hiding.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Raptor remarked.

He and Ninja headed down to the lobby. As they left, I swung back to grab Anna, who was all done and waiting. “You ready to go make some new friends?” I asked her.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” She picked up her bag and we made our way to the elevator.

We took the elevator down, stepping out into the lobby like we had nothing to worry about, just a couple out for a stroll. We moved toward the café on the left, pretending to be chatting, while our eyes combed the place.

The first guy I clocked was seated on a couch, phone in hand, looking up every now and then. He glanced up just as we walked by. Dark hair, olive skin, bearded. Looked Middle Eastern. Probably Iranian. But that was just a guess. Our eyes met, and he looked down again—fast. Too fast.

Ninja’s voice came through the comms. “Heads-up, Cowboy. You’ve got Mr. Twitchy, ten o’clock. Been eyeballing you since you stepped outta the elevator. Dark hair, tan jacket. Definitely Middle Eastern. Maybe Iranian.”

“Copy that,” I muttered. Iranian seemed like a logical guess, though they could also be the front of a terrorist outfit. Not all outfits would have an American called John Moore working for them.

Raptor’s voice buzzed through comms. “Two more at your four o’clock. Both got the local look. One’s just pulled his phone out and making a call.”

Anna had already zeroed in on the pair. She leaned close, murmuring like we were talking vacation plans. “Yeah, classic local toughs. Second guy just made a call.”

A minute later, a man with a small briefcase made his way toward the two, before changing direction and moving toward the elevator. One of the two guys stood up and caught up with the third guy waiting for the elevator.

“I bet they’re about to pay our suite a little visit,” I murmured. “The third guy is acting as lookout to make sure we don’t suddenly change our minds and catch them in the act.”

Anna and I sat in the café, casually chatting while keeping an eye on the action around us. Echo’s voice crackling over the comms got my attention. “Heads up, Cowboy. Two guys just got inside your suite.

“They got a keycard?” I asked.

“Affirmative. Got right in. They’re talking in Italian—seem casual. One’s placing a bug under the living room table, the other’s in the bedroom. Looks like they’re planting standard listening devices.”

I grunted, keeping my face neutral. This whole setup was an open invite for anyone sniffing around for intel, and they were lining up.

A minute later, Echo was back. “Alright, they’re leaving the suite now. Looks like they’re heading back down.”

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, the two guys strolled through the lobby, all nonchalant-like, but each gave me the briefest glance. Then, one of them subtly nodded to a third guy stationed on the far side—their lookout while they played house with our suite. They didn’t linger, just exited through the main doors.

“Ninja,” I murmured into comms, “you’re on them. See if they lead you somewhere useful.”

“Roger that. On the move,” Ninja replied.

Just as I was about to call it and head back to the suite, I caught movement across the lobby. The Iranian guy was trading looks with another guy—a tall man who had just exited a black sedan in the hotel driveway and strolled into the lobby. They exchanged the kind of look that said they had business. These guys were like an amateur night at the poker table. I decided to sit back, watching. Couldn’t hurt to see what they were cooking up.

Before I could size them up, Echo was back on the comms, sounding puzzled. “Uh, Cowboy, we’ve got two more guys up there. I mean, they’re in your suite right now.”

“What? Another two? What the hell’s going on up there?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Different crew. I don’t know if they’re in on the same op or if we’ve got competing interests here.”

I looked across the lobby. “If they’ve got a lookout, I don’t see him.”

“I’ve got more news for you. These two are speaking Russian.”

Damn. Russians already on our tail? But Russians and Italians working the same suite? Something wasn’t adding up.

CHAPTER 30

My head was spinning with questions, but there was no time to answer them. If they were Russian, I needed to check if they had eyes on me in the lobby.

I called Raptor. “Anna and I are heading for the elevators. Watch for anyone getting twitchy, pulling out a phone, anything that could tip off these two new guests.”

“Copy that,” Raptor’s voice replied, calm and ready.

Anna and I rose from the table, strolling toward the elevators like we were done with our coffee break. As we waited for the elevator, Echo’s voice kicked back in, fast and clipped.

“Looks like they got the heads-up. One of them just froze, whispered something into a mic, and now they’re speeding up. They were taking their time, but now they’re installing bugs like their lives depend on it. One under the side table by the couch and another in the study.”

We stepped into the elevator as Echo confirmed it. “They’re clearing out fast, Cowboy, probably just got word that you’re on your way up.”

“How the hell are they getting updates?” I muttered, scanning the lobby one last time. I couldn’t see any obvious lookouts near us. The Iranian crew might have been possible, but it didn’t make sense that they would partner with the Russians, especially not here in Palermo.

Echo came back on the line. “Look, the only way they’re getting word that fast is if they’ve tapped into the hotel security feed. I’d bet they’re watching your every move through those security cameras. It’s how I’m watching you right now.”

I glanced up at the ceiling camera in the elevator. “You telling me I’m looking you right in the eye?”

“Right in the eye, Cowboy,” he replied, with a smirk I could practically hear. “Got your back in the system. I’ll keep tabs on the Russians.”

“Good work. Track them down. They’re all yours, Echo.”

We stepped off at our floor. Echo’s voice came back as the two Russians exited the lobby. “They’re out, on foot heading south.”

I spoke into the comm. “Raptor, keep an eye and tail them.”

“Roger that. Target in sight. I’m on them.”

Back in the suite, Anna and I got to work, putting on a little show of small talk, keeping it light as we inspected the bugs the Italians and Russians had planted. Anna kept up a stream of random chatter about sightseeing, while we checked the four bugs—two from the Italians, two from our Russian guests. We didn’t touch a thing—just took note of where they had dropped them, two in the living room and another two back in the bedroom. They were good enough, wouldn’t even be noticeable unless you knew where to look.

Now that we knew the mafia had ears on us, it was time to give them something to chew on, force them to make a move. I was stuck until they decided to reach out and feel me out. The best bet was to get them curious enough to come to me. That had a hell of a better shot than going after the guys who planted the bugs, trying to shake them down. Those guys were probably low-level muscle, with barely a clue where Kessler was stashed. And if the Morettis even sniffed that I was after Kessler, he would vanish into thin air.

So yeah, it was drama time.

I turned to Anna, gave her a nod, and said, “Time to make my call back to Jordan, let the Brothers of the Caliphate know I’ve landed in Palermo and am waiting on the Morettis to make their move.”

Anna didn’t miss a beat. “Well, John,” she said, slipping into my alias for the benefit of our listeners, “I don’t like those guys you’re mixing with. The Brothers—they give me the creeps.”

I shrugged. “It’s just business, babe. It’s all about the money. They pay, I deliver. That’s all that matters.” I kept my tone dismissive, indifferent, throwing out just what our eavesdroppers needed to hear.

She played along perfectly. “Well, you know, you’re risking a lot just to chase a payday. I just hope this deal’s worth it.”

I chuckled. “Ten million says it is.”

“Well, when you put it that way… But you really think they’ll hand over the information, just like that?”

“Money talks,” I said, keeping my tone confident. “Once they know I’ve got an open check, they’ll want to talk. Soon as I flash the numbers, they’ll be begging to hand it over.”

Anna raised a curious eyebrow. “So who are these guys anyway? These Brothers of the Caliphate?”

“Let’s just say they’ve been in the shadows for a while,” I replied, leaning back, tossing out some backstory for our eavesdropping friends. “They’re not some half-baked group. They’re based out in Jordan, smart enough to stay off the grid, but they’re funded by some powerful friends in the Gulf who keep them flush with cash—big players who want influence over what’s going down across borders.”

Anna leaned in, pretending she was genuinely interested. “Sounds like they know how to work the money game.”

“They’ve got it nailed down. Brothers don’t have the spotlight on them like ISIS or some other outfits, but they keep their eyes on them. Whenever ISIS makes a mess, these guys are watching from the sidelines. And when the chance came to snatch that CIA analyst Nate from ISIS, they jumped on it. Now, they’re holding him like a prized asset, and I’m about to help them make a killing on this list of CIA assets.”

Anna sighed, playing it perfectly, keeping her voice low. “Well, if they’re so sharp, why didn’t you tell them I was with you?”

I leaned back, chuckling. “Nah, wouldn’t sit well with them. Let’s just say they’d think you’d be a ‘distraction’. Might give them the impression I wasn’t all business here in Palermo.”

She smirked, a little flirtatious edge to her voice for the show. “So… am I distracting you, John?”

I laughed, playing right along. “Not at all, sweetheart,” I said, flashing a grin. “I think I can handle it.”

With that, I nodded, and Anna gave me the go-ahead. I had already prepped Samir back in Cyprus, and he was waiting. I dialed the number, put the call on speaker, and Samir answered in the gravely measured tone that he used when posing as Hafiz, the mysterious leader of the Brothers of the Caliphate.

“John,” Samir’s voice came through, low and sharp, playing his role like a natural. “You’re in Palermo?”

“Yes, Hafiz. Checked into the hotel. I insisted on a last-minute room change to make sure we’re not bugged.”

Samir didn’t miss a beat, going full paranoid. “And you checked the new room, yes? You’re sure it’s clean?”

I kept my tone even. “Took a look around when I checked in. Looked clean.”

I could practically hear the eavesdropping Russians and Italian stifling chuckles, thinking they had us fooled.

A moment passed, and then Samir came back. “The word’s out there. They’ll come to you soon enough. And remember, you’ve got something no one else has. Everyone wants that CIA list, but we have the upper hand—we have the analyst who slipped through ISIS’s fingers. The world will learn soon enough—one may escape from ISIS, but not from the Brothers of the Caliphate.”

“Good to hear,” I replied, not missing a beat. “You think I’ll be able to lock this down without any interference?”

“Money is no barrier,” Hafiz answered smoothly. “If it means sealing this deal, you have our permission to go ten million above any other bid. Whatever it takes.”

“That’s all I need,” I said, feeling every word land.

“Good. I expect results, John.”

A moment later, Hafiz clicked off, and I looked at Anna. The game had begun.

CHAPTER 31

I had just ended the call with Samir when Raptor came over the comms, giving me the rundown on our Russian friends.

“Boss, your two Russians took a casual stroll near the hotel, didn’t seem to be doing much. Then one guy got a call, and they headed back to the hotel. I followed them to the elevators, held back, then checked when they stopped. Nineteenth floor—right below you.”

“Echo confirm where they got off?” I asked.

“Yes,” Raptor replied. “They went straight inside a room.”

“Good. That must be their nest on the nineteenth. Hold position in the lobby.”

“Roger,” he replied.

I waited a beat, then asked Ninja Man for a sitrep.

Ninja’s voice came in low. “Italians hit a bar, Cowboy. Place called The Velvet Room. Nice joint, but too many of the locals look like they’re in the business of breaking bones on request. Muscle everywhere, like a ‘who’s-who’ of Sicily’s finest goons. Want me to hang tight or fall back?”

“Stick around. Get a drink, hang on to it. Maybe order a bite. Just sit tight and keep your head down, and for the love of God, don’t start anything. Last thing we need is a rumble breaking out before we’re ready to flip the switch.”

“Copy that, Captain sir. I’ll save the fun for later,” he replied.

Just as I wrapped up the call, the hotel phone rang. I answered, and the receptionist’s voice was shaky. “Sir, there’s a visitor for you in the lobby.”

“Who’s it?” I asked, a little puzzled.

“Mr. Luca Carbone,” she said, almost whispering the name like it might bite her.

I could guess it must be some mafia guy, possibly known and feared in the city—not the kind of guy a regular girl working an honest job would want to spend much time associating with.

I jotted down Luca Carbone on the notepad next to the phone and turned it toward Anna, raising an eyebrow. She scanned the name, nodded, and gave me a thumbs-up, scrawling Mafia lieutenant beneath it. We had hit the mark.

I told the receptionist, “Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

There was a pause before she came back nervously. “Sir, Mr. Carbone says he’d like to come up to your suite.”

Firmly, I replied, “Tell him I’m on my way to the lobby. He can wait there.”

I would be damned if I would let Carbone stroll up to my room on his terms.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, her voice tight. “He’s waiting… so please come as soon as possible.”

As soon as the line went dead, I looked over at Anna. It was all there in her expression—Bingo. The walls had ears, so we kept it wordless, grabbed what we needed, and stepped out.

Down the hall, I hit the button for the elevator. When the doors chimed open, we were in for a surprise—we came face-to-face with three guys, two of whom were the same Russians who had bugged the room.

When they saw us, their eyes flickered—just a beat of recognition before they put on the pretense of stepping aside for us, like they were on the wrong floor. But I saw it in their body language—the rigid stances, the hand adjustments on loose-fitting jackets. They were strapped, and I could feel the tension snapping tight.

Echo’s voice came softly through the comms in my ear, “Heads up, Cowboy. Your three friends here might be looking to cause some trouble. I’ve got eyes on two more waiting on the nineteenth floor. Something’s up.”

I didn’t have to wonder. The puzzle pieces automatically clicked into place. That call to Hafiz, where I had dangled the carrot of ten million dollars—it had ruffled some feathers. The Russians weren’t here for small talk; they wanted me out of the game. As soon as the elevator stopped on the nineteenth floor, I would find the three guys’ guns digging into my ribs. With their pals blocking the way, there would be nowhere to run. Their own dig was on the same floor—they could simply dump us there.

Good plan. Just one problem—I was on to them.

I had about a second to decide. I could step back, avoid the mess that was bound to happen, and let the doors close. But stepping back meant showing my cards, and they would know I was onto them. And if I walked away now, they would just try again, maybe from another angle, and I would be stuck with a second surprise waiting to pop up. With the mafia and so many other players to deal with, I would have too much on my plate later. Better to settle things here and now.

There was also another thing—the option of stepping back could only be theoretical. These guys could very well pull their guns and order us to get inside. They had caught us by surprise and had the upper hand at that moment. The only way to turn the tables was to spring the surprise back at them.

I decided to deal with them head-on and leave fewer problems for later. As if to help me make up my mind, Anna’s hand slipped onto my arm, and she met my eyes with a look that said, I’m ready when you are. I gave her a slight nod, then muttered, “Time to party”, a heads-up for her and for Echo, so he knew I had received his message. I caught the Russians’ eyes and flashed a grin, letting them chew on that for a beat.

As I stepped inside, I flexed my wrists, feeling that familiar twinge as I got ready for close-quarters action. Fighting multiple opponents is always about movement—using space to your advantage so you didn’t get swallowed by numbers. In an elevator, though, all that freedom went out the window. The tight space didn’t leave much room to move.

So this would come down to the basics—power strikes that hit fast and took them out, one by one. No fancy techniques—this was down and dirty. Punch, elbow, knee, headbutt, eye gouge. Anything that could drop a man quickly. I had blades in my boot sheaths, waiting if things got rough, but with Anna in the mix, I would have to play this clean and fast. While Anna looked like she could hold her own, I would only know how she would handle herself when we were in the middle of the chaos.

The last thing I needed was to be caught in the middle with men coming at me from all directions. Only place to be was against the wall, ready to go off like a powder keg.

I slid an arm around Anna’s waist, stepping back against the wall and pulling her in close like I was just another guy out with his girl. She caught on without missing a beat, leaning into me with a soft laugh and resting her head against my shoulder—just a couple of lovebirds. It was a good act, enough to keep those Russians on edge. They sidestepped, eyeing each other, staying quiet. They never caught my words whispered to Anna: “Wait for my cue. Take the one closest to you.”

From the moment the doors clicked shut, I knew we had about eight seconds until the elevator hit the nineteenth floor. Two seconds to start the descent, four seconds going down, and two seconds to come to a halt and open again. That was it—that slim margin was all we had to finish these guys before the doors slid open to their waiting backup.

The pieces were set—one man to my right; a second guy in front, facing the door, blocking our way out; and a third to Anna’s left, way out of my reach. This was about to get loud.

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing us in with the three Russians who looked relaxed, like they thought they were just babysitting a rich fool and his girl. I kept up the act, letting Anna stay close, all cozy, so the boys wouldn’t think twice about us. They were calm, maybe even a little smug, thinking they had us boxed in.

Our eight-second clock had started ticking. It was showtime. I leaned in, whispering just loud enough for Anna to hear, “Now”.

I drove my elbow into the throat of the guy standing to my right, landing the strike hard and deep. I felt his windpipe crunch under the blow, and he staggered, clutching his neck and gasping for air, effectively out of the fight for a few critical seconds.

Next up was the man blocking our way out. He was a pro—the way his hand darted to his jacket, ready to draw and turn to face us in one smooth motion, told me he had done this before. But he didn’t have time. Or the room. I was already in his space, slamming my boot into the side of his knee with everything I had. I heard the snap, and he went down hard, his knee buckling in a way nature never intended. Medial collateral ligament—done.

Two seconds gone. Elevator dropping.

With his balance shot, he staggered. I drove a knuckle punch right into the side of his neck, just below the ear, crushing the vagus nerve. Lights out. He crumpled sideways into the wall and slid to the floor like a sack of concrete.

I didn’t break stride. I spun on my heel, reached for the man still clutching his neck and gasping, seized him by the hair, and yanked his head down. My knee came up like a piston, smashing into his face with a satisfying crunch. Blood spattered, and his body went limp as he hit the deck.

To my left, Anna didn’t waste a second. As soon as I had elbowed the first guy, she had slammed her knee into the crotch of the man next to her with brutal precision. He crumpled, his face twisting in agony as he folded forward. Anna grabbed him by the back of the neck, using his momentum to drive his face into her knee in one brutal strike. His nose crunched as her knee connected, and his body went limp.

Anna wasted no time slipping a piece out from his jacket—a Russian MP-443 Grach, the standard-issue sidearm for the Russians, reliable as hell and packing a 9x19mm punch, with a magazine that would make sure her aim didn’t have to be too pretty. I had grabbed a matching gun from the other guy by that time.

Five seconds on the clock, with three still to spare. All three guys were down, sprawled in an unconscious pile as the elevator slowed and came to a stop a second later.

The doors parted with a hiss, and on the other side stood two more Russians, hands buried in their jackets, ready to draw. But they froze at the sight of their three buddies sprawled out unconscious around us, like a lesson in tactical overconfidence. A more urgent concern for them was the two Grachs aimed dead-center at their faces. The MP-443’s slim profile may not look intimidating, but at close range, with those 9mm rounds ready to punch through flesh and bone, you don’t screw around. One wrong move and they would be eating lead.

Their hands hovered in their jackets, but their faces told me they knew they were cooked.

“Hands out. Slow and easy,” I ordered, voice low but clear enough for them to get I wasn’t there to play.

They didn’t need to be told twice.

CHAPTER 32

The men complied, easing their hands out of their jackets and raising them in the air.

“Good. Now, take out your weapons, place them on the floor. No sudden moves,” I ordered.

They gave each other a quick glance, but I didn’t let it slide.

“Now,” I repeated, eyes narrowed.

They did as told, pulling out two Grach pistols and setting them on the floor like they were handling live grenades. One of them cast a quick look to his fallen comrades. His jaw clenched, but he stayed smart enough to keep his hands up.

With two guns on the floor and the two Russians watching my every move, I mulled over my next play. With the three bodies behind us, we had a full house of trouble, and I had about a half-second to decide what the hell to do with them. Maybe knock the last two out cold, take them back to their room on the nineteenth floor, and strike while I still had the advantage.

Thing was, they probably had more of their goons down there, too. And with their access to the hotel’s security feed, they would already know I had taken out their comrades, which meant they would be coming back loaded for bear any second. One way or the other, I had to get ahead of them.

I was weighing the odds when Echo’s voice came through on comms.

“Cowboy, you’re clear. I ran interference on the hotel’s camera feed. Security cams are in a loop—no one can see what’s going on here,” he said.

It was as if he had read my mind. That was the heaviest thing weighing on me at that moment.

“Good thinking,” I replied, feeling relieved.

“You’ve got two choices: take them up to your suite on twenty, or, better yet, steer them back to their own room on nineteen. I’d go with their room—keeps things simple, fewer eyes if you move on their turf. Plus, you don’t want any staff stumbling into your suite and finding five Russians out cold on the floor.”

“Second option sounds cleaner,” I replied, keeping my tone low. I shifted my stance, but kept my weapon aimed squarely at their chests.

Echo sighed, sounding almost apologetic. “Sorry I messed up earlier, didn’t give you a heads-up on the elevator ambush. I was multi-tasking when Raptor hit me up for confirmation on their floor. Saw them get out on nineteen and got pulled into the rest. Didn’t catch them hopping back up to you with another guy.”

“Forget it, Echo,” I said. “Your running interference is a life saver.”

I turned to the two men in front of me. “Who else is in your room?”

Their eyes flicked to each other, then back to me. “No one,” one of them said, scowling. “It’s just us—five-man team.”

That tracked, from an op standpoint, but I gave them fair warning. “If I walk in there and find anyone else, you’ll be the first two to catch a bullet. Clear?”

They nodded, shoulders sagging. “There’s no one,” one of them muttered.

I gave them a once-over, looking for any sign of nerves or a lie, but they seemed solid.

I keyed my comms and spoke to Raptor. “I need you up on the nineteenth floor. Room 1902. We’ve got a situation to tidy up.”

“Roger. On my way,” Raptor replied.

I looked at the two men again. “Alright,” I said, gesturing toward the elevator. “Pick up your pals, one each. Head to your room. And don’t try anything funny—my partner here’s got a real twitchy trigger finger and won’t hesitate to put a hole in you if you even think about it.”

Anna’s steady aim made that point real clear, and they shifted uneasily as they bent down, grabbing their unconscious teammates and hefting them up on their shoulders. I grabbed the third, throwing him over mine. He wasn’t light, but in this line of work, you got used to hauling weight. I nudged them forward, keeping them at gunpoint as we moved down the hall.

At their room, one of them fumbled a key card out of his pocket and slid it through the lock. The door clicked open, and they went in first, setting their friends down and straightening up slowly. The place was empty, just like they said.

I did a quick scan. Room was clear—no surprises. Typical layout, with a couple of beds, a TV bolted to the wall, and a study table in the corner with a pile of surveillance gear, a couple of laptops, and a maze of cables. It looked like their command center, complete with audio feeds and monitors—they had set up shop, all right.

I ordered the two still-conscious Russians down. “Face down on the floor,” I commanded, keeping my voice steady but cold as steel. They shot each other looks, hesitating, but the guns in mine and Anna’s hands made them think twice. They got down on their knees and began to flatten out on the carpet when I saw my opening and took it. In one swift move, I brought the butt of my pistol down on the back of one of the guy’s head, knocking him out cold. A second later, Anna did the same, dropping her guy with one efficient swing.

I checked my watch. Luca Carbone, Moretti’s pet snake, was still down in the lobby. I had deliberately made him cool his heels, but time was ticking, and I didn’t want him frustrated enough to bail before I got answers.

I turned to Anna. “Gotta head to the lobby. Left Luca Carbone down there to stew long enough. Last thing I need is him stomping off pissed and ruining my chance.”

She nodded, checking her gun and moving into position. “Go ahead. I’ve got this under control until Raptor shows.”

“Appreciate it.” I turned to leave, and she stopped me.

“Blaze,” she said, lowering her voice, “watch your step with Luca. They call him the Viper for a reason. He’s the Moretti’s fixer, lethal and discreet. He’s made a few people vanish over the years. Quietly.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said with a quick nod.

Right then, Raptor stepped in, taking in the scene with an arched eyebrow.

I keyed Echo on the comms. “Echo, I’ve got the Russians’ laptops in hand here. Go through everything—maybe we’ll get a lead on Kessler.”

Echo’s voice came back with a spark of eagerness. “Copy that, Cowboy. I’ll send you a link. Once you open it on one of their machines, I’ll have remote access.”

I tossed one last glance at the mess on the floor and nodded to Anna and Raptor. “Raptor, Anna’ll fill you in. I gotta get moving.”

Anna pointed at a small spatter of blood on my right knee, leftover from smashing one Russian’s face into it. I gave her a quick grin and walked out toward the elevator. I didn’t have time to change, and a little blood spatter would hardly be all that noticeable.

The elevator let me out on the lobby floor, and as I stepped out, the first thing I clocked was the three Iranians still parked at three different positions in the lobby. It looked like those guys sure had a lot of time to kill.

My eyes rested next on the receptionist behind the desk. Pretty girl, barely twenty. Dark hair, dark sparkling eyes, which lit up the second she saw me, as if some kind of savior had just appeared.

She practically sprinted out from behind the reception, throwing glances toward the bar at the far end of the lobby, her nerves dancing. Poor kid looked like she had seen a ghost. The name tag on her jacket said Bianca.

“Mr. Moore,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “Luca Carbone has been—”

“Waiting impatiently?” I cut her off with a grin. “Let me guess, Bianca, that Luca guy got you pretty worked up?”

Her face gave it all away—Luca had put the fear of God into her, and she was doing her best not to crack. Must be one hell of a scary character. But I wanted to put the girl at ease.

“Hope he hasn’t been too much trouble?” I asked, playing it easy.

She swallowed, obviously not sure what to say. “Uh—no, it’s just…”

She struggled to figure out a polite way to answer, but I just shook my head and chuckled, saving her the struggle. “Don’t worry about it, Bianca. He’s just some guy who watched ‘Godfather’ one too many times. I’ll set him right. No big deal.”

A smile cracked on her face, genuine this time. “Thanks.”

I patted her shoulder. “No problem. Back to your post, soldier.” I gave her a playful salute, and she laughed, seeming about ten pounds lighter as she walked back to the desk.

As I turned and headed toward the bar, I clocked the three Iranian guys. They were still hanging around. I wasn’t sure what they were up to. I could only guess they were planning to tail me wherever I went. With the Russians out of the picture, I had less to worry about. I ignored them for the time being and carried on.

I clocked Luca Carbone before I even stepped into the bar. The guy radiated menace. His deep-set, dark eyes scanned the room with a quiet intensity, and his jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. He wore a well-tailored suit that somehow amplified his cold, calculating stare. This guy wasn’t just intimidating; he was a walking statement, one that screamed: Mess with me and I’ll make you disappear. I understood why the receptionist looked like she had seen a ghost.

This was going to be interesting.

Luca looked like he had been born leaning against walls in dark corners, his eyes doing a slow sweep of every person who came in, sizing them up. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of making eye contact. I wasn’t here to play his game; I was here to make a point. So I played it cool, ignoring him and heading straight for the bartender.

“Hey,” I said, casually resting an elbow on the bar. “I heard some guy called Luca was looking for me.”

The bartender froze for a split second, eyes flickering to Luca. He shifted uncomfortably before speaking. “Uh… that’s Mr. Luca Carbone,” he said, throwing his eyes in Luca’s direction like he was expecting me to kneel.

With a slow walk, I crossed the room and stopped in front of Luca, giving him the same casual look I would give a guy in line at the grocery store. He didn’t make any move—just studied me, looking me over with that kind of cold, annoyed stare I had seen on a hundred other guys who thought the world owed them a red carpet.

His voice came out low, ice-cold. “I’ve been waiting a long time, Moore. I’m not used to waiting.”

I gave him a slight grin, entirely unfazed. “Look, I’m not here on vacation. I’ve got things to do too. So how about we skip the small talk and you get to the point?”

The line landed right where I wanted it. A little twitch in his jaw gave away the surprise he was trying to hide, but he quickly recovered, his stare hardening.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he finally said, voice low and edged with menace. “This is Palermo. I’m here on behalf of the Moretti family. Nothing happens here without our approval.”

I held his gaze, not giving him an inch. “Good for them. But I’m here for business. Same reason you’re here, or else, you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

He nodded, not breaking eye contact. “I know. That’s why I’m here—to make sure John Moore is for real.”

I raised an eyebrow, letting a smirk show. “I’m standing right here, aren’t I? This is as real as it gets.”

Luca’s face twisted in a faint, mocking grin. “Your outfit—the Brothers of the Caliphate—doesn’t really have a reputation that’s known outside a few backwater hellholes. Not the type we normally deal with.”

“Well, I never heard of the Morettis until last night,” I shot back without missing a beat, flashing him a grin that was more teeth than humor.

Luca’s mouth twisted into a sneer, trying to get back on solid ground. “How does an American end up representing an Islamic terror outfit?” he asked, voice thick with mockery. “That’s a funny combination.”

I held his gaze, calm and unblinking. “That’s rich, coming from a mafia fixer—a man who makes people disappear for a living.”

His expression flickered with surprise. It was a small reaction, but I caught it, and I knew I had hit a nerve. “I see you’ve done some digging. Interesting,” he said.

I kept my tone steady. “I’m not in Palermo to buy a packet of chips. Big bucks are involved. The Brothers picked me for a reason; I don’t come to a buyer without knowing who I’m dealing with. So, you want to make sure I’m legit? Fair enough. But let’s not pretend I came here unprepared.”

That initial edge of irritation still lingered, but I could see the gears turning in his head, recalculating. He held my gaze for a moment longer before reaching into his pocket, pulling out a burner phone, and tossing it onto the table. “Fine. You’ll get a call on this within the hour,” he said, his words short, final.

I picked up the phone, barely giving it a glance. “Sure. I’ll be ready.”

With that, I turned and walked out, leaving him without so much as a handshake. I could feel his stare, cold and assessing, following me out. I knew I had passed this little test. I was in. Luca would go back and tell his bosses, and soon enough, they would reach out again, and this time it would be with someone who could actually make a deal and would hopefully know something about Kessler’s whereabouts.

This game had just begun.

CHAPTER 33

As I stepped out of the bar, I cast a glance toward the reception desk. Bianca, the girl behind the reception, caught my eye. She flashed me a smile so bright I could almost feel it from where I stood. It was good to see the relief on her face, knowing she had stopped sweating about Luca looming in her lobby. Guess my little pep talk helped. I gave her a quick nod, and she practically beamed.

Then I set my sights on the grand stairway that led up to the second floor. The place had been designed to impress—two massive, sweeping staircases carved out of some glossy marble. They led up to a wide-open seating area with a spread of luxury couches. From up there, you could see everything: the lobby floor below, the hotel entrance, and anyone trying to sneak in or out.

Once I was up top, I leaned against the railing, scanning the area, keeping one eye on the bar’s exit. Sure enough, about a minute later, Luca strolled out, phone glued to his ear. He talked low, his face as unreadable as a slab of concrete. I watched him take long strides across the floor toward the entrance, just as a valet pulled up in a dark Italian sedan. It was a Maserati—classic lines, dark gray paint, the kind of ride a mafia fixer would drive. Classy enough to blend in, quiet enough not to draw attention.

I strolled over to the nearby window, kept things casual, and clocked the license plate number. Out of habit, I discreetly snapped a couple of quick shots on my phone, getting his profile as he walked out and headed for the car. If this was about to go down the way I expected, this info could come in handy real soon.

As soon as he was out the door, I buzzed Anna, asking her to come down and meet me on the second floor. While she made her way down, I got on comms with Ninja.

“Ninja, you copy?”

“Loud and clear, Cowboy,” he replied. “What’s the word?”

“Had a mafia fixer come by to pay me a little visit. Name’s Luca,” I said, scanning the street as Luca’s car pulled away from the hotel. “They took the bait.”

Ninja chuckled on the other end. “Sounds like Samir nailed it with the Hafiz routine.

“Oh, he did. Put on quite a show.”

“What was the carrot?”

“He dangled an extra ten million on top of any other offer, and they were scrambling to bite,” I replied, smirking.

“Nothing like a little green to bring everyone out to play. Guessing you’re expecting a bigger fish to hit you up soon?”

“Yep. Luca handed me a burner. I’m just waiting for the next call—the one that’ll be all business. I’ll send you a mugshot and license plate in case he drops into that mafia dive to talk business.”

“Copy that,” Ninja said. “I’m guessing this Luca dude wasn’t really a charmer.”

I chuckled. “Think mean, and then dial it up a few notches.”

“I get the picture. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”

Next, I patched over to Raptor. “What’s the sitrep?”

“All five Russians are out cold and cuffed—hands and ankles,” he replied, sounding pleased. “They’re not moving a damn inch. Want me to keep them here?”

“Affirmative. Hang tight for now,” I replied.

Anna had joined me by then. I gave her a recap of my conversation with Luca and how I was set to get a call from the Morettis any minute on the burner.

“Need me to do anything?” she asked.

“Yeah, we can’t have you or Raptor watching over the Russians all day. We might need to move out soon. Can you source something strong enough that’ll keep them lights out for a few hours?”

She didn’t need to think. “Not a problem. I’ve got a source who can get midazolam. One shot and they’ll be out for hours. I need half an hour, tops.”

“Perfect,” I replied. “Let’s get it handled. The quicker, the better.”

As she made a call, the phone vibrated in my hand. My burner was ringing.

“Showtime,” I said to Anna, then clicked the line open.

A voice I didn’t recognize came through. “John Moore? Someone from the Moretti family wants to meet you, take this thing further.”

I couldn’t resist. “So, Luca’s job was just to play courier boy and hand me the phone?” My tone had more than a hint of sarcasm, and I knew it would get under his skin.

A low chuckle followed. “You could say Luca was there to make sure you’re not wasting our time,” he said, the tone becoming less gruff.

“Guess I’m genuine enough,” I replied.

“Well, the question’s still up in the air. But there’s one thing Luca is convinced about—that you’ve got a big mouth. And that’s not good for your health.”

“Well, I’m shaking in my boots, pal,” I shot back, deadpan. “Try not to scare me too much, huh?”

“Can’t quite figure you out, Moore,” he said, the amusement creeping back. “Can’t tell if you’re just dumb enough to act tough in Moretti territory… or you just don’t give a damn. Which is it?”

I let a pause hang in the air, then replied coolly, “That’s for you to figure out. How about we cut the crap and get to where we’re meeting?”

There was a pause, before he continued. “Fontana Pretoria. Palermo’s famous fountain. Walk. No taxi, no car—just put one foot in front of the other. Head left out of the hotel, then right at the first intersection. Five minutes down, and you’re there.”

“Why the scenic route? Never heard of taking a stroll to a meet-up,” I replied, already knowing his answer but wanting to see if he would tip his hand.

He chuckled again. “You’ll understand when you get there, soldier,” he said, clearly testing if I would take the bait on the military dig. “Half a mile’s nothing for a guy like you.”

It was good to know he had done his research on John Moore, the disgraced soldier. Meant that he was serious about the whole thing.

“So you’ve done your research, huh? Well, fair enough, but let’s get one thing straight—I’m not here to play games all day. This better lead to something specific.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be talking business soon enough.” The line went dead.

I hung up and turned to Anna, who had already picked up most of the conversation  and pieced together what was about to go down.

“Want me to shadow you, or tag along?” she asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They’re probably putting me on foot so they can watch my every move. They’d clock anyone trailing me. Better if I run this alone. But when I walk out, keep an eye on those three Iranians still hanging around the lobby. See if they follow.”

“Will do.”

“And after that, avoid our bugged suite. Let these guys assume you’re out on some shopping trip and there’s no one around. Let them get bored of keeping tabs on the bugs they’ve planted.”

Anna nodded.

I headed out of the hotel, turned left, and then right. Anna’s voice soon came through the earpiece. “Blaze, they’re up and moving. Spread out a bit, but they’re following.”

“Copy that. I’ll keep them in sight.”

I slipped through the foot traffic, catching glimpses of the Iranians’ positions in the glass reflections of shops and cafes that lined the streets. They weren’t really subtle, but they weren’t rookies either.

The walk led me through a tight lane of cafés and small stores, a few tucked-away artisan shops thrown in the mix, colorful canopies draped above doors, the smell of roasting coffee drifting out of the open cafes. People moved slowly, soaking up the afternoon, chatting over glasses of wine, barely noticing the lone American walking past or the trio tailing me. Just another day in Palermo’s old town.

Then the street opened up, spilling into the square called Piazza Pretoria. The Fontana stood at the center like it owned the place—marble statues surrounding it, faces carved in such detail they looked almost alive. Renaissance-style sculptures stared down, stony and serene, as if they had seen it all before.

I walked slowly toward the fountain, taking it all in, but my instincts were keyed up. I scanned the scene, clocking every angle and assessing cover points—old habits that kicked in on instinct. I strolled right up to the fountain, positioning myself near the edge to keep a good view of the square’s entrances and exits.

Then, the burner buzzed again, almost on cue.

I brought it to my ear, waiting a beat before saying anything. The voice came through smooth, sounding a little too satisfied with the cat-and-mouse routine. “Walk fifty yards west. Toward Via Maqueda.”

“Appreciate the walking tour,” I said, keeping my tone flat, “but I might lose interest if this doesn’t go somewhere.”

The voice chuckled. “Your tour’s over, Mr. Moore. Now walk.”

I looked up, and there he was—leaning casually against the hood of a shiny red Ferrari 812 Superfast parked at the curb, gleaming like something off a showroom floor. The guy was mid-twenties, well-built, and with that Italian model look—dark hair, sharp jaw, but with a cold edge in the eyes and the kind of grin that could charm you or cut you, depending on his mood.

The Ferrari itself was the kind of machine that got second looks and envy from car guys everywhere. Red as a firehouse and glossy enough to reflect every detail of the piazza. Its V12 engine could pull off zero to sixty miles in less than three seconds—a car meant to scream money and power without a second thought. The purr it made sitting idle sounded like a big cat just waiting for a reason to shred. Everything about the guy said: “Made Man.”

The guy waved with that easy confidence that spoke of money and power. Beside him stood two thickset men in dark suits, arms crossed and looking like they lived for one purpose: enforcing whatever order this kid dished out.

I made my way over, stopping just short. The two beefy guards shifted slightly, clearly sending the message that any sudden moves would have consequences. I didn’t bother with pleasantries or small talk, just fixed my eyes on the man.

He watched me, that friendly-but-not smile lingering for a second longer before he said, “I’m Marco. Marco Moretti.”

I didn’t react. Not a twitch. His eyes flicked over me as if he was waiting for a response, maybe a hint of any emotion on my face, but I kept still, watching him, waiting. His last name had probably sent a few people running for cover, but I kept my expression blank, holding his gaze. He hesitated, before deciding that offering his hand wasn’t worth the risk of embarrassment if I ignored it, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

After a moment, I said, “You already know my name.”

“Right. John Moore.” He tried to look amused, like he had the upper hand, but I saw his fingers drum against the Ferrari hood.

“So, is this where you plan to talk business?”

He shook his head, recovering his poise. “No. We’re going for a drive. And I hope you understand—my men are going to have to frisk you.”

I couldn’t help but note that he felt the need to explain. A good sign. He was treating me as an equal, or close to it, not just some two-bit player.

“Go ahead.” I gave a slight nod. The two heavies patted me down methodically, hands checking every inch for hidden weapons. Finding nothing, they stepped back, giving Marco a nod.

Marco gestured to the passenger side, his smirk back in place. “Hop in. We’ll drive and talk.”

One of his meatheads stepped up and yanked open the passenger door for me, a little too eager to show he was in control. I slid into the low leather seat, letting the door click shut beside me.

I was entering deeper into the heart of the beast, and if everything lined up right, Kessler was waiting at the end of this little tunnel. I kept my gaze straight ahead, my mind only on the endgame. Kessler was hiding somewhere in the dark, and soon enough, I would have my hands around his throat—if I could play this right.

CHAPTER 34

The Ferrari’s engine growled like a caged beast when Marco revved it—a deep, visceral rumble that rattled through the chassis and into my gut. Marco gunned the engine a couple of times, mainly for me to be suitably impressed, and the power rolled through the car like a surge from a defibrillator.

I had been in military-grade vehicles for the last few years, but this beast of a machine was a different kind of power—a ferocious, barely caged force beneath the hood, and it wasn’t even unleashed yet. When he finally punched the throttle, we shot forward like a slingshot released. I had to admit—the machine had punch.

Riding shotgun with a mob boss at the wheel wasn’t really my thing, but for now, I kept my eyes sharp and waited for Marco to make his move. Behind us, the dark Maserati with Marco’s muscle in tow slid into formation, the perfect shadow. Same understated class as Luca’s ride, only the stakes here felt twice as high.

As we left the heart of Palermo, the road stretched out as we curved along Palermo’s northern coast, Sicily’s answer to all things rugged and picturesque. To the north lay the Tyrrhenian Sea, a deep expanse rolling from there to the Italian mainland, its dark blue waters adding an edge of mystery to the coastline. Sicily’s coastline had two faces: to the north, the Tyrrhenian’s depth and unyielding waves, and to the south, the warmer, sandier pull of the Mediterranean. It was no small wonder this place had been a crucible of conflicts, smuggling routes, and trade for centuries.

Marco pulled us onto Via Messina Marina, the road curving along the sea’s edge, and let the car rip on the short stretches where the road opened up. The car ate up the road like a beast starved, engine growling low in a way that only a machine this fine could. It was a picture-perfect day, with the blue sea on one side and a historic city at our backs. But I wasn’t there for a postcard view. And neither was Marco there for a cruise. He was sizing me up, deciding if John Moore was worth his time and risk.

He glanced over, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me something, John Moore, how come the Brothers of the Caliphate haven’t ever made it into the news?”

I met his gaze for a beat, then shot back. “How much of your business makes it to the papers, Marco Moretti?”

He grinned, conceding the point. “Alright, fair enough.”

“The truth is, even I hadn’t heard of them until a few days ago, not until they reached out to me. I took the deal when I figured they were sharp. They keep to the shadows, not just another outfit of fanatic nutjobs.” I paused, throwing in a bit of disdain. “Wouldn’t have touched them otherwise. I only signed on because they prefer the shadows as much as I do.”

Marco nodded, digesting it. “But how does an American ex-soldier get so comfortable dealing with people who’d take out any CIA asset they could get their hands on?”

“Guess you did your homework on me,” I replied, adding a hard edge to my tone. “I’m sure you know how it went down. Got kicked out from the army and did a year in the brig just for taking what I’d earned after putting my neck on the line in Afghanistan. Place was flooded with opium; not cashing in would’ve been stupid. And now, I don’t owe Uncle Sam or anyone else a damn thing. I’m here for the payday. What my clients do is their business, and what I do, I’m the best at. That’s why they came to me.”

Marco took that in, and I could tell he was buying every lie I fed him—or close to it.

I tossed the same question to him, keeping my tone cool. “How about selling CIA secrets to terror groups? How does it sit with you?”

Marco just shrugged, like I had asked him about the weather. “Same reason as yours: money. And it isn’t the first time we’ve done business with guys like that. They want info, weapons, whatever… we’re here to sell. You want to stay on top, you grab every opportunity that comes your way. That’s why the Morettis own this town, why no one messes with us.”

What Marco didn’t know was that the very guy he was bragging to was planning to mess with his world real soon. But his little spiel just confirmed what my gut had said from the start—this guy could smile and talk money all day, but he was stone-cold dangerous. He would gut you without batting an eye if it kept his family on top. I had to be on my toes, every single second, playing along until the final hand was mine—and Kessler was in my grasp.

Marco glanced over, curiosity still written on his face. “So, about that CIA asset—the one your guys got from ISIS…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know that was public knowledge.”

“There were hints on the dark web,” Marco said, that cocky smirk in place. “I’ve got a guy who can pull anything from there.”

I gave a slow nod, acting impressed. “Yeah, they got him. Name’s Nate Foster. You know that already, don’t you?”

“Just confirming,” Marco said, looking satisfied. “So, where’re they holding him?”

I shook my head. “Not my business. Don’t know, and don’t want to know.”

“What do they plan to do with him?” he probed.

I shrugged. “Beats me. Don’t really care.”

Marco leaned forward, studying me with a shrewd gaze. “I can’t figure out how your guys managed to snatch him from ISIS. Until yesterday, the word was all over that ISIS had got him and were going to do a live execution. Then, nothing… until there was word that your guys have him. Can you prove they’ve got him?”

I gave a nod. “I’m sure I can get them to send a photo of the guy wherever they’ve got him locked up.”

Marco eyed me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Photos can be doctored.”

“I don’t know, man, I could get them to send a video, then,” I countered. “That’s as real as it gets. But what’s the CIA guy to you?”

“Not for me,” Marco said, finally sounding convinced. “My brother Vince. He’s got a businessman’s brain. He’ll need more than my word. And it’s not just Vince who needs convincing—the actual seller’s a paranoid guy.”

“Kessler, I assume,” I said, throwing it out there, watching for his reaction.

For a second, Marco held his expression, stone-faced, before nodding. “Not a bad guess.”

“I got people who can comb the web too.”

Marco gave a faint nod, and I knew he was convinced. “Show Vince the video, and we’ve got a deal.”

“Deal for what? Kessler’s list?”

Marco gave me one of his sly little nods, the kind that said he was half-amused and half-ready to shove a knife in your back.

“It’s not that easy,” he said, “The video just gets you an invite. Let’s call it the first hurdle.”

“Invite for what?”

“A ticket to the game—an invite to the auction.”

Auction. That was new information. But it made sense. It was the best way for them to pit all the interested parties against each other and see the bid shoot up. There’s nothing like inflated egos to drive up the price at an auction. And they already knew that whatever the highest bid turned out to be, John Moore had the leeway to throw an extra ten million on top of that.

Marco’s tone shifted, laying it out like he had been waiting for a chance to say it. “It’s tonight. You’re late in the game, Moore, lucky to be here at all. You’re still in because…well, let’s just say I found you intriguing after talking to Luca.”

That caught me by surprise, but I kept my face neutral. “Didn’t figure me and Luca hit it off like that.”

Marco chuckled, but the warmth never reached his eyes. “Luca’s not the kind of guy you want to cross. He holds a grudge.”

That was Marco’s way of setting a tone—warning me to watch my step, that he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the plug if things went south. But I knew the comment about Luca’s “feedback” was just smoke, anyway. The only reason Marco and his people were interested was the bait I had dangled when I was on the line with Samir, with the mafia listening in on Hafiz offering me a hefty ten mil over the highest bid. That had all the right alarms going off in their heads.

I gave Marco a slow nod. “Fine. I’ll show you guys the video.”

Marco nodded. “Then it’s time you meet Vince. He makes all final calls on business.”

“Works for me. But you’ll need to come to the hotel,” I replied. “I can only get Hafiz on a secure connection through my laptop’s VPN. He’s not the kind of guy I can dial up on my cell.”

“Understood,” Marco nodded thoughtfully, my reasoning making sense to him.

He pulled a quick U-turn, weaving back toward town. A few blocks later, he veered into a narrow alley and rolled to a stop at the rear of a building.

I clocked a small sign near the rear entrance: The Velvet Room. It was the same bar Ninja had tailed two of Marco’s guys earlier. The place was clearly the Morettis’ unofficial HQ. Perfect for running into all the wrong people at the wrong time. Ninja’s message had dropped in a few minutes earlier—Luca was already inside. Ninja recognized him from the snapshot I had sent over.

Marco swung out of the car, his eyes scanning the perimeter. During the ride earlier, I had already planted a bug inside the car, a tiny device under the passenger seat that Echo could access on our private comms. Everything said in Marco’s little luxury beast would be on record. Marco may have thought he was in control, but he had just opened a line straight back to our operation.

As soon as I got out, a couple of Marco’s goons strode over. Big, bruiser types. Marco waved me in, and I stepped past them into the bar.

The bar had an old-world charm that barely masked its darker purpose. The dimly lit interior had thick, smoky air and walls lined with red velvet drapes. Low leather couches and marble tables were scattered around. A couple of guys were shooting pool at a table off to the side, and a group of more hard-eyed muscle was at another table, laughing over something in Italian. I clocked each one—big, tough, and built for intimidation.

I caught Ninja across the room, blending right into the scenery. He was at the far end, parked at a high-top table near a wall-mounted flat screen displaying a soccer game. He was a model of inconspicuous—half-full beer mug on the table, a half-eaten slice of pizza on the plate in front of him, eyes glued to the soccer match. He looked every bit the distracted tourist, focused on the screen, but I knew that Ninja had eyes on everything.

Marco motioned toward the back. I kept my expression neutral, my mind focused on the job. I had entered the belly of the beast, where the entire mafia hierarchy was up in arms about a CIA list they were about to sell to the highest bidder. And if my timing was right, I would have my hands around Kessler long before they saw what hit them.

CHAPTER 35

Marco nudged me toward the bar, muttering, “Wait here a minute, I’ll go have a word with Vince.” He gave a quick signal to the bartender to take care of me.

“I’m good,” I said, cutting him off. “Go ahead.”

Marco nodded and disappeared through a door in the back. I kept a relaxed stance, but my eyes stayed sharp. The whole place had eyes on me, especially the rough types sprawled around tables, all of them sizing me up with hard looks. It was a classic den of snakes, and the tension was thick enough to chew.

Less than a minute passed before the back door swung open again, and Luca strutted out. His gaze zeroed in on me the second he entered. It was clear he had been told I was there. Even clearer was that he was there for one reason—to give me trouble. He sized me up, a smug look curling up the edges of his mouth as he strolled closer. The whole room went silent, every thug glued to our little showdown.

Luca sauntered over, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed. Without a word, he gestured with his hand, a silent demand for a frisk. I gave him a once-over and shook my head.

“Forget it. Marco’s guys already did the pat-down earlier. Ain’t happening again.”

Luca’s smirk barely twitched. He wasn’t used to hearing “no”. His lips curved up into a sneer as he leaned in, voice dripping with mockery. “Oh, it’s going to happen, I promise you. You know the drill, right? Like in your American movies: hands against the wall, spread your legs.”

The room chuckled at that, and he shot a cocky look my way.

I kept my face stone cold. “I don’t think you’ve watched those movies carefully. It’s the good guys who say that line. Punks like you end up face-down on the sidewalk.”

His smirk vanished, replaced with a hard glint. With a swift move, he yanked out his gun and leveled it at my face. “This change your mind?”

I kept still, didn’t flinch. He was fast—had to give him that. But it was a bluff, and I knew it. If there had been even a whisper of intent to pull that trigger, I would have gone low, yanked my boot knife, and had it buried in his throat before he could level the piece.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a subtle shift in Ninja’s posture. Nothing obvious, but I knew he had clocked Luca’s move and was primed to jump in. He still looked relaxed, but he had positioned himself just right—Glock and blade within reach, ready to strike, waiting on my cue.

I was about to take matters into my own hands when I saw movement from the same door Marco had disappeared through. Marco stood in the doorway, watching, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say a word, didn’t make a move. Just stood there, letting the scene play out, testing me, maybe, to see if I would take Luca’s bait or fold. Luca hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy pointing that piece my way.

I locked my gaze on Marco and, in a voice cold as steel, said, “Tell your guy to back off, Marco. I’m not about to warn him again.”

Marco didn’t move, didn’t say a word. I could tell he was interested in seeing if I was just a guy with words, or something more.

Luca shifted his gaze slightly toward Marco, and for just a second, his attention flickered. That was all I needed. Disarming a gun’s simple enough—but it needs to be instinctive. No hesitation, no thinking—just action.

I didn’t hesitate. My hands moved in sync, cutting in from opposite angles. My left hand grabbed the gun barrel, twisting it inward, while my right struck hard against his wrist. The force broke his hold, and the gun popped free. In one smooth move, I transferred it to my right hand and shoved the barrel hard into Luca’s neck.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then a deadly chorus of clicks, as five guns locked on me from around the bar. I kept my grip on Luca, grabbing him behind the neck and pulling him closer.

What the others didn’t see was that Ninja had already slipped off his bar stool, Glock in one hand, and his blade—a solid nine-inch steel beast—in the other. He was ready to tear through those men like a hurricane before they knew what hit them.

Before things blew wide open, a sharp voice cut through the room. “Enough!”

A man stepped out from behind Marco, his voice carrying authority like he was used to calling the shots. By the look of him, he had to be Vince. The resemblance between him and Marco was unmistakable. One by one, the men lowered their weapons, waiting for Vince’s command.

I backed off too, lowering the gun. Calmly, I popped out the mag and let the empty gun clatter onto the table next to me. I could see Luca’s face twisted in pure rage, his pride shot to hell. And I didn’t miss the way his hand twitched, almost like he was going for a blade. I kept my eyes sharp; this wasn’t over.

But Vince barked something sharp in Italian, and Luca froze, his jaw tight, but he backed off. I noticed Ninja’s weapons disappear as he resumed his distracted tourist act, back on the bar stool again, eyes on the TV screen.

Vince walked up to me, his face unreadable, and we stood there, eye to eye, neither of us making the first move. After a beat, he extended a hand. “I’m Vince,” he said simply. “This won’t happen again.”

I took it, giving it a quick firm shake. Then he turned, nodding toward the back room, and I followed, leaving the tension in the bar at a low simmer.

Vince led us through a short hall and into a room that could only be described as Mafia elegance. The place was all class—like stepping into an old-world study with a sinister edge. The walls were paneled with dark, polished wood. Tall shelves filled with ancient-looking leather-bound books lined one side of the room, and along the wall across were a handful of sculptures, smooth marble figures with an unmistakable Renaissance touch, the kind you would see in Italian galleries.

Expensive leather couches lined the walls, framing a sleek glass coffee table with carved lions’ heads at each corner. The lighting was warm, low, almost like candlelight, casting deep shadows across the dark wooden floors. A mini bar stood in the corner, stocked with top-shelf liquor, each bottle lined up with precision. It was tastefully put together, every inch of it hinting at wealth and power.

Vince had Marco’s looks, but the similarities ended there. Where Marco was all swagger and show, Vince wore a somber, measured expression. Marco dressed flashier, but Vince’s style was subtle, quiet—a dark charcoal suit with an open-collared shirt that matched the ice in his gaze. He was sharper, colder, with a control that Marco didn’t seem to have. It wasn’t just the way he moved or spoke but the way he carried silence around him. There was something deadlier about Vince, something that told me he had his leash on every guy in the room—and that he wasn’t afraid to yank it.

I scanned the room, taking in every angle, mentally mapping out points where I could have planted a bug. But there were too many eyes, and Vince was sharp. He would catch it in a heartbeat if I tried anything.

Vince leaned back, clasping his hands, his eyes calculating. “Marco must’ve told you, signore, we don’t go looking for new buyers. The list was... exclusive, locked. But when the Brothers of the Caliphate got their hands on the CIA’s Nate Foster, well, Kessler became very interested.”

He was a smooth talker, Vince. For a second, he almost had me convinced they had only let me in the door because we had Nate. But I knew better. Minutes after Hafiz had tossed that ten-million bait on our call, Luca had come knocking at my hotel door.

I played along, though. “What’s so special about Nate Foster that Kessler’s so set on him?”

Vince’s gaze flickered, a shadow crossing his face before he answered. “Old bad blood,” he said simply, sipping his drink like he had already said too much.

Marco, the chatty one of the two, leaned in. “Kessler was the one who leaked Foster’s whereabouts to ISIS in Damascus. He’s a strange one, capisce? Wanted to watch the man suffer.”

Vince shot Marco a look, cold enough to silence him. Marco shut his mouth. Vince didn’t want that little piece of intel slipping, but it was too late. That small slip had handed me another piece of the puzzle, though I couldn’t quite figure out its significance at the time.

Vince cleared his throat, brushing past the slip. “We’re on a schedule. Let’s not waste time. Show us the video. We want to see what you really have.”

I didn’t blink. “I’m ready. But to reach the Brothers, I need to make the call on a secure VPN through my laptop back at the hotel. They like to stay in the shadows, and this is one of their conditions.”

That got Vince more curious. It also put him at ease, now that he figured that he was dealing with the kind of guys who didn’t want the world knowing the rotten business they were part of.

Vince held my gaze, assessing, but then gave a nod. “Yes, Marco has briefed me. All right, let’s go.”

With that, we stood and made our way out through the back entrance. I noticed that there wasn’t any sign of Luca. Ninja was still parked at his post, the pizza on his plate finally finished.

We stepped into a sleek black limo waiting for us. We slid in, the heavy door shutting with a final thud, and the driver pulled away, taking us back to the hotel.

CHAPTER 36

The ride back to the hotel was quiet—everyone sizing up the next steps. When we finally pulled up and got out, I turned to Vince.

“I’ll need a few minutes to square things with Hafiz, get everything set for the video,” I said. “He can be skittish about strangers listening in, so I’ll take care of that first, and then you’re welcome up to the suite.”

Vince gave a slight nod. “We’ll wait in a conference room downstairs,” he replied. “You can set it up for us there, and I’ll get in touch with Kessler while we wait.”

Vince waved off the hotel staff like he owned the place, and he and Marco headed off, leaving me free to set things in motion.

As I strode to the elevator, I dialed up Ninja. “You’re clear to head back to the hotel,” I said.

“Oh, so now you want me in your AO?” he chuckled. “By the way, what happened to the guy who told me, ‘Keep your head down and for the love of God, don’t start anything’—and then he goes and decks Luca in front of half the mob. Nice restraint, boss.”

I chuckled. “Part of the job description. Marco’s boys were testing John Moore’s rep. They had to see the guy won’t take any shit. Luca just didn’t get the memo.”

Ninja let out a low whistle. “Yeah, well, good thing you put him in his place.”

“I noticed your blade was drawn and ready.”

“Yeah, boss, figured you’d need a wingman in a joint like that.”

“Well, wingman, I’ve got another job for you. Before you head up here, I need you to plant a tracker on Vince’s limo. I’ll give you the plate number. It’s parked in the VIP area. You’ve got about half an hour before they clear out, so better hustle.”

“Roger that,” he replied, and I heard him moving before the line clicked off.

I connected with Echo next.

“Got anything off the Russians’ laptop?” I asked.

“Oh, you bet,” he said, sounding way too pleased. “Tons of files, but no direct lead on Kessler yet.”

“That bug in Marco’s car live?” I asked, double-checking.

“Yeah, it’s live and clean,” Echo confirmed. “I’m picking up every bit of chatter. Anything else you want me to track?”

“Not sure yet,” I replied, keeping my tone low. “I’ll be in the room with the Moretti boys, showing them a live feed on my laptop. Any way you can work your tech voodoo and get into their phones?”

“Well, it’s not really that simple…,” Echo replied, kind of thinking aloud, before coming back with more conviction. “You know what, I can give it a shot. I’ll try exploiting a backdoor vulnerability in their OS. Ever heard of Bluesnarfing?”

“Nope.”

“Basically, it’s what you’re asking for. If they’ve got Bluetooth on and you’re close enough, I can try to access their devices—contacts, messages, the works.”

“That’s exactly what I need.”

“Alright, let’s give it a shot,” Echo said, getting fired up. “Make sure both your laptop’s and phone’s Bluetooth are active. I’ll hook onto whichever signal’s strongest. But park yourself close to the phone you want cracked. If there are multiple phones in there, I don’t want to target the wrong one. And I’ll need a solid fifteen minutes within range to get it done.”

“Copy that. Do your magic, Echo. Eyes on you. No pressure.”

“Glad you mentioned that,” he chuckled, before signing off.

By that time, the elevator had arrived and I stepped inside, punching my floor number before giving Samir a call. I needed to prep him for the Hafiz routine.

“Samir, be ready. In about one minute, we’ll be putting on a show for the Morettis. I’ll need you to play Hafiz to the hilt. I’ll be telling you that those guys need proof that the Brothers have Nate. I’ll propose that making a video with Nate in captivity will do the trick.”

“Understood,” Samir replied, Hafiz slipping into his tone already. “I’ll set up the video.”

“Perfect. Once I suggest it, tell me you can do one better with a live feed, as that will set to rest any doubts about the matter. Say that we can take requests from the Morettis, like asking Nate’s captor to get him to do something specific, maybe even talk back, to remove any doubt.”

“Copy that.”

“Good. Stand by.” I walked into my room, grabbed the laptop, and dialed Samir.

The conversation went smooth as silk. Samir was already in character. He nailed every line like a pro. With the speaker on, I could practically see Vince and Marco listening intently in that conference room. Samir and I ran through our whole routine like we just rehearsed a minute ago, Samir suggesting a live feed, and I agreeing.

Once I was sure Vince and Marco had heard enough, I hung up and made my way downstairs, laptop under my arm. Vince was on his phone when I stepped into the conference room. As soon as I entered, he ended the call and placed it on the table. I needed to stay close to that phone, so I set my laptop down just inches away from it.

I got right to it, leaning in and saying, “I want you to be completely convinced that what you’re seeing is legit. So we’re doing this live in real time so there’s zero doubt.”

Vince raised an eyebrow, playing it cool like he had just heard it for the first time. “Real-time proof?” He nodded slowly, as if mulling it over. “Good idea.”

Just as I started to set up the laptop, Vince leaned forward, casual but with that razor-sharp look he couldn’t hide. “One other thing. Another… interested party… is going to want a look too. He’ll join remotely.”

I didn’t need a crystal ball to know who that was. “No,” I shot back. “Any eyes on this video need to be in the room with us—no one can dial in. That’s the condition Hafiz agreed to. One slip and a recording of this gets out, even a grainy clip—the Brothers will walk. They don’t want Nate’s situation public till the timing’s right.”

Vince raised an eyebrow. Marco looked from him to me, his expression a bit sharper. “And what’s the ‘right time’?” Marco asked.

I shrugged. “Best guess? When they know if they’re getting what they came for. Then they’ll play that card.”

I held Vince’s gaze, just long enough to push the point. “I’m laying all this out because I think we’ve built some trust here.”

Vince and Marco exchanged one of those silent mafia glances. At the same time, Echo’s low voice cut through the comms.

“I’m in on Vince’s phone,” Echo whispered. “Data’s coming through. Hang tight till I give you the green light.” So I just leaned back, still as stone, letting the seconds tick away.

Vince gave a small nod. “Fair enough, that’s... understandable,” he said, a lot more agreeable now. “Let’s at least get Kessler on a call,” he went on. “You tell him yourself. Maybe he’ll want something specific in the video.”

That was a good sign. Closer to my endgame. But I kept my expression blank and gave him a sharp nod. Vince dialed the number, put the phone on speaker, and slid it even closer to me. A few seconds later, the other end clicked, and Kessler was on the line.

“Vince? What’s going on? Is Moore with you? Can we see Nate’s video?” Kessler asked.

I caught myself listening hard, looking for something in Kessler’s voice that would match the type of guy who had already gotten good men killed and was willing to send many more to the same fate. But the only thing memorable about him was how damn unremarkable he sounded—like a bored desk clerk.

Vince shook his head as he replied. “That’s not how this works, Kessler. Marco and I’ll watch the video and confirm it to you.”

Kessler’s voice turned petulant. “Why can’t I watch? What’s the big deal?”

Vince pressed on. “Moore’s guys think it’s too risky. And I agree. You know the kind of heat a leaked video would bring? But they can record something just for you. If there’s anything specific you want Nate to say in the video to prove it’s in real time, Moore can make it happen. You just say the word. I’ll watch it and vouch for it.”

There was a pause, and I could almost hear the gears grinding in Kessler’s warped brain. Finally, he said, “I want him to beg. Tell Nate to look right into the camera and beg me to save his pathetic little life. Make him plead. You got that?”

I felt a surge of anger rise in my chest. This piece of trash wanted to humiliate Nate—a guy he had probably sat across from at the same table, worked side by side with. But I couldn’t let it show. I forced my face to stay neutral, my voice even.

“Consider it done,” I said, as if I were agreeing to order pizza, not orchestrating this sick power play.

Kessler’s tone shifted, dripping with smugness. “Good. That’ll send the right message. And while we’re at it, I’ve been thinking... I should sweeten the pot at the auction. Make the bidders really fight for it.”

Vince frowned. “What do you mean?”

Kessler chuckled, the sound slimy and self-satisfied. “I’ll release ten more names from the list on the dark web. Let the fastest guys grab them. I’ll release the names two hours before the auction starts. Let everyone know I’m not just some one-hit wonder.”

My hands curled into fists under the table. My face stayed a mask, calm and controlled, but inside, I wanted to break this guy in half. He wasn’t just a traitor; he was a goddamn showman, preening over the lives he was putting on the line.

I gave a curt nod. “Smart move,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Nothing like a little bait to reel in the big fish.”

Kessler didn’t catch the edge in my tone, too busy basking in his own self-importance. “Exactly. You get it, Moore. You see the bigger picture.”

I didn’t respond. My mind was already working the angles, recalibrating the plan. We couldn’t wait for the auction. I needed to move on Kessler soon—before he had the chance to drop another bomb.

CHAPTER 37

“Give me a minute to relay this to Hafiz,” I told Vince.

I put on a headset and dialed Samir. I relayed the instructions, keeping it short and to the point. He told me to hang tight for five minutes, that he would have a guy set it up and send me a link to tune in to the video feed.

When I ended the call, Marco tilted his head, intrigued. “Quite the high-tech operation the Brothers run.”

I nodded. “That’s how they stay off the radar.”

Then I turned my focus back to Vince and Marco, the Kessler grudge still gnawing at me. “Kessler sure has a grudge against Nate. Can’t figure it. From what I know, Kessler’s a desk nerd, and Nate… same thing. What’s going on?”

Marco shot a quick look at Vince, who gave a nod. Marco turned back to me. “Kessler was once on Nate’s team, junior analyst. One day Nate caught him poking around data he didn’t have clearance for. Don’t know the details, but Nate gave him hell for it. Kessler was due for a promotion. Instead he got demoted. Guess Kessler didn’t forget.”

“And that’s why he wants Nate dead? For a lousy job?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

Marco shrugged. “I guess. People often get killed for less. Kessler got the info on Nate’s location from some contact he still has at the CIA, someone who doesn’t realize what Kessler’s up to. Then he put it on the dark web—handed it straight to ISIS. He knew they’d grab any CIA agent they could get their hands on in Damascus.”

“And the Agency hasn’t cut Kessler’s ties yet?”

Marco smirked. “Some idiot at CIA thinks Kessler’s doing a public service. Probably thinks he’s the next big whistleblower, trying to save democracy, you know, shit like that.”

Vince raised a hand, stopping Marco from saying more. “Alright, Moore. When’s this video coming in?”

I looked down at my watch, keeping it cool. “Any second now.”

Just as I finished, my laptop chimed. I clicked, and the video feed opened up on the screen. It was showtime.

The video feed flickered to life, and there he was—Nate. Decked out in that all-too-familiar orange jumpsuit, tied to a rickety chair in the center of a bare, dimly-lit room. His eyes were wide, darting around, and his chest was heaving like he was expecting the worst. Behind him stood Samir and another masked guy, both dressed in black, adding to the menace. The camera moved in closer, close enough for us to see the beads of sweat gathering on Nate’s forehead.

Nate’s performance was Oscar-worthy. Had I not known it was an act, I would have been genuinely worried for him. I stayed stone-faced, watching.

Samir grabbed Nate’s shoulder, rough and unceremonious. “Speak,” he ordered, voice cold as steel. Nate’s head snapped up, and he stared right into the lens, fear swallowing whatever pride he had left.

“Kessler… I’m sorry for what I did to you. Please forgive me.” His voice cracked. “Please… ask them not to kill me. Please.”

Nate’s voice broke, and he stared straight ahead, terrified. I was suddenly not sure if it was indeed an act, or if Nate had somehow been transported back to the reality we had rescued him from the previous day. Good thing it wasn’t a prolonged scene.

Samir signaled to the cameraman, a quick flick of his hand, and the feed ended abruptly, freezing on Nate’s stricken face before the screen went dark. I glanced up at Vince and Marco. They were stone-cold, but I could tell from their nods that they had bought it. Hook, line, and sinker.

Vince cleared his throat. “That’s all the proof we need. Moore, you’re in. The auction’s tonight.”

“Good,” I replied, keeping my tone even. “Where’s the location? And what time?”

Vince shook his head, that sly grin making its appearance. “Location’s classified. A vehicle will pick you up from your hotel at eight.”

It looked like he and Marco were about to make their exit. I knew Echo was still working his hack, so I needed to stall a bit.

“One question,” I said casually. “Is it alright if I bring a friend along? A woman friend, maybe?”

Marco gave a sly grin. “I had a feeling you weren’t here just for business. You can bring a guest. We’ll make sure she’ll be treated well.”

“Great.” I kept it easy, not in a hurry to let them walk out just yet. “Who else is bidding on this?”

Vince’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept that smile. “Expect to be surprised.”

I saw his hand inch toward his phone, ready to scoop it up. I had to keep him interested. “I think I could take a guess.”

Vince’s interest was piqued, and his hand, just inches from his phone, drifted back as he leaned against the table. “Go on, Moore. I’d like to hear that.”

I noticed that Marco had pulled out his own phone and was keying in something. I ignored him, locked my eyes with Vince, tapped a finger thoughtfully on the table, before replying: “Well, the Russians have to be in on it. No way they’d sit out on intel like this.”

Vince didn’t say a word, just cocked his head. “Go on.”

“Most of the Middle Eastern players wouldn’t make an open bid,” I continued, “but I’d bet they’re bankrolling some groups that would—maybe ISIS, maybe Al Qaeda. They’d pay through proxies.”

Vince grunted in acknowledgment. “Sounds logical.” But he wasn’t giving anything away, and Marco, who had put away his phone and was back in the conversation again, was just as blank.

I added, “And then there’s one I’d bet will be a direct player—Iran.” That one hit, just a flicker in Vince’s eyes, though he didn’t give me much else. He and Marco just exchanged glances. But they kept mum, neither one confirming or denying it.

I was running out of things to say, but I still needed to stretch this out a little longer. I was clutching at straws, coming up with whatever random thought came to my mind.

“I can tell Kessler has got a thing for Nate,” I said. “If it comes down to it, I can try convincing Hafiz to throw Nate into the mix to sweeten the deal. He just might agree to hand over Nate so long as he gets his hands on the rest of the CIA list.”

“That should make things interesting,” Marco spoke up. “We’ll mention it to Kessler. Right, Vince?”

“Yes, whatever works for him,” Vince replied.

At that moment, Echo’s whisper came through my earpiece. “Two more minutes, Cowboy, and I’ll be done.”

I had one last play to buy those 120 seconds.

“Oh, and by the way,” I said, as if just remembering, “I took a screenshot of Nate’s close-up in the video. If you need something to show Kessler, a photo might seal the deal for you.”

Marco raised an eyebrow. “And you’re suddenly fine with sharing a photo when you weren’t willing to share the video?”

I shrugged. “A single frame can’t be traced back to the Brothers. Keeps the heat off them.”

Vince seemed to like that. “Good thinking. Here, send it to this address.” He rattled off an email. I opened the notepad on the laptop, taking my time typing it in, then repeated it back to him, one slow syllable at a time. Vince raised an eyebrow but didn’t complain.

Finally, Echo’s voice came through in my earpiece. “All set. We got everything we need.”

I nearly let out a sigh of relief. But I kept my face blank as Vince and Marco got up to leave. “See you at the auction,” Vince said.

“Looking forward to it,” I replied with a slight nod.

CHAPTER 38

As soon as the door closed behind Vince and Marco, I let out a quiet breath. The act had dragged on long enough, but the payoff looked solid.

As I began packing up to make my way back up to the suite, I hit my comms. “Echo, you got what you need from Vince’s phone?”

A chuckle on the other end. “Yeah, I’m all set, Cowboy. Gotta say, you stalled like a pro in there. Heard you practically tap dancing to keep Vince from walking out. Almost felt bad listening.”

I grinned. “What can I say? I’m a natural. Had to work with some weak material, though—Vince ain’t much of a talker.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Echo laughed. “But hey, I got the goods. Vince’s contact lists, text threads—whole shebang. I’m starting a dive into the messages now.”

“Good. But first, prioritize the last call he made. That was Kessler. Get me a lock on that phone’s location.”

“Roger that, on it now. Give me twenty.”

I cut the call, switched channels, and tapped into Ninja. “Ninja, what’s your status?”

“Tracker’s on Vince’s ride, good to go. Now I’m up on the twentieth floor with Hawkeye. Got the bar and half the block in our sights.”

“Copy that,” I said. “I’m headed up for the debrief. Stand by.”

Next, I dialed Raptor. “What’s the status on our Russian friends?”

“They’re snoring, boss. Midazolam did the trick. Knocked them right out.” I checked my phone, where Anna had texted me the go-ahead on the sedatives a few minutes earlier. That woman sure had some good sources.

“Perfect. You and Anna head up too,” I told him. “We’re about to get things rolling.”

“Anna’s already up on the twentieth. She went up to the suite to grab some stuff.”

“Right. I’ll get her. You make your way up.”

“Roger.”

I next punched in Davis’s number.

“Blaze,” he greeted. “Heard you’re making your way into the inner circle.”

“Getting there, slowly but surely. But I wanted to give you a heads up that Kessler isn’t the only leak in the Agency.”

I filled him in on what Marco had shared, how Kessler got the intel on Nate being in Damascus. “Sounds like some moron handed Kessler that intel, thinking he was playing whistleblower for the greater good. Might be stupid, not malicious—one of those self-righteous fools, but it’s gotta get locked down.”

Davis was silent for a second. “Unbelievable. Consider it handled. We’ll take care of it from this end,” Davis replied. “By the way, Nate’s listening in. Nate, you there?”

A second voice cut in on the line. It was Nate.

“Was I convincing enough on that video?”

His voice sounded stronger, but I knew what it took to get through that. I could picture his face, that mix of nerves and determination. “You were on the money. Hell of a job, Nate. Took guts, especially considering what they put you through.”

He sounded relieved. “Thanks. And… thanks again for pulling me out.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, my tone firm. “Look, Kessler’s a snake, and I plan to corner him real soon.”

“Understood,” Davis said. “Keep us in the loop.”

I packed the laptop in a backpack and headed out of the conference room, thoughts firing off in my head like rounds on full auto. My gut told me that something was brewing. As I made my way past reception desk toward the elevators, Bianca, the receptionist, caught my eye. She looked concerned, her expression tight.

Bianca gave me a subtle glance sideways—something was wrong, but she couldn’t say it out loud. Then, she picked up the desk phone, held it to her ear, stared at me, and set it down without dialing. The message was clear: call her. I didn’t break stride, just kept moving, and dialed the reception number.

“Bianca, what’s up?”

“Mr. Moore,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to tell you something. When Vince and Marco left the conference room, Marco made a call. A minute later, Luca showed up with two men. Marco spoke to him briefly, then left with Vince. Luca and the others went toward the elevators. He looked angry, like he did earlier after your meeting in the bar. Something’s wrong. I wanted to let you know.”

My jaw tightened. Luca had stormed out earlier after our little talk in the bar. I hadn’t seen him since.

Pieces started clicking together. I had seen Marco tapping on his phone when I mentioned bringing a woman to the auction. He must have sent a message to Luca and set something in motion. Luca must have stationed himself at the hotel, waiting for orders. And now they were after Anna—either to get intel on me or as leverage to make sure I didn’t pull a fast one at the auction. Either way, if they took Anna, she wasn’t coming out of it alive.

“Thanks, Bianca, you did good,” I said. “Stay calm, get back to your work, and forget you ever called me. Not a word to anyone, alright? I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

“Yes, of course. Thanks. And good luck.”

I hit the comms as I sprinted toward the elevators. “Raptor, check my suite now. Anna might be in trouble.”

Raptor’s voice came back immediately. “On it, boss.”

Next, I hit Echo. “Echo, I need you to pull the elevator feed. Look for Anna and three tough guys. Check now.”

“On it,” came his sharp reply.

Echo came back in about five seconds. “Three guys in the elevator heading down. One’s holding Anna. She’s out cold.”

“Keep watching. And kill the feed. No one else sees this but us. It’s about to get messy.”

“Done,” Echo said.

I was already moving, cutting toward the stairwell, kicking the door open and taking the steps two at a time. My instincts told me Luca wouldn’t risk dragging an unconscious woman through the lobby. The basement parking lot was the only logical exit.

The fire exit door swung open silently as I slipped into the basement, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above the rows of parked cars. Near the elevators, a black sedan idled, a man in the driver’s seat, eyes scanning the area. The engine was running, waiting for the cargo.

No time for a plan. No gun on me. All I had was instinct.

I crept up behind the car, staying low, and approached the driver’s side. He had a handgun on the dashboard above the steering wheel. I couldn’t have him reaching for it. The man never saw me coming. I crept up, reached in, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and slammed his face into the steering wheel, hard.

Turned out, it wasn’t hard enough. He was dazed, but still conscious. I heard the ding of the elevator arriving. I had about three seconds before Luca and his gang stepped out. Mustering all my strength, I smashed the man’s head against the doorframe, enough to hear a crack in his skull. This time, I knocked him out—permanently. His body slumped, held in place by the seatbelt. But by then, I had already grabbed the gun, a Beretta 9mm, and slipped behind a pillar just as the elevator doors slid open.

Luca stepped out first, his gun drawn, scanning the area. Two men followed him—one armed, the other holding Anna, blood trailing down her temple.

Luca strode toward the car. The second gunman moved to cover him, his weapon raised. I stepped out from the shadow of the pillar, raised the Beretta, and took out the second gunman. A clean headshot. He crumpled without a sound.

Luca froze for half a second, long enough for me to close the gap. I aimed at his elbow and pulled the trigger from about two feet away. Bone shattered, his gun falling from his suddenly powerless hand and hitting the ground with a metallic clatter. Before it even hit the floor, I put another round into his right knee, from about half a foot away. Luca dropped to the ground, howling in agony.

The last guy panicked, fumbling to reach the gun holstered at his back while still trying to use Anna as a shield. Big mistake. I didn’t hesitate—put one right between his eyes. He crumpled, and Anna started to fall. I caught her and eased her onto the ground.

Raptor's voice crackled in my earpiece as I knelt over Anna, keeping an eye on Luca. “Cowboy, no sign of Anna in the suite.”

I cut him off. “It’s been handled. I need you down in the basement parking. Now.”

“Roger that,” Raptor replied.

Switching channels, I reached Ninja. “Gear up. I need everything prepped. We’re moving out in five.”

“Roger that,” came Ninja’s calm reply.

Then I turned back to Luca, who was trying to crawl away, leaving a smear of blood on the concrete.

“You like playing tough?” I growled, kicking his intact leg out from under him. He hit the ground hard, his head bouncing off the concrete.

I stood over him, pistol aimed at his face. “You wanted my attention, Luca? You’ve got it.”

CHAPTER 39

I stomped on Luca’s good leg, pinning him in place. “You’re not going anywhere. Take a good look at those two,” I said, indicating the two dead men. “Here’s the deal—you wanna live, you answer my questions. You lie, you stall, you get a bullet. First question: where were you taking Anna? Second: where’s Roger Kessler?”

He glared at me through the pain, his teeth bared. “Go to hell.”

“Wrong answer.”

I leveled the pistol and put a round into his other knee. The scream that tore out of him bounced off the concrete walls.

I crouched next to him, voice cold. “You were saying?”

His breath came in ragged gasps, his face pale. He saw it in my eyes—I wasn’t bluffing. I could see the fight draining out of him. He coughed, choking on his pain. “There’s… there’s a tuna cannery. Capo Gallo. It’s abandoned, ten miles north. Marco told me to take her there.”

“And Kessler?”

“He’s hiding at the cannery.”

Bingo. I glanced toward the elevator, knowing time was short. Someone could come down any second. Time to clean up. “Stay right there,” I warned Luca. “You even twitch, you’ll get another bullet.”

I turned off the engine of their getaway car and popped the trunk open. I grabbed one of Luca’s dead men by the shoulders, hauled him up, and dumped him into the trunk, his limp body folding like a broken marionette. I went back for the second guy, my boots crunching against the concrete and repeated the process with the second man.

Just as I turned back to deal with Luca, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Luca had crawled to Anna, who was still unconscious. A knife gleamed in his hand, its tip inches from her neck.

“Stay back!” he snarled.

I didn’t hesitate. One shot to the head, and Luca crumpled, the knife clattering to the ground beside him.

“Dumb move,” I muttered, grabbing his lifeless body by the collar and dragging him toward the car. Just then, the elevator dinged, and Raptor stepped out, taking in the scene.

“Damn, Cowboy,” he said, scanning the carnage. “Looks like I missed the party.”

“I got here just in time,” I said, hauling Luca’s body into the sedan. “They’d have taken Anna and used her as leverage. I got what I needed out of him—Kessler’s at an abandoned cannery at a place called Capo Gallo.”

Raptor nodded. “What’s the play?”

“Get the driver stashed on the back seat. Then bring around our vehicle,” I said.

Anna had arranged an SUV for such a scenario. It was parked at the other end of the parking. Raptor nodded and moved fast.

As I turned back to Anna, Ninja called in. “Hardware’s packed and ready. Where do you want us?”

“You and Hawkeye get down here,” I said. “We’re moving out.”

By then, Anna had begun to stir. I crouched beside her, giving her cheek a light tap. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused for a second before locking onto mine. “Blaze? I—God, I’m sorry. They knocked. Said they were housekeeping. I didn’t think—”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” I said. “We all got a bit lax. But it’s fine.”

“Those men?” she asked.

“Dead. But I got the intel we needed from Luca. We’re moving on Kessler now. You good to go?”

She pushed herself upright, still shaky but determined. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”

Raptor soon pulled the SUV around—a rugged Land Rover, solid and reliable. Perfect fit for what we needed. By then, Ninja and Hawkeye had come down with the hardware packed up in hard cases. The operators loaded the gear into the back with practiced efficiency.

I keyed up Echo. “Echo, status?”

“All clear on the feeds. You intercept the package?”

“Affirmative. Targets neutralized,” I confirmed. “Got a location on Kessler?”

“Phone’s unreachable now. Sneaky bastard must’ve disabled it after the call. But the last ping was Capo Gallo Nature Reserve, northern tip of Sicily. About ten miles out. But it’s not pinpoint. I’ve got the location down to a quarter-mile radius.”

“Roger that,” I said. “Matches what Luca gave me. It’s an abandoned tuna cannery. Check it out and get us schematics of the place. While you’re at it, check out the roads. Find a way we can approach without being observed from a mile away. We can’t be hoofing it for long distances, not with the clock ticking.”

“Roger that. I’ll dig into it. Give me five.”

I turned to Ninja. “You’re driving Luca’s sedan. Follow us out. We can’t leave the bodies behind—if the mafia finds them, the alarm will get raised before we hit Kessler. Grab a hat and keep it low. We can’t have any security cameras getting your mug shot.”

Ninja gave a sharp nod. “Got it.”

He grabbed a ballcap from his gear, tugged it low over his face, and got behind the wheel. I climbed into the Land Rover with Anna, Raptor and Hawkeye. Ninja followed close behind in the car as we pulled out. We had a destination, a mission, and no time to waste. Kessler’s sanctuary wouldn’t stay quiet for long.

The SUV rumbled along the Sicilian backroads, its tires chewing through patches of uneven asphalt. I was riding shotgun, Raptor driving, with Hawkeye and Anna in the back. I had my tablet in my lap, watching the little green dot that marked the Capo Gallo Nature Reserve.

About five minutes later, Echo was back on comms. “Alright, Cowboy, listen up. I pulled schematics from some municipal records. It’s an old tuna cannery, rectangular, two-story structure. Roof’s flat, and there’s a small shack up there with access to the stairwell inside. Cannery’s got a dock out front and a boathouse nearby.”

“Copy that. What’s the layout inside?”

“The ground floor has a big-ass main processing hall. Couple side rooms, too—probably used for storage or offices back in the day. Far end of the hall’s got a stairwell leading up to the second floor and down to a basement.”

I nodded, visualizing it. “And the second floor?”

“A couple of small offices at two corners, connected by metal catwalks overlooking the main hall. Roof’s accessible through a stairwell up there. I’m sending the full layout to your tablet now.”

“Good. What about the approach?”

“If you stick to the main road, you’ll light yourself up like a damn Christmas tree. About a mile out, take a dirt side road to your left. It’s unpaved but gets you closer without being seen. Should put you near a cliff, about 200 yards from the cannery.”

“Solid. Keep us posted.”

We found the dirt road exactly where Echo said it would be—a rutted, dusty trail cutting through the thick coastal scrub. Raptor veered off onto the dirt road, the SUV bouncing over uneven terrain. We parked near a cliff, about 200 yards out from the cannery. Ninja was behind us in Luca’s sedan, which he parked next to the SUV.

The operators moved with practiced efficiency, unloading their gear and sliding on their packs. Anna stayed close, her expression grim but resolute.

Meanwhile, Raptor and I made our way through the scrub, staying low and quiet. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below further covered our movements. We crawled the final few yards to the edge of the cliff.

The cannery sprawled out below us, just as Echo had described. The building looked like a relic, its once-industrial strength now rusted and crumbling. The dock next to it was falling apart, with a rusted-out crane hanging over one corner like it was ready to drop.

I whispered into my comms, “Hawkeye, let’s get the drone in the air. I need to know what we’re up against inside. A quick peek, no time for a deep dive.”

“Roger that,” Hawkeye replied from a few yards behind us.

He pulled the Black Hornet Nano Drone from its case. He powered it up, its silent rotors whirring to life, transforming it into a dragonfly with a mission. The drone zipped forward, clocking about 15 miles an hour, cutting through the still night air like a ghost.

“Drone’s airborne,” Hawkeye whispered. “Should take thirty seconds to hit the cannery.”

Meanwhile, I stayed glued to my binos, sweeping the exterior. There were two guards patrolling the roof, another two on the ground. They looked pretty relaxed, not expecting trouble. Amateurs.

“Two on the roof,” I whispered, scanning the flat surface. “One near the stairwell shack. Smoking. The other pacing with a rifle, no urgency.”

Raptor added his bit. “Ground level’s got one by the main entrance—looks bored outta his mind. Other one’s patrolling the dock. Rifle slung low.”

Something didn’t sit right. Four perimeter guards for a single occupant hiding inside that large, abandoned place didn’t make sense. The mafia could have easily shacked up Kessler inside one of their strongholds in the city, and no one would have been the wiser.

I leveled my binoculars back to the dock. Without the binos, the dock had looked like it was ready to crumble into the sea. But watching it up close, I caught details that didn’t quite fit. Some sections of the pier had been patched up. The planks near the waterline were newer, lighter in color, and reinforced with fresh bolts. Somebody had gone through the trouble to make it functional while keeping up the façade of decay. It was camouflage.

My gaze shifted to the boathouse beyond the dock. The structure leaned slightly to one side, its roof missing a few slats, but what caught my eye was what sat inside. Two boats, and not the kind you would expect to find rotting in a place like this. These weren’t rust buckets or stripped hulls left for dead; they were sharp, sleek, and clearly operational. Medium-sized vessels, maybe 25 to 30 feet long, with fiberglass hulls and streamlined designs, built for speed and maneuverability. Both had outboard motors mounted at the stern—big ones, probably twin-engine setups pushing at least 300 horsepower. Enough to haul serious cargo or outrun a chase on open water.

My gut told me that the repair work and those boats weren’t just about convenience. It wasn’t just about Kessler hiding out for a few hours. Four guards, patched-up infrastructure, and ready-to-go transport? No way that was coincidence. This was bigger. Smuggling route, maybe—guns, drugs, people—it didn’t matter. What mattered was that this place wasn’t as abandoned as it wanted to appear.

I lowered the binos. Those boats weren’t just for show. Whatever cargo they had been moving, they wouldn’t leave it here unguarded unless it was valuable. Kessler wasn’t the only reason this place was active, and we were about to find out just how deep this rabbit hole went.

CHAPTER 40

I was still figuring out the best play when Echo’s voice cutting through the comms added to the urgency.

“Cowboy, heads up. Just listened in to a call Marco made from his car. He’s losing his mind. Can’t reach Luca. Apparently, Luca called him earlier, said he’d grabbed your ‘woman’ and was en route to deliver her. Then radio silence. Luca’s gone dark, and so have you. Marco’s been to your hotel, even checked your room—found nothing. The guy’s spooked. He told Vince he’s moving Kessler, probably soon. You’ve gotta hit them fast, or they’ll relocate Kessler.”

I exhaled sharply. “Copy that. We’re making our move. Out.” Suddenly, the plan was clear in my mind.

I turned to the team. “It’s game time,” I said, before turning to Hawkeye. “What’s the sitrep?”

Hawkeye was ready with his brief. “Main hall, four armed tangos. They’re in the far corner, parked around a table. Looks like they’re killing time, scrolling through their phones, maybe playing cards. In one of the side rooms, we’ve got two more. They’re cutting up bricks—definitely cocaine—into smaller bags. Probably eight-balls. We’re talking distribution-level prep.”

Handy intel, but my mind was more on the really burning question. “Locate Kessler inside?”

“I was saving that for last. There are two guys in one of the cubicles on the second floor. One’s just sitting there, looks bored. The other’s working on a computer terminal. Got a good look at his face—I think he’s our man,” Hawkeye said, showing me the screen grab from the drone feed.

There wasn’t any doubt. “That’s him. Target confirmed,” I said, my pulse ticking up, adrenaline starting to kick in.

Echo’s last call was stuck in my head like a bad tune. Marco and Vince were spooked, and Kessler was about to get moved. We had to work fast, or this entire op would spiral out of control. But I had complete clarity on what we needed to do.

“Alright, here’s how we play it. Hawkeye, you’re setting up sniper position on the ridge. Raptor, Anna, you’re taking the far slope down to the ground level and holding position hidden in the scrub until you get my signal. Ninja and I’ll head back up the road in Luca’s car, acting like we’re his boys. We’ll roll up to the cannery like we belong. Ninja, you play muscle, and I’ll do the talking.”

Ninja smirked. “Best damn muscle you’ve ever had.”

“I know, tough guy. I’ll coordinate with Hawkeye so that as soon as we take out the guard at the main entrance, Hawkeye drops the two on the roof. When he gives the word, Raptor, you and Anna hit the main entrance. Anna, you hold the door and make sure no one gets out. Hawkeye will cover you. Ninja will make the breach from the front with Raptor backing him.”

“What about you?” Ninja asked.

“The second I take out the guard, I’ll hit the back ladder and get up to the roof. I’ll get inside through the stairwell and grab Kessler, ideally alive.”

“You sure he’s worth keeping breathing?” Raptor asked.

“Bullet in the brain would be the easy way out. I want the prick to rot in prison for the rest of his life.”

“That makes sense,” Raptor agreed.

I looked at Hawkeye. “You stay on overwatch. I want eyes on the entire perimeter at all times.”

Hawkeye gave a quick nod, already prepping the rifle. The Mk 13 Mod 7 was a hell of a weapon—effective range of over a thousand yards and precision so sharp it might as well write its own damn name on the kill. He slapped in a mag and chambered a round, his hands moving like a machine. With him behind the scope, the guards didn’t stand a chance.

“Any more questions, or shall we get this party started?” I asked, scanning their faces.

No words were needed; their body language said it all. We had our man, and he wasn’t slipping through our fingers tonight.

“Alright,” I whispered. “We take the outside first. Quiet and clean. Then we breach.”

Hawkeye peeled off first, his rifle cradled like a sacred artifact. He found a flat spot near the cliff edge, adjusted the bipod, and settled in, his focus already locked through the scope. Meanwhile, Raptor and Anna moved to the far side of the cliff and started the descent down the gradual slope, staying low and quiet. Ninja and I headed back to the car.

“You driving?” Ninja asked as I climbed in behind the wheel.

“You’d crash into a damn tree,” I shot back, starting the engine.

We eased out of the unpaved road and onto the main one, the tires crunching softly over gravel. The cannery loomed ahead.

As we hit the main road, Echo’s voice crackled in my ear. “Cowboy, heads up. Marco and Vince just made the call. They’re moving Kessler. Tracker shows Vince’s and Marco’s cars headed your way. Maybe more vehicles following them. ETA to the cannery is fifteen minutes, give or take.”

“Copy that,” I replied. “We’ll be quick.”

I ended the call and focused on the road ahead, keeping my posture loose, one hand draped on the window frame, fingers tapping the roof like I didn’t have a care in the world. The kind of relaxed posture Luca’s men would use. Up ahead, the guard at the entrance stepped forward, his posture shifting as he spotted the car.

Hawkeye’s whisper cut in. “Got eyes on the target. One roof guard’s moving to the edge to get a better look.”

“Copy that,” I replied, my voice calm. The Glock 19 with a suppressor sat heavy on my lap, my fingers brushing the grip as the car rolled to a halt.

The entrance guard squinted at me, his face twisting in confusion. “Where’s Luca?” he barked, stepping closer, hand resting on the MP5 slung over his shoulder.

I waved casually. “Luca’s right behind me. Told me to bring the woman here first. He’s coming in the American’s car.”

The guard hesitated, his eyes darting toward the car, then back to me. I caught the uncertainty in his stance. I raised my Glock from my lap, keeping it low, out of sight.

“Hawkeye, now,” I whispered.

A soft pfft cracked over comms. “Roof guard one is down,” Hawkeye reported. Another pfft. “Roof’s clear.”

At that moment, I moved. My left hand shot out, grabbing the guard’s jacket. I yanked him forward into the window, and fired once into his chest. The suppressed Glock barely made a sound, but the shot was dead center. His body slumped against the door.

“Entrance guard’s out,” I said, shoving the body aside as I killed the engine and stepped out of the car.

“Dock guard’s out too,” Hawkeye added a beat later.

I tapped my comm. “Raptor, Anna, you’re clear. Move in.”

“Game on,” I said, glancing at Ninja. “Let’s finish this.”

I holstered my Glock in the drop-leg rig, slung my HK416 over my shoulder, and bolted toward the back of the cannery. My boots crunched against the gravel as I sprinted. The metal rungs jutted out of the wall, exactly where Hawkeye had spotted them earlier with the drone. I grabbed the lowest rung, hoisted myself up, and started climbing. The rust flaked under my gloves, but the rungs held. Within seconds, I was on the roof.

I crouched low, scanning the rooftop. The stairwell hatch sat at the far end. I sprinted low and fast toward it, keeping my profile tight. When I reached the door, I eased it open and peered inside. The view lined up perfectly with Hawkeye’s earlier recon—four armed men sat around a scarred wooden table, backs slouched, laughing over something on one of their phones. They were in the far corner, a little too relaxed for men guarding a target like Kessler.

The two men in the lower room weren’t visible from my position, but I wasn’t worried about them yet. I keyed my comms. “Cowboy here, I’m in position,” I whispered.

Ninja Man’s reply came immediately. “Copy that. Breaching in five. Four. Three…”

I watched as Ninja slipped through the front door, smooth as a whisper. He was a shadow with purpose, weapon raised and ready. One of the men at the table glanced up, his face twisting in confusion before he shouted a warning. Too late. Ninja’s HK spat out suppressed bursts, cutting the first two down before they could even get to their feet. Raptor followed him in, double-tapping the other two with clinical precision. The table tipped over as the last man slumped to the floor.

“Targets down,” Ninja reported, his voice calm, even as the acrid tang of gunpowder filled the air.

While they cleaned house, I moved along the catwalk, sticking to the shadows, my rifle at the ready, my eyes scanning every door and corner. As I approached the room at the far end, the door creaked open, and a man stepped out, rifle in hand. He didn’t see me until it was too late. I squeezed the trigger, firing a tight burst into his chest. The man crumpled against the doorframe, his rifle clattering to the floor.

I flattened myself against the wall next to the door and stole a glance inside. The room was small, cramped with a desk and shelves. I saw the computer desk but no Kessler. The chair was empty, and the room looked deserted. My gut told me otherwise.

Then it clicked. The desk. Kessler had to be hiding behind or under it, waiting. I crouched low, scanning the shadows under the desk. Nothing moved, but I wasn’t about to take chances. Kessler was cornered, desperate, and probably armed. I couldn’t risk stepping into the room and giving him a clear shot at my legs.

Grabbing the dead guy at my feet by his collar, I hefted him up and shoved him through the door. As soon as the body hit the ground, a sharp crack of gunfire rang out. Kessler emptied his mag into the corpse, the rounds punching through flesh and bone.

I didn’t give him time to react. I stepped in, kicked the desk hard, sending it skidding sideways and slamming into the wall. Kessler scrambled backward, his eyes wide with terror as he fumbled to raise the pistol in his hand.

I didn’t hesitate. My HK416 was already up, the sights aligned. I squeezed the trigger once, aiming for precision. The shot cracked through the air, a short, controlled burst of power. The 5.56mm round hit his trigger finger dead-on, ripping through flesh, bone, and tendon like they were paper. The impact wasn’t just a clean puncture—it was a devastating explosion of force. His finger disintegrated on contact, and the bullet didn’t stop there. It shattered the knuckle, pulverizing the joint into a bloody mess of bone fragments and tissue before exiting out the side of his hand.

The pistol flew out of his grip, spinning across the floor like a discarded toy, while Kessler’s scream tore through the room. He clutched his ruined hand, his body writhing in agony as blood poured through his fingers. The wound wasn’t clean—it was jagged, raw, and brutal, the kind of injury that wouldn’t heal right even with the best surgeons. He would never hold a weapon again, never type on a keyboard, never be able to clutch at power the way he had before.

Kessler’s eyes darted up to mine, wide and glistening with pain and panic. His face was pale, his mouth working as if to beg, or curse, or both.

“End of the road, Kessler,” I said, my voice as cold as the steel barrel pointed at his face.

He whimpered something unintelligible, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his good hand clutching his ruined one. I frisked him—just in case he had any surprises left.

The gunfire outside had stopped. The comms buzzed with Raptor’s voice. “All clear.”

I didn’t take my eyes off Kessler as I keyed my mic. “Target in custody. Package secure.”

CHAPTER 41

With Kessler in custody, the immediate threat to all those undercover CIA agents was neutralized. The list he had been holding over our heads was secure in his laptop. But this fight was far from over. The Morettis were gunning for us, and they would be bringing everything they had. I needed intel on what they had stockpiled in the basement before locking in a game plan.

I keyed my comms. “Ninja, take a look downstairs. Give me a sitrep on what we’ve got.”

Kessler was slumped against the wall, cradling the mangled mess that used to be his hand. His shattered paw had to feel like it was on fire, but I didn’t spare him an ounce of sympathy. This guy had sold out his own country and thrown good people under the bus for a payday. He deserved every ounce of pain he was feeling.

Still, I wasn’t about to let him bleed out. That would have been too easy. He deserved to rot in a cell for the rest of his miserable life, chewing on the choices that got him there.

I cuffed his good wrist to the wrecked one behind his back. Then I grabbed a stack of napkins from the desk and shoved them into his intact hand. “Use these to stem the bleeding. You pass out, and I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

He glared at me but did as he was told, stuffing the napkins against the shredded meat of his trigger hand. Meanwhile, I grabbed his laptop off the desk, a sleek piece of hardware that probably contained more dirt than a landfill, and shoved it into my pack. Then I yanked him to his feet and pushed him toward the stairwell, his shoes scraping against the concrete as I herded him down to ground level.

Ninja’s voice came back on the comms. “Looks like we hit the motherlode , Cowboy. Basement’s full of goodies—at least a ton of coke, maybe even two, crates of AKs, Uzis, Berettas. Oh, and a couple of crates of RPGs. And enough plastic explosive to remodel half of Palermo.”

“Figures. Moretti’s probably supply anyone who can pay. Bet ISIS is on their client list. Check the RPGs. Are they good to go?”

“Affirmative. Ready to rain hell if you say the word. Guess they’ll come in handy?”

“You bet. Keep inventory. We’ll need those.”

I shoved Kessler into a room when we reached the ground floor. “Plant yourself right there. Move a muscle, and I’ll turn your knees into confetti. Got it?”

He nodded, sweat pouring down his face. “Your name isn’t really, John Moore, is it? You played us.”

“Turns out you weren’t as bright as you thought,” I shot back as I locked the door behind me.

I stepped outside, the salty tang of the sea hitting me. I scanned the dimming horizon as I made my way toward the boathouse beyond the docks. Night was closing in fast, and I knew we didn’t have the luxury of time. The Morettis were coming, and they would be pissed as hell, likely packing heat in numbers we couldn’t shake off. A high-speed car chase on their home turf wasn’t an option, not unless we wanted to end up in a roadside shootout with the odds stacked against us.

A two-hour drive back to Naval Air Station Sigonella, retracing the route we had taken while coming in, was off the table. There would be too many roadblocks on the way. The Morettis had enough sway in the area to get local law enforcement to detain us.

The tablet in my hand displayed the terrain: one road leading to the cannery from Palermo in the south-east, and snaking westward along the island toward the mountains. It was the only way in or out unless someone planned to swim.

But swimming wasn’t the only way you can traverse water. The two boats on the dock had suddenly provided me with another option. Finding the stash of rocket launchers and C-4 explosives had made it even more feasible.

Up close, the two boats were exactly what I had scoped out through the binos earlier—sleek, well-maintained, and built for speed. One was a white-hulled, center-console beauty with dual 300-horsepower Yamaha outboards. The other was a dark-blue cabin cruiser with twin inboards that probably packed more torque than a Humvee. These weren’t fishing trawlers; these were the kind of vessels that could hit 40 knots easy and leave most pursuers choking on their wake.

I ran my hand over the hull of the nearest one, inspecting the craftsmanship. Solid build, clean lines—someone had money and taste. Too bad they had just been drafted into Uncle Sam’s service.

These boats would get us out of there fast. The only problem was what came after. The boats were good for a fast getaway, but we weren’t crossing the entire Tyrrhenian Sea in those. I needed a real exfil plan, and Echo was working on it.

Right on cue, Echo’s voice buzzed in my earpiece.

“Cowboy, you there? Got good news for you.”

“Talk to me, Echo.”

“I hacked into the AIS system—found two merchant vessels near your position, north of Palermo,” he said excitedly.

The AIS (automatic identification system) is a tracking system that uses transceivers on ships to monitor their real-time location.

“Just the news I wanted to hear. Go on,” I urged.

“One’s flagged US, and here’s the kicker—the captain’s an ex-Navy man. Guy bleeds red, white, and blue, like Fourth of July fireworks on steroids. Told him it’s high stakes for Uncle Sam, and he’s already rerouting. Name of the ship’s Liberty Belle. Should be about five miles offshore due north in fifteen minutes. Sending coordinates now. A Black Hawk will exfil you from the boat once you’re on board, so keep it tight.”

“Good work, Echo. What about our friends on the road?”

“Moretti’s convoy is on its way. Four vehicles. Road north out of Palermo’s a mess, but they’re making progress. I’ll ping you when they’re five minutes out.”

“Roger that. Keep me updated.”

I turned back toward the cannery and keyed the team comms. “Cowboy to Delta. Heads up. Plan A—outrunning these guys—just went out the window. We’re too far from the highway and these guys are closing in. Junior’s probably tearing up the road in a Ferrari.”

I paused a second, expecting Ninja to come up with a smartass reply. I wasn’t wrong.

“What’s Plan B?,” Ninja asked. “SUV outrunning Junior’s Ferrari definitely isn’t an option. Guy probably sleeps with his foot on the gas pedal.”

“Yeah, we’re not winning that drag race. We risk becoming roadkill. Plan B is we hit ’em head-on and take a different route out,” I replied.

“Now we’re talking. Let’s stick around and light ‘em up,” Raptor replied.

Hawkeye chimed in, dry as ever. “Yeah, plus I’m not big on car chases. I’d rather end this from a mile out.”

“But what different route?” Anna cut in.

“Through the sea,” I replied.

Ninja chuckled. “Nice one. I don’t mind swimming for fun, Cowboy, but swimming a damn sea? You lose a bet or something?”

“Not swimming. I’m looking at two fine boats, both ready to haul ass. But first priority is setting up defenses. Time to get serious. Let’s move.”

I flipped to Hawkeye. “Get your sniper rifle and find the best overwatch position with a clear line on the road from Palermo. Call out targets as soon as you see them.”

“Copy that, Cowboy,” Hawkeye said.

“Ninja, grab an RPG and hoof it up to the clifftop with Hawkeye. Those cars should be toast before they hit the cannery.”

“On it. Just say the word when you want fireworks.”

“Raptor,” I said. “Get down to the basement. Plant C-4 for remote detonation, then rig the car outside. Then grab another RPG and get on the roof. I want you ready to light ’em up.”

“Roger that,” Raptor replied, already moving.

“Anna,” I said. “Grab a rifle and binoculars. Head up with Ninja, but keep eyes on the road east. We don’t need any surprises while we’re staring down Palermo.”

“Copy that,” she said.

Echo’s voice cut back in. “Cowboy, heads up. Four vehicles, about four miles out. ETA: five minutes.”

“Copy that,” I replied.

I exhaled and keyed the mic. “All right, folks. Time to rock and roll.”

Hawkeye’s voice came back. “Oh, I’ve got the soundtrack ready. Let’s give ‘em a finale to remember.”

“Save the one-liners for later,” I replied, allowing a small grin.

I glanced at the docked boats one more time. They would get us out of here, but first, we had to make a hell of a stand. The night was about to get real loud.

CHAPTER 42

I got up on the roof, pressed my binos to my face, and scanned the road below. The encroaching late evening darkness was a tactical dream— shadows stretched across the terrain, visibility shot to hell, and a pissed-off enemy barreling straight into our kill zone. The headlights bounced and weaved, cutting through the dark Sicilian countryside. Four cars, hauling ass.

Up front, the lead car was a red Ferrari, Marco Moretti’s prized toy, eating up the road like a bat out of hell. I could almost feel the heat from his anger, probably gnashing his teeth hard enough to crack them. Behind him, two sedans stayed tight on his six, and at the back, a limo crawled along like it owned the place. Vince’s ride—had to be. The Morettis weren’t known for subtlety, and tonight was no exception.

I keyed the comms. “Hawkeye, you ready?”

His voice was crisp. “Locked and loaded. Just give the word.”

I watched, tracking the distance. I wanted them closer. The RPGs were good to about 360 yards. “Let Marco hit 250 yards,” I said. “Then punch his ticket.”

“Roger that,” Hawkeye replied, steady as ever.

The Ferrari screamed down the road, its engine a rolling snarl in the night. Marco was likely frothing at the mouth. Behind him, the other cars followed, a convoy of arrogance and bad decisions.

“He’s at two-fifty,” I called. “Hawkeye, time to give him a love tap.”

The Mk 13 Mod 7 barked loud and lethal, spitting a .300 Win Mag round at almost 3,000 feet per second. The bullet tore through the night, ripping into the Ferrari’s hood with a spray of sparks and a metallic shriek. The car jerked like it had been punched, tires squealing as Marco fought to keep it on the road. It fishtailed hard, almost veering off the shoulder before coming to a screeching halt.

The second car braked, pulling alongside him. I grinned as Marco waved it forward, letting it take point. “Big man doesn’t want to play lead anymore,” I muttered.

By the time the third car passed, Marco had dropped to third in line. The limo stayed steady in the rear. Marco wasn’t stupid—he was sending his boys to test the grinder first. Smart move. But it wouldn’t save him.

“Looks like Junior lost his nerve,” I said. “Ninja, Raptor, let’s welcome his buddies properly. First and second cars are yours. Rockets on my go.”

“Copy,” Ninja said. “Locked in.”

“Ready to send it,” Raptor confirmed.

“Three, two, one... send it!"

The RPGs roared to life. The rockets streaked through the dark, trailing fire as they covered the distance in seconds. The first slammed into the lead car, turning it into a fireball that lit up the night. A heartbeat later, the second rocket hit the car behind it, throwing flaming debris in every direction.

“Hell yeah!” Ninja shouted. “That’s how you clear a roadblock.”

The remaining cars skidded to a halt, reversing hard. Marco and his men spilled out, firing wildly toward the cannery. Their shots sparked off the building’s walls and ricocheted harmlessly into the night.

The gunfire was wild, rounds pinging off the metal roof but nowhere near us. After a minute or two of frustration, the shooting stopped. My burner phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Vince.

I keyed my comms. “Hawkeye, Ninja, Anna—get down to the boats. Collect Kessler. Rig one boat with C-4 and get ready to move.”

As they moved, I answered the phone.

“Who are you?” Vince demanded, his voice a growl.

“That’s for you to figure out,” I said coolly.

“We had a deal!”

“A deal to sell good men and women to terrorists? To send them to their deaths?”

“It’s just business,” Vince snapped.

“You should’ve stuck to small-time crime, Vince. Shitty little empire, petty little scams. You poked the wrong bear, and now you’re bleeding out.”

“You think you can get away with this? I’ll hunt you down myself!”

“Sure you will,” I said. “Your guys are great at sneaky ambushes—like when you tried kidnapping the woman. But tonight, you might want to cut your losses and limp away while you still can.”

Vince went silent.

I still needed to stall him until Ninja was clear in the boat. “How much coke you got stashed in the basement, Vince? Hundred mil? More?”

“Stay out of my business!” he almost screamed.

“Oh, I’m in it now,” I said. “Tell you what—give me a cut, and maybe I won’t blow it all sky high.”

Ninja’s voice crackled in my ear. “Boats are prepped, Cowboy. We’re ready to roll.”

That was what I was waiting for. It was time to move.

“Speaking of blowing things up, I planted some C-4 on Luca’s car. Let’s see how good it is.”

I signaled Raptor. A second later, the car exploded in a fiery blast, sending debris and flames skyward.

I cut the call and we ran toward the boats. Ninja fired up the engine, and we slipped into the water. Lights off, we cruised slowly, hugging the darkness. Then, as realization dawned, Vince’s men fired toward the cannery before scrambling for their remaining boat. As soon as they started it, Raptor triggered the C-4. The explosion rocked the dock, sending flaming debris into the air.

“Open the throttle,” I told Ninja.

The boat surged forward, hitting 40 knots as we cut through the waves. A couple of minutes later, the Liberty Belle loomed ahead, a hulking silhouette against the horizon, her deck lights faintly illuminating the cargo containers stacked high.

Echo’s voice came through my comms. “Patching you through to the captain.”

“This is Captain Jake Tanner,” a gruff voice said. “Glad to be of service to Uncle Sam once again.”

“Appreciate it, Captain,” I said. “Get your crew ready. We’re inbound.”

“Crew’s lowering the Jacob’s ladder now,” Reynolds said. “Welcome aboard.”

We reached the ship as the ladder hit the water. One by one, we scrambled aboard, boots hitting the deck. As soon as we were aboard, Raptor hit the final detonator. The cannery went up in a massive explosion, a fiery plume climbing skyward.

Ninja grinned. “Looks like the Fourth of July came early.”

“Happy Independence Day, boys,” I replied. “Time to go home.”

The ship’s hum thrummed through the soles of my boots as I leaned against the railing, letting the salty air wash over me. My eyes swept over my team—beat to hell but still on their feet. We had pulled off another impossible mission, got Kessler locked up tight in the brig below. One more traitor off the board, one more mission in the bag, one more disaster averted.

But how long until the next crisis? Peace doesn’t last, not in this line of work. There’s always another fire on the horizon. Another crisis was out there, waiting to explode. I pushed the thought aside for a moment. Right now, we were still standing, still breathing, and I let myself feel it—the satisfying taste of victory. Tomorrow, we would fight again.

– THE END –

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BOOKS IN THE AXEL BLAZE SERIES

BLAZE RETURNS

(Book 1)

LETHAL FORCE

(Book 2)

HARD TARGET

(Book 3)

MEAN STREETS

(Book 4)

UNCHAINED FURY

(Book 5)

NO ESCAPE

(Book 6)

FEAR CITY

(Book 7)

DEAD CALM

(Book 8)

NO MERCY

(Book 9)

WARPATH

(Book 10 releasing on April 10)

CROSSFIRE

(Book 11 releasing on July 31)