Inside the pressurized cabin, the aircraft throbbed with a low, relentless hum—metal skin flexing at altitude, rivets singing, the whole fuselage vibrating like it was alive and impatient. Red jump lights painted everyone in blood-warm shadows. Armored shoulders. Helmet rims. Parachute rigs packed tight and strapped tighter.

  Sonata sat close enough to feel Mitchell’s stillness like a wall.

  She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey,” she said, quiet but firm. “You with me?”

  Mitchell didn’t turn his head. Didn’t blink. Just sat there with his hands on his knees, chin slightly lowered, like he’d been bolted to the bench.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  A beat.

  “I’m with you,” he corrected.

  Sonata kept her hand there anyway. Grounding contact. Proof of life.

  Across the aisle, Sam Hartstock tugged at his harness straps for the third time like he could cinch the anxiety out of his ribs. Jack Skybolt checked his altimeter, then checked it again, like it might change its mind.

  Sam leaned toward Jack. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

  Jack didn’t look up. “If you die, you won’t have enough initiative to haunt anybody.”

  Sam scoffed. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “It’s not even in my top ten,” Jack replied, deadpan.

  Mitchell didn’t react. His gaze was down, fixed on nothing.

  Sonata watched him for a second, then slid her mouth close to his ear so the engine noise wouldn’t eat her words.

  “You’re not thinking about the jump.”

  Mitchell’s jaw ticked once. “No.”

  “Then what are you thinking about?”

  He exhaled through his nose. Controlled. Measured.

  “My kids.”

  Sonata’s fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder. “That’s… a weird thing to bring to a combat drop.”

  “That’s the problem,” Mitchell said. “It shouldn’t scare me more than this.”

  Sonata leaned back enough to see his face. “You’re scared of being a dad?”

  Mitchell finally turned his eyes toward her. Not soft. Not smiling. Just honest.

  “I’m scared of being the wrong kind.”

  Sonata didn’t flinch. “Talk to me.”

  Mitchell’s voice stayed low, steady. Like he was reading off a checklist he hated.

  “I understand violence.”

  “You understand violence,” Sonata repeated, letting him hear how insane that sounded in context.

  “It has rules,” he said. “It has boundaries. You do X, you get Y. Threat appears, you end it. Simple.”

  “And parenting isn’t.”

  “No,” Mitchell said. “Parenting is… all gray.”

  Sam overheard just enough to twist around. “Did Sergeant Basalt over here just say parenting is harder than combat?”

  Mitchell didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

  Jack leaned in too, curiosity cutting through his own nerves. “That’s either very healthy or extremely alarming.”

  “It’s accurate,” Mitchell said.

  Sonata nodded once. “Keep going.”

  Mitchell’s eyes flicked away, like looking at her too long would make him say more than he wanted.

  “I had Charlotte and George,” he said.

  Sam made a face. “Ah. The wardens.”

  Sonata glanced at Sam. “You met them?”

  “Met?” Sam whispered like it was a dirty word. “I survived them. Barely. Their house smelled like disinfectant and disappointment.”

  Jack huffed a tiny laugh, then sobered. “They weren’t guardians. They were a correctional facility with curtains.”

  Mitchell’s mouth tightened. “They had rules for everything.”

  Sonata’s tone stayed gentle but direct. “What kind of rules?”

  Mitchell didn’t answer immediately. The aircraft rattled. The red lights pulsed.

  Then he said, flat: “Children should be seen, not heard.”

  Sonata’s brows pinched. “They actually said that out loud.”

  “All the time,” Mitchell replied. “It wasn’t a saying. It was policy.”

  Sam muttered, “God, that explains so much.”

  Mitchell kept going, voice still even, but Sonata could hear the pressure behind it—like he was keeping the words from shaking.

  “Sixth birthday,” he said. “January seventeenth, nineteen ninety-six. That’s when it flipped.”

  Jack’s eyes flicked to him. “You remember the date.”

  Mitchell shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “You remember dates when they’re… a line you cross.”

  Sonata swallowed. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Mitchell said. Then corrected himself. “Everything.”

  Sam leaned back against the webbing. “They accelerated him. Treated him like a grown man who happened to be small.”

  Mitchell’s eyes stayed forward. “Discipline was constant. Correction was immediate. Approval was… rare.”

  Sonata kept her voice level. “And affection?”

  Mitchell’s pause said more than his words.

  “Conditional.”

  Jack shifted, tightening his shoulder straps. “So you learned containment.”

  Mitchell nodded once. “Anger didn’t get released.”

  “It got stored,” Sonata finished quietly.

  Mitchell glanced at her. “Yeah.”

  Sam scratched his jaw, then said carefully, “And then you joined the military, which basically took that containment and handed you… tools.”

  Mitchell’s gaze flicked to him. “Refined it.”

  Sonata watched him. “You’re afraid you’ll refine it onto your kids.”

  His answer was immediate. “Yes.”

  Jack exhaled slowly. “Mitchell…”

  Mitchell cut him off—not harsh, just firm. “Don’t.”

  Sonata didn’t let him retreat. “What does ‘wrong kind’ mean to you?”

  Mitchell’s eyes narrowed like he was looking at a target only he could see.

  “Authoritarian,” he said.

  “And what do you want to be?” Sonata asked.

  Mitchell’s voice dropped even lower. “Authoritative. Firm. Fair. Supportive.”

  Sam made a small noise. “Look at you. Therapy words.”

  Mitchell shot him a glance sharp enough to carve stone. “I will throw you out of this plane.”

  Sam raised both hands. “I’m motivated. I’m quiet.”

  Jack smirked. “For the first time in your life.”

  Mitchell didn’t smile. But Sonata saw the faintest softening around his eyes—like the tension loosened one notch.

  Then the cabin speaker crackled.

  “THIRTY SECONDS!” Lt. Col. Midnight Waterson’s voice cut through the roar like a blade.

  The ramp mechanism whined.

  Mitchell’s posture changed instantly. Not fear. Not excitement. Purpose.

  Sonata stood too, clipping and checking, hands moving from muscle memory.

  Midnight rose at the front, one hand on the rail, the other gesturing like a conductor.

  “Sound off!” she barked.

  “GREEN!” Sam shouted.

  “GREEN!” Jack echoed.

  Sonata’s voice: “GREEN.”

  Mitchell didn’t yell. Just said, “Green,” like a fact.

  The rear ramp yawned open.

  Black sky. Rushing air. The wind slammed into the cabin like it wanted to tear them out by force.

  Sam’s eyes went wide. “Oh—yep—nope—I hate this part.”

  Jack grabbed Sam’s harness and leaned close. “Stop narrating your cowardice.”

  Sam pointed at Mitchell. “He’s not even blinking!”

  Mitchell stepped toward the edge.

  Sonata watched him, heart kicking once.

  Midnight chopped her hand forward. “GO!”

  Sam and Jack did that half-step humans do when their brain tries to negotiate with gravity.

  Mitchell didn’t negotiate.

  He grabbed both of them by their harness straps and launched them clean out into open air.

  Sam’s scream got ripped away by the wind.

  Jack’s was just a curse.

  Midnight’s voice snapped, half-amused, half-annoyed: “SERGEANT—”

  Mitchell didn’t look back.

  He turned to Sonata, gave her a brief glance—pure awareness.

  And said, quiet enough only she could hear, “No hesitation.”

  Then he stepped backward into nothing, finishing with a clean backflip into the night.

  Sonata swore under her breath and ran for the edge.

  “Mitchell, you absolute—”

  She threw herself into darkness.

  Wind. Cold. Speed.

  Below, Sam and Jack’s canopies popped early—white blooms in black sky.

  Sonata stayed in freefall longer, hunting the falling spear ahead.

  Her altimeter ticked.

  Her stomach tightened.

  She pulled.

  The canopy snapped her upright with a violent jerk.

  She scanned—hard—until she saw him.

  Mitchell still falling.

  Still waiting.

  “Of course you are,” she muttered.

  Halfway down—

  Crack.

  A gunshot echoed up from below.

  Sonata’s blood went cold. “Contact already?”

  She hit hard, rolled, cut her canopy, and rose with her rifle up—

  And there he was.

  Mitchell on one knee, M1911A1 extended.

  An enemy soldier lay behind him, face down, a single hole where a face used to be.

  Sonata stared. “Mitchell—”

  “Threat,” he said.

  Another hostile lunged in with a collapsible baton like that was going to fix the situation.

  Mitchell moved like math.

  Sidestep. Grabbed a fallen branch. Whipped it across the man’s face with a wet crack.

  The soldier staggered—

  Mitchell’s hand closed on his throat.

  Sonata snapped, “Mitchell!”

  He didn’t hear her—or didn’t care.

  Branch drove into the man’s abdomen. Forced him down.

  Then Mitchell slid behind him.

  Hooked the branch under the chin.

  Twisted.

  Snap.

  The body went limp.

  Silence.

  Mitchell let the branch fall and scanned like he was clearing a room.

  Sonata stepped closer, breathing hard. “You done?”

  Mitchell’s eyes flicked to her. “Clear left. Clear right.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Mitchell blinked once. “Yes.”

  She stared up at him. “Do you ever feel anything after that?”

  Mitchell’s answer was immediate and honest in a way that made her throat tighten.

  “I feel… quiet.”

  Sonata nodded slowly, then reached out and put her hand on his shoulder again.

  This time he didn’t flinch.

  She leaned in. “Listen to me.”

  Mitchell’s gaze held hers.

  “The fact that you’re scared of being too harsh?” Sonata said. “That’s your proof you’re not Charlotte and George.”

  Mitchell’s jaw tightened. “Fear doesn’t equal virtue.”

  “No,” Sonata agreed. “But awareness does.”

  A canopy snapped open overhead.

  Jack descended clean—textbook flare and drop.

  Sam… did not.

  His chute drifted left, caught a tall tree, and yanked him to a halt like a puppet.

  Sam hung there, legs kicking. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME—”

  Jack looked up calmly. “Don’t.”

  Sam glared down. “Don’t what?!”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Jack said. “Gravity will let you down.”

  Sam yelled, “Gravity is currently letting me down emotionally!”

  Mitchell looked up. Expression unchanged.

  Sonata felt it, though—the tiny shift in him. Calculation. Distance. Risk.

  Sam pulled his knife.

  Jack’s tone sharpened. “Sam.”

  Sam ignored him and started sawing through his lines. “I’m not waiting for gravity to decide my life.”

  Jack sighed like a disappointed teacher. “This is going to hurt.”

  The canopy gave way.

  Sam dropped.

  Hit the ground with a dull, meaty thump and a strangled wheeze.

  He curled, clutching his hip. “Yep. Yep. That was… yep.”

  Sonata walked over, scanning him. “Talk to me.”

  Sam groaned. “I hate everyone here.”

  Mitchell stopped a few feet away and asked, deadpan, “Can you move your toes?”

  Sam blinked up at him. “Is this a hostage negotiation?”

  “Answer,” Mitchell said.

  Sam flexed his boots. “Yes.”

  “Hands?”

  Sam lifted a hand weakly. “Regrettably.”

  Mitchell nodded once. “Not a break.”

  Sonata added, “He’ll complain like it is.”

  “Already am,” Sam croaked.

  Jack offered a hand. “Get up.”

  Sam squinted at him. “I will bite you.”

  “You won’t,” Jack said, and hauled him upright in one firm pull.

  Sam winced but stayed standing.

  Mitchell stepped closer—not hovering, not fussing, just close enough to catch him if he folded.

  Sonata noticed Mitchell’s hand hover near Sam’s elbow for half a second—ready to steady him.

  Mitchell didn’t comment. Didn’t draw attention.

  He just made sure Sam was upright.

  Then he turned away, already moving.

  Problem solved.

  Move on.

  Sonata filed it away.

  Authoritarian men don’t check toes.

  They don’t hover.

  They don’t quietly make sure someone can walk.

  Mitchell did.

  They regrouped beside a waist-high boulder veined with pale stone. Sonata knelt, snapped open her map case, and clicked on a red-lens flashlight.

  Sam limped into position. “Tell me the objective is ‘nap.’”

  Sonata traced a line with her finger. “Primary objective is here. Enemy compound. Seven point nine miles northeast.”

  Sam stared. “Seven point nine?”

  “Seven point nine,” she confirmed.

  Jack adjusted his ruck. “We move now.”

  “Not yet,” Sonata said, shifting to a circled mark closer. “Enemy cache less than a mile from us. If we bypass it blind and patrol rotates, we get boxed in.”

  Sam grimaced. “I hate your brain.”

  Jack murmured, “I love her brain.”

  Sam looked between them. “Get a room.”

  Mitchell stood just outside the red light’s edge, pistol in his left hand, knife in his right.

  Jack noticed. “You doing your spooky ambidextrous thing again?”

  Mitchell’s eyes didn’t move. “It works.”

  Sam muttered, “It’s unsettling.”

  Sonata checked her watch. “Zero one ten hours. We take the cache first, then push to the compound.”

  Mitchell finally spoke, voice level. “Movement window’s ours.”

  Jack nodded. “Copy.”

  Sam sighed. “Fine. But if I get shot because my hip is singing, I’m suing Mitchell.”

  Mitchell looked at him. “You’ll lose.”

  Sam wheezed. “I hate that you’re confident.”

  Mitchell’s mouth twitched—barely. “I’m accurate.”

  They moved.

  —

  An hour later, the jungle thinned into unnatural straight lines—trenches, sandbags, corrugated walls under camo netting. Sonata raised binoculars.

  “There,” she whispered. “Cutout. Recessed access panel. Resupply point.”

  Jack leaned in. “Weak point.”

  Sam started to ask something—

  Mitchell was already gone.

  He slipped from cover and dropped into the trench without a word.

  Sonata hissed, immediate irritation flaring. “What is with him just going?”

  Sam shrugged. “That’s just Mitchell.”

  “That’s not an explanation!”

  Jack’s jaw tightened. “It is, unfortunately.”

  A crack snapped overhead.

  A round punched dirt near Jack’s knee.

  “Contact—front-left!” Jack hissed, flattening.

  Sam tried to angle for return fire. “I can’t see them!”

  Sonata scanned for glint, flash, elevation—

  More shots. Sloppy, but enough to pin them.

  Then—

  Silence.

  Not a pause. A stop.

  Jack whispered, “That’s not good.”

  Sam whispered back, “Or it’s very good.”

  A shadow shifted.

  Mitchell stepped into view from the opposite direction, calm as if he’d gone to grab water. Rifle slung. Pistol holstered.

  Sam stared. “You good?”

  Mitchell nodded once. “Snipers handled.”

  Jack blinked. “Handled how?”

  Mitchell’s voice stayed flat. “They won’t shoot again.”

  Sonata held his gaze. “Mitchell.”

  He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t brag.

  Just turned toward the cutout. “Move.”

  They slid into the ammo cache together—stacked crates, metal tins, the sharp chemical stink of propellant.

  Jack glanced at the crates, then at Mitchell. “Our mission is Julia. This cache is secondary—”

  He hesitated, then—fatal mistake—added, “Bro—”

  Mitchell’s head turned slowly.

  “First of all,” Mitchell said evenly, “I ain’t your bro, bro.”

  Jack winced. “Copy.”

  “Second,” Mitchell continued, “you don’t tell me to wait. I tell you what to do.”

  Sam muttered under his breath, “Technically he’s right. Unfortunately.”

  Sonata cut in. “Mitchell, enough. Focus.”

  Mitchell shifted—

  Sonata saw it a half-second too late. His eyes changed. His posture loaded like a spring.

  “DOWN!” he barked.

  He slammed into Sonata, driving her flat, wrapping her like armor—

  The world exploded.

  A concussive blast ripped through the cache. Crates detonated in sympathetic bursts. Loose rounds cooked off, popping and snapping like angry fireworks.

  Dust. Heat. Shrapnel hammering sandbags.

  Sonata grunted as her back hit. “—Ow!”

  Mitchell didn’t move off her until the worst of the cook-off died down.

  When he finally rolled away, he scanned instantly, calm as a machine.

  “Timed explosive,” he said. “Started a fire.”

  Sonata sat up, rotating her shoulder with a sharp hiss. “I felt it.”

  Sam coughed through smoke. “You could’ve warned us!”

  Mitchell looked at him. “Wouldn’t have moved fast enough.”

  Jack stared at the burning crates. “You solo’d snipers, lit the dump, planted charges, and said nothing.”

  Mitchell shrugged once. “Snipers were distraction.”

  Sonata stood, wincing as her spine protested. “You tackle like that again, I’m billing you for chiropractic.”

  Sam barked a laugh. “Yes.”

  Jack shook his head. “We’re going to die because Mitchell refuses to use words.”

  Mitchell turned toward the jungle, voice level. “Julia’s compound just lost resupply. They’ll scramble.”

  Sonata’s eyes narrowed. “That’s our window.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Move.”

  And they moved—leaving the burning cache behind them, the night thinning into dawn, and seven point nine miles ahead that had just become a lot uglier.

  To the outside world? Small.

  To the people who lived there? Everything.

  They reached the perimeter just before dawn. Concrete walls streaked with old rain stains. Razor wire sagging in places. Watchtowers with half-asleep silhouettes.

  Mitchell peeled off without waiting for consensus.

  “Over here, comrades,” he murmured.

  Sam muttered, “He says that like we’re in a propaganda poster.”

  Mitchell ignored him. He crouched near a partially concealed maintenance gate, pulled the improvised pry bar from his pack—a metallic fan blade lashed tight with rope for leverage.

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “That looks illegal.”

  “It works,” Mitchell replied.

  He wedged it into the rusted seam.

  Metal groaned.

  Sonata scanned the wall line. “You have thirty seconds before that noise becomes suspicious.”

  Mitchell leaned harder.

  The gate gave with a reluctant snap.

  “Twenty-eight,” Sonata said.

  They slipped inside and dropped into a narrow sewer access tunnel. The air was damp, sour, stale.

  Sam wrinkled his nose. “I miss deserts.”

  “Move,” Mitchell said softly.

  He advanced first, boots barely making sound on slick concrete. His voice drifted forward into the dark.

  “Come out and play,” he whispered. “You’re running out of time… and space.”

  Sam leaned close to Jack. “Does he rehearse that?”

  Jack didn’t blink. “No. That’s the problem.”

  Sonata felt it too—that shift. Mitchell in mission mode wasn’t just focused. He was intent. Controlled intensity, bordering on zeal.

  They reached a ladder shaft leading up into the compound’s interior structure.

  Mitchell looked back once. “Stack.”

  They formed up.

  He ascended.

  At the top, a secured interior door.

  Mitchell knelt, already withdrawing lock tools.

  Sam whispered, “You ever consider using that talent for something legal?”

  Mitchell didn’t look up. “I did.”

  Mitchell’s mouth twitched. “Liquor cabinet.”

  Click.

  The door eased open.

  A camera operator inside turned at the worst possible moment.

  Mitchell stepped through and pistol-whipped him cleanly across the temple.

  The man dropped without a sound.

  Sam stared. “That was… very quiet.”

  Mitchell glanced down at the unconscious operator. “Learned lockpicking on my Uncle Orange’s liquor cabinet.”

  Sonata rolled her eyes slightly. “You’ve mentioned.”

  “Every time I poured the whiskey down the drain,” Mitchell continued.

  Sam blinked. “How much are we talking?”

  Mitchell stood. “Once poured three thousand dollars’ worth.”

  Jack winced. “That’s either noble or psychotic.”

  “Both,” Sam decided.

  “No,” Mitchell said calmly. “It was necessary.”

  No pride. No drama.

  Just fact.

  They split.

  Jack slipped into a warehouse structure.

  Crates stacked in uneven rows. Metal containers. Tarps covering pallets.

  He pried open the nearest one.

  White bricks wrapped in plastic.

  “Narcotics,” he whispered over comms.

  He moved to the next.

  Gold bars.

  “Currency.”

  The third.

  Ancient carved statues wrapped in cloth.

  Jack ran a gloved hand over a statue’s face. “Artifacts.”

  Sam crouched beside another crate and opened it. “Same here.”

  Sonata stepped in behind them, scanning upper catwalks.

  Jack exhaled slowly. “Most of this is stolen.”

  Sam nodded. “Either looted from villages or skimmed from foreign contracts.”

  Jack glanced around. “Official narrative says rebels are terrorists.”

  Sam snorted softly. “Official narratives are convenient.”

  Sonata spoke quietly. “Population here’s been fed up for years. Foreign corporations strip the land. Sell resources back at double price.”

  Jack gestured at the gold. “So the regime hoards it.”

  Sam shrugged. “Rebels grab it to redistribute.”

  Jack raised a brow. “Or to fund their own corruption.”

  Sam gave him a look. “Civil war?”

  Jack’s voice was dry. “Nothing civil about it.”

  They all knew the reality.

  They were operating unsanctioned.

  Officially nonexistent.

  If captured?

  No one would admit they were here.

  Paul had said it plainly before they left:

  “I can get you in. After that, you’re on your own. Host nation weapons only.”

  Sam glanced down at his sidearm.

  “.45 isn’t exactly subtle,” he muttered.

  Jack tapped his own holster. “Common caliber worldwide.”

  Sonata didn’t sugarcoat it. “Ballistic databases exist.”

  Sam sighed. “So we just don’t miss.”

  Mitchell’s voice came over comms from another corridor. “Clear north wing. Two down.”

  Jack winced. “Two?”

  “Friendlies,” Mitchell replied.

  The word hung in the air.

  Sam muttered, “Friendlies who’d shoot us on sight.”

  “Keep perspective,” Sonata said quietly.

  They cleared bunk rooms.

  Empty bunks. Half-packed duffels.

  Jack frowned. “They evacuated.”

  “Fast,” Sam added. “Too fast.”

  Mitchell entered the room, scanning corners. “Cache explosion triggered alert.”

  Sonata nodded. “We forced them to consolidate.”

  Sam looked around. “So where’s Julia?”

  Silence.

  Mitchell didn’t answer.

  Two hours later.

  Mitchell stood in the compound’s security office, flipping through files.

  Paper manifests. Convoy schedules. Fuel logs.

  Sam leaned against the doorframe. “Anything?”

  Mitchell flipped another page. “No prisoner transfer documentation.”

  Jack stepped in. “Hidden?”

  Mitchell shook his head. “If she was here, there’d be a paper trail. Even corrupt systems track assets.”

  “Julia’s an asset,” Sam muttered.

  “Or leverage,” Sonata said.

  Mitchell tossed the papers aside. “She’s not here.”

  Jack exhaled sharply. “So what now? We raid convoy routes? Hit satellite outposts?”

  Mitchell’s eyes lifted slowly.

  “I’m not farming side quests.”

  Sam blinked. “Did you just—”

  “I’m not turning this into incremental advantage,” Mitchell continued evenly. “We came for Julia.”

  Sonata studied him. “Extraction plan?”

  “Nonexistent,” Mitchell said.

  Jack let out a humorless laugh. “Easy ride in.”

  “Hard ride out,” Sam finished.

  Mitchell holstered his pistol. “We move.”

  They slipped back through the sewer access.

  Gray-blue light bled across the horizon.

  The compound behind them was silent.

  Too silent.

  They climbed to a narrow ridgeline overlooking lower terrain.

  Rocky slopes. Jagged outcroppings. Pine clusters breaking up pale stone.

  Salaqueras stretched outward—small on a map, sprawling when you stood inside it.

  Sonata adjusted her pack.

  “We’re in the southern half now.”

  Mitchell didn’t slow. “And?”

  “It matters.”

  Jack glanced at her. “Royal Army.”

  Sam grimaced. “The weaker branch.”

  “Bigger,” Sonata corrected. “Citizen-based. Volunteers plus conscription. Military and internal security combined.”

  “Meaning checkpoints,” Jack said.

  “Meaning unpredictability,” Sonata added. “Broad authority. Thin discipline.”

  Sam rolled his shoulder. “They’ll overcompensate.”

  Mitchell stepped over a fallen branch. “Doesn’t change anything.”

  Sonata stopped briefly. “It absolutely does.”

  He turned slightly. “Wars take place in someone’s home.”

  Jack watched him carefully.

  Mitchell continued, voice calm but weighted.

  “You call it a southern theater. Remote archipelago. Unstable region.”

  He gestured toward the rocky slopes below.

  “For them? This is their kitchen. Their street. Their backyard.”

  Sam’s voice softened. “One hundred four square miles.”

  Jack nodded. “Forty-nine settlements. One city.”

  Sonata added quietly, “Pizza-shaped archipelago. Rugged rock and pine.”

  Mitchell looked out over it.

  “To the outside world?” he said.

  “Small,” Jack finished.

  Mitchell nodded once.

  “But to the people here?” Sonata said.

  “Everything,” Mitchell replied.

  Silence lingered.

  Then Sam broke it, because he always did.

  “So what’s the play, Sergeant?”

  Mitchell’s gaze sharpened.

  “We find out where she went.”

  Jack tilted his head. “How?”

  Mitchell’s answer was simple.

  “We make someone talk.”

  Sonata met his eyes.

  “Careful,” she said.

  Mitchell didn’t look away.

  “I am.”

  _______________-

  The air in the makeshift hideout—a mechanic shop welded onto the corpse of a forgotten gas station—reeked of old oil, stale gasoline, and heat-soaked concrete. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like tired insects.

  The door exploded inward.

  Lt-Commander Cadenza Amore didn’t just enter—she arrived like a verdict. One fist locked in the collar of a Royal Guard officer’s uniform, dragging him across the threshold.

  He stumbled, boots scraping, barely catching himself before slamming into a stack of bald tires.

  “Who the hell is that?” Sonata asked from the workbench, not moving. Her tone was flat, but her eyes were sharp.

  Cadenza shoved the man forward.

  “That,” she said calmly, “is our new house guest.”

  The officer tried to straighten his jacket. It didn’t help. His cap was gone. His collar torn. His dignity fraying.

  “I caught him riding around with a street walker,” Cadenza continued, stepping close enough that her shadow swallowed him. “Little extracurricular activity. On my turf.”

  Sonata’s gaze shifted slowly from the officer to Cadenza.

  “Got something you wanna tell me?” she asked.

  Cadenza’s eyes flicked toward Mitchell at the door, then back to Sonata. “He wasn’t alone. Two patrol cars ghosting the block. Not official. Unmarked. They peeled off when I made contact.”

  The officer spat.

  The wad landed wet across Sonata’s cheek.

  Silence.

  “Go to hell,” the officer snarled. His voice trembled—but only just.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Cadenza’s lips curved slowly.

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  She moved before the officer finished inhaling.

  One hand on the back of his skull.

  Down.

  His face smashed into the grease-stained table with a crack of splintering wood.

  He slumped sideways, blood already leaking from a gash above his eye.

  Cadenza adjusted her jacket like she’d just brushed lint off it.

  “That,” she said mildly, “is my opening negotiation.”

  The officer coughed, blood running down his temple. He forced himself upright on shaking arms.

  “You have no jurisdiction here,” he rasped. “This district falls under Royal Army authority. Not Guard. I am a foreign national under legitimate work visa status. You are violating—”

  Sonata stepped forward slowly, wiping the spit from her cheek with the back of her hand.

  “Where’s Julia?”

  The officer glared up at her through blood and swelling.

  “I am exercising my individual liberty,” he said stiffly, “on not saying.”

  Mitchell’s jaw shifted slightly.

  Cadenza snorted softly. “He practiced that in the mirror.”

  Sonata’s voice dropped lower.

  “Where. Is. Julia.”

  The officer held the stare.

  “I will not—”

  The shared look passed between Sonata and Cadenza.

  No words.

  Just decision.

  Mitchell moved.

  He stepped off the door like a shadow peeling from a wall. The heavy M1911A1 came free in one smooth motion.

  He dropped the magazine.

  Racked the slide.

  A round clinked against concrete.

  He inspected the chamber, then tossed the empty pistol toward Cadenza.

  She caught it without looking.

  Mitchell produced a fresh magazine from his belt and handed it to her.

  She seated it with a firm slap.

  Racked the slide forward.

  Clack.

  The sound echoed in the cavernous space.

  The officer’s breathing changed.

  Not bravado anymore.

  Air catching shallow in his throat.

  Cadenza seized the back of his neck and started dragging him toward the rear bay door.

  His boots scraped helplessly.

  “W–what’s happening?” he stammered.

  Sonata didn’t raise her voice.

  “I’m exercising my individual liberty,” she said evenly, “to have an associate take you outside and give you a summary execution.”

  The officer’s composure shattered instantly.

  “No—wait—wait—”

  Cadenza didn’t slow.

  “You were very confident a minute ago,” she said conversationally. “Very constitutional.”

  “I can talk,” he blurted. “I can cooperate.”

  Mitchell leaned casually against a hydraulic lift, arms crossed.

  “Interesting,” he said quietly. “You were just exercising your liberty.”

  “I—I was mistaken,” the officer said quickly. “I misunderstood the circumstances.”

  Sam, who had been sitting on an overturned crate, muttered, “Amazing how clarity arrives when mortality does.”

  Jack crossed his arms. “It’s practically scientific.”

  Cadenza paused at the door but didn’t release him.

  “Talk,” she said.

  The officer swallowed hard.

  “She wasn’t here.”

  “We know,” Sonata replied coldly.

  “She was transferred.”

  “To where?” Mitchell asked.

  The officer hesitated.

  Cadenza pressed the muzzle of the .45 lightly against the back of his head.

  “I recommend efficient memory,” she murmured.

  “Southern holding facility,” he rushed. “Royal Army jurisdiction. Not Guard.”

  Sonata’s eyes narrowed. “Name.”

  “San Marcos Depot,” he said quickly. “Converted fuel storage site.”

  Sam blinked. “That’s Army territory.”

  “Yes,” the officer said, almost desperate now. “The Guard doesn’t operate freely down there. We handed her over.”

  “Why?” Jack asked.

  “Because the Army wanted leverage,” the officer said. “Negotiation piece. Civil unrest is escalating.”

  Sonata stepped closer.

  “What kind of leverage?”

  The officer hesitated again—reflex more than defiance.

  Cadenza applied just a little pressure with the barrel.

  “Talk.”

  “They’re preparing to use her publicly,” he said. “Broadcast confession. Tie foreign interference to rebel operations.”

  The room went quiet.

  Mitchell’s voice dropped several degrees.

  “When?”

  “Within forty-eight hours.”

  Sonata inhaled slowly through her nose.

  “Convoy schedule?”

  “Tomorrow night,” the officer said. “Transfer from depot to regional command for staging.”

  Mitchell’s eyes flicked to Sonata.

  Sonata’s jaw tightened.

  Sam spoke softly. “So she’s alive.”

  “For now,” Jack finished.

  Cadenza shoved the officer back toward the center of the room.

  He stumbled, breathing hard, sweat mixing with blood.

  “See?” he said shakily. “Cooperation.”

  Mitchell stepped forward, stopping just out of arm’s reach.

  “You understand something,” Mitchell said quietly.

  The officer nodded rapidly.

  “You were very brave when you thought law would shield you,” Mitchell continued. “Very principled.”

  The officer said nothing.

  Mitchell tilted his head slightly.

  “Fear clarifies priorities.”

  The officer’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to die.”

  Mitchell’s expression didn’t change.

  “Most people don’t.”

  Sonata crossed her arms.

  “You’re in this country on a black operations mandate,” she said calmly. “You don’t officially exist.”

  The officer swallowed.

  “If you disappear,” she continued, “no embassy files paperwork.”

  Cadenza’s tone was almost playful. “You’re not illegally immigrating. You’re illegally operating.”

  The officer nodded quickly. “I understand.”

  Mitchell looked to Sonata.

  She gave a small nod.

  “Lock him up,” she said.

  The officer’s relief was almost visible.

  “Thank you—”

  “Don’t,” Cadenza cut him off. “You’re not spared. You’re useful.”

  They dragged him toward a storage cage in the back of the garage.

  As the door clanged shut, Sam exhaled.

  “Every time,” he muttered. “Every single time.”

  Jack glanced at him. “What?”

  “The bravado,” Sam said. “The speech about rights. Liberty. Sovereignty.”

  He gestured toward the cage.

  “Then the moment the gun comes out? Tune changes.”

  Mitchell’s voice was calm.

  “Courage built on assumption isn’t courage.”

  Sonata met his eyes.

  “Forty-eight hours,” she said.

  Mitchell nodded once.

  “Then we move south.”

  Outside, dawn was fully breaking over Salaqueras.

  To Julia?

  A ticking clock.

  The mechanic shop was quiet again.

  Too quiet.

  The Royal Guard officer sat in a reinforced storage cage near the back wall, wrists zip-tied, face swollen and drying with streaked blood. He kept glancing toward the bay door like maybe an international court was going to kick it open and save him.

  Sonata stood near the radio table—an old welding cart repurposed into a comms station. The long-range field unit sat there like a temptation.

  “I’m calling it in,” she said finally.

  Mitchell looked up from where he was reassembling a suppressed carbine with slow, precise movements.

  “Calling who?”

  “Home,” Sonata replied. “At least for reinforcements. Maybe intel support. If San Marcos Depot is Army-controlled, we’re under-resourced.”

  Mitchell didn’t snap at her. Didn’t dismiss her.

  He just met her eyes.

  “This is unsanctioned.”

  “I know that.”

  “When this operation went loud before we even landed,” Mitchell continued calmly, “Little Bird wrote us off.”

  Sam leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. “He’s not wrong.”

  Sonata’s jaw tightened. “They didn’t write us off. They established plausible deniability.”

  “That’s the same thing,” Jack muttered.

  Mitchell stood slowly.

  “They scrubbed flight records. They severed satellite tagging. They buried our paper trail before we hit their airspace.” He tilted his head slightly. “If we call now, what are we?”

  Sonata didn’t answer immediately.

  “Liabilities,” Mitchell said for her.

  She exhaled sharply. “Or assets with updated intel.”

  Mitchell stepped closer to the table.

  “And what intel do we have?” he asked evenly.

  “San Marcos Depot. Forty-eight hour window. Convoy transfer.”

  Mitchell’s expression didn’t change.

  “And what did I say about people under threat?”

  Sonata crossed her arms. “They lie to survive.”

  “They invent whatever buys them another sunrise,” Mitchell replied.

  Sam scratched his jaw. “He looked pretty convinced.”

  “He looked terrified,” Mitchell corrected.

  Jack added quietly, “Terrified people are creative.”

  Sonata stared at the radio for a long second.

  “Maybe we don’t ask for reinforcements,” she said carefully. “Maybe we ask for confirmation. Satellite recon. Something.”

  Mitchell’s voice stayed level. “If Command responds, they’re acknowledging us.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  Mitchell gave a faint shrug. “Then we know exactly where we stand.”

  Silence stretched.

  From across the room, metal clacked.

  Cadenza Amore stood at a long folding table lined with confiscated weapons. Her presence shifted the atmosphere by default.

  5’11”. Buzz cut catching the fluorescent light. Heterochromatic eyes—one green, one blue—cool and unreadable.

  Her build was lean, angular, brutally efficient. Not bulky. Not theatrical. Every line of muscle earned, engineered, carved by both surgery and suffering.

  Faint surgical lines traced her forearms—thin, precise scars that spoke of reinforcement, not injury.

  She picked up a French service rifle.

  Pulled the charging handle back.

  Let it snap forward.

  Listened to the sound.

  “I don’t think I’m feeling the French today,” she said casually.

  Sam blinked. “Is that… a mood?”

  Cadenza set the rifle down carefully.

  “This is always the hardest part for me,” she continued, scanning the table. “Balancing stopping power with personal enjoyment.”

  Jack raised a brow. “You say that like it’s wine pairing.”

  Cadenza picked up a different rifle—checked the weight, tested the trigger break with an empty chamber.

  “Some weapons are clinical,” she said. “Some have personality.”

  Mitchell glanced over. “We’re not here to enjoy ourselves.”

  Cadenza’s eyes flicked to him.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  She set the rifle down and flexed her fingers slightly. The motion looked casual, but there was power in it—contained, effortless.

  Without Project Thunderbolt Power Armor, she could lift three times her body weight without strain.

  In armor?

  Seven times.

  Vehicles were obstacles.

  Not barriers.

  Sonata watched her half-twin carefully.

  “You good?” Sonata asked.

  Cadenza gave a faint smirk. “Always.”

  Mitchell stepped in before the mood drifted too far.

  “San Marcos Depot,” he said. “Army-controlled.”

  Cadenza nodded slowly. “Citizen soldiers. Mixed quality. Volume over precision.”

  “Which means perimeter security will be inconsistent,” Jack added.

  “But numbers high,” Sam said.

  Mitchell turned back to Sonata.

  “If we call home and they decline assistance,” he said, “we’re psychologically worse off.”

  “And if they do answer?” Sonata pressed.

  “Then they’re complicit,” Mitchell replied. “And if this escalates politically, we just pulled them into it.”

  Cadenza slid a sidearm across the table, inspecting the sights.

  “Or,” she said mildly, “we verify the intel ourselves.”

  Sonata glanced at her. “How?”

  Cadenza looked toward the cage.

  The Royal Guard officer stiffened instantly.

  “No,” he said quickly. “I told you everything.”

  Mitchell folded his arms. “Did you?”

  The officer swallowed. “San Marcos. Tomorrow night.”

  “Convoy route?” Jack asked.

  The officer hesitated.

  Cadenza picked up a combat knife and tested the balance.

  “I can wait,” she said softly.

  The officer’s breathing quickened. “Northern ridge bypass. They avoid the main artery because of rebel IED risk.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “That tracks.”

  Mitchell didn’t nod. He didn’t move at all. “Or it doesn’t,” he said evenly.

  Sonata turned toward him. “You think he’s baiting us?”

  “I think,” Mitchell replied, calm and direct, “he wants us moving somewhere predictable. A depot. A choke point. A place they can prepare for us.”

  Cadenza leaned back against the scarred metal table, a knife spinning once through her fingers before she caught it cleanly by the grip. “Fear makes people cooperative,” she said. “But it also makes them strategic. Survival sharpens imagination.”

  Inside the cage, the Royal Guard officer shook his head violently. “No—no, I told you the truth—”

  Mitchell stepped closer to the bars. “You swore earlier you were exercising your liberty not to speak.”

  The officer’s lips trembled. “I changed my mind.”

  “Exactly,” Mitchell said.

  Sonata pressed her fingers briefly against her temple. “We’re burning daylight.”

  Jack glanced between them. “If we don’t call home, what’s the plan?”

  Mitchell didn’t hesitate. “We recon San Marcos ourselves. Visual confirmation only. No engagement unless we confirm Julia on site.”

  Sam let out a low whistle. “Army depot. No backup. No exfil guarantee.”

  Cadenza’s voice cut through the tension. “When has that ever stopped us?”

  Mitchell didn’t smile. “It hasn’t.”

  Sonata looked at each of them in turn. “This is escalating.”

  Mitchell met her eyes without blinking. “It escalated when we landed.”

  She held his stare. “If this is wrong intel, we walk into an Army nest for nothing.”

  Mitchell gave a single nod. “Then Cadenza guts the officer like a fish.”

  The officer recoiled instinctively.

  Cadenza set the knife down and lifted a heavier rifle from the table. She checked the chamber, adjusted the sling, and tested the balance in her hands. “This one,” she murmured. “Feels honest.”

  Sam blinked. “Honest?”

  “It tells you exactly what it’s going to do,” she replied. “No surprises.”

  Mitchell looked back to Sonata. “Radio if you want. But understand what that means.”

  Sonata’s hand hovered over the comm unit. “If they answer,” she said quietly, “we’re no longer ghosts.”

  Mitchell’s voice remained steady. “We stopped being ghosts the moment they denied us.”

  Cadenza slid her hand across the table of confiscated weapons like someone browsing for preference. She picked up a shotgun, checked the chamber, and pumped it once.

  Chk-CHAK.

  The metallic echo filled the garage.

  She nodded slightly. “Yeah. This’ll work.”

  Sam glanced over. “Of course you pick the loudest option.”

  Cadenza tilted her head. “Sometimes subtlety is overrated.”

  Jack smirked. “You say that like you’ve ever been subtle.”

  She ignored him and looked back toward Mitchell and Sonata. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Recon,” Mitchell answered.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Confirm San Marcos. No contact unless absolutely necessary.”

  Sam made a face. “Which means we’re absolutely going to engage.”

  “Not if you keep your mouth shut,” Mitchell replied evenly.

  Sonata stepped forward. “Cadenza’s not coming.”

  The room shifted slightly at that.

  Cadenza lowered the shotgun a fraction. “Oh?”

  “You’re babysitting,” Sonata said.

  Sam muttered, “That sounds dangerous for the baby.”

  Jack folded his arms. “Explain.”

  Sonata nodded toward the cage. “Our gut says the Royal Guard is going to notice he’s missing. They’ll either try to rescue him or eliminate him.”

  The officer stiffened. “They won’t risk it—”

  “You don’t get to narrate,” Cadenza said coolly.

  Mitchell added, “If he’s talked, he’s a liability.”

  “So they fix the liability,” Sam said.

  “Exactly,” Sonata confirmed.

  Cadenza leaned the shotgun against the table and crossed her arms. “So I sit here and wait for company.”

  “Yes.”

  She studied Sonata for a moment, then gave a faint smile. “Okay.”

  Sam blinked. “No argument?”

  “I hate sitting still,” Cadenza admitted. “But if they send a team…”

  Mitchell met her eyes. “They will.”

  “Then I’m not babysitting,” she said.

  “You’re hosting,” Jack replied.

  “I’m harvesting,” Cadenza corrected.

  Sam winced. “That’s unsettling.”

  “They won’t send patrol-level troops,” Mitchell said. “They’ll send professionals.”

  “Good,” Cadenza replied.

  “You’ll be alone,” Sonata reminded her.

  Cadenza looked almost offended. “That a handicap?”

  “It’s a variable.”

  She flexed her fingers once. “I can handle multiple enemies.”

  “Understatement,” Sam muttered.

  “She can,” Mitchell said quietly.

  Cadenza gestured toward the cage. “And if it goes sideways?”

  “You execute him,” Sonata answered without hesitation.

  The officer jerked upright. “Wait—”

  Cadenza glanced at him without emotion. “See? You’re important.”

  Mitchell stepped closer to the bars. “If they come to rescue him and he’s dead, their operation collapses.”

  “No asset to retrieve,” Jack said.

  “No loose end to silence either,” Sam added.

  Cadenza tapped the shotgun stock lightly against her shoulder. “Or if they come to execute him themselves… I let them get close.”

  Sonata’s eyes narrowed. “Shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “They’ll send an arm and a leg,” Cadenza said. “Reputation. Discipline. Message.”

  “Overcommitment,” Mitchell agreed.

  “You’re basically bait,” Sam said.

  “Gatekeeper,” Cadenza corrected.

  “And you’re sure you don’t want backup?” Jack asked.

  “You think I need it?”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  Mitchell did. “No.”

  The officer tried again. “They won’t risk open engagement here—”

  “They will,” Cadenza said calmly. “Because you matter.”

  Silence settled in the garage.

  “If they breach,” she continued, “first wave drops. Second wave hesitates. That’s when I collapse the entry.”

  “You sound excited,” Sam muttered.

  “I’m focused,” she replied.

  Mitchell slung his rifle. “Thirty minutes. Move light.”

  “Observation first,” Jack added.

  “Which becomes shooting,” Sam said.

  “Only if necessary,” Mitchell replied.

  “So definitely shooting,” Sam grinned.

  Cadenza pumped the shotgun again.

  Chk-CHAK.

  She looked at the officer. “Pray they send professionals. Amateurs are boring.”

  The officer swallowed hard.

  Sonata paused beside Cadenza. “Stay sharp.”

  “I don’t do anything else.”

  The bay door rolled open just enough for Mitchell, Sonata, Jack, and Sam to slip into the morning light. Inside the oil-stained garage, Cadenza remained—shotgun ready, cage behind her, waiting.

  The sun hadn’t fully cleared the horizon when they reached visual range of San Marcos Depot. Mitchell set the pace—steady and sustainable. They moved along broken asphalt before cutting into scrub and pine. Southern Salaqueras wasn’t jungle; it was jagged rock, wind-carved ridgelines, and pine clusters that fractured sightlines just enough to hide movement.

  “Distance?” Sam asked quietly.

  “Four point two miles,” Sonata replied, checking her wrist GPS. “As the crow flies.”

  “We’re not crows,” Jack muttered.

  “No,” Mitchell said. “We’re patient.”

  They crested a ridge and dropped into a ravine to avoid silhouetting themselves. From there, the depot came into view: low concrete structures, two cylindrical silos, triple-layer fencing in sections, and four guard towers.

  “That’s not light,” Jack murmured.

  Mitchell scanned methodically. “Tower one: two sentries. Thermal optics.”

  “Tower three’s unmanned,” Sonata added.

  “Rotational gap?” Sam asked.

  “Or bait,” Mitchell replied.

  Two light armored trucks rolled through the outer gate.

  “Army markings,” Sonata observed. “Not Guard.”

  “Mixed uniforms,” Jack said. “Some conscript-level.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Surface count.”

  “Twelve visible infantry. One technical on the east fence. No heavy armor visible,” Sonata reported.

  “Feels light,” Sam said.

  “Because we’re only seeing the surface,” Mitchell replied.

  “Subterranean storage,” Jack added.

  “Exactly.”

  They shifted to a western angle, gaining visibility on a secondary gate—narrower, likely maintenance access.

  “Comms array?” Mitchell asked.

  “Satellite dish. Two directional antennas,” Sonata answered.

  “So if we go loud, they call everyone,” Sam muttered.

  “Yes.”

  “Movement,” Jack whispered.

  A group exited a side building. One figure wore civilian clothing, hands restrained, blindfolded.

  “Zoom,” Sonata said.

  Mitchell steadied the binoculars for her.

  Brown hair. Bound hands. Blindfold.

  Sam leaned closer. “Is that her?”

  Sonata’s tone was clinical. “Negative PID.”

  Sam frowned. “How is that negative?”

  “Julia is five-foot-ten and a half,” Sonata said evenly. “I’m five-foot-ten and a half. That woman is approximately five-foot-five.”

  She continued without lowering the binoculars. “Julia’s hair is darker—chocolate brown. Not hazelnut. Julia has an hourglass build. That woman’s pear-shaped. And she was captured wearing tiger stripe fatigues. That woman’s in blue jeans and a light brown jacket.”

  She lowered the optics.

  “Not Julia.”

  Silence lingered.

  “So she’s either inside,” Sam said quietly, “or not here at all.”

  Mitchell kept watching the motor pool where a flatbed rolled into position.

  “Convoy rehearsal,” he said.

  They remained prone another minute, committing layout, rotations, and vehicle composition to memory.

  Then Mitchell turned away from the ridge.

  “We leave.”

  They slipped back into rock and pine, unseen.

  Below them, San Marcos Depot carried on, unaware that four observers had just mapped its rhythms—and chosen the moment they would break them.

  They moved low along the ridge, boots quiet in crushed gravel and pine needles. San Marcos sat in the distance like a concrete knot in the valley.

  Jack broke the silence first.

  “You know what’s wild?” he said under his breath. “For a country that prides itself on backup plans for backup plans… they left a team of Special Operators behind.”

  Sam glanced at him. “We volunteered.”

  Jack shook his head. “That’s not the point. We’re technically breaking international law right now. Operating off-book. No flag. No recognition.”

  Sonata kept scanning the valley. “We knew that.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, “but think about it. Eight years ago—2003—when that terrorist attack hit Little Bird? They activated every contingency in the book. Every single one.”

  Mitchell didn’t look at him. “Correct.”

  Jack continued anyway.

  “The entire country went on lockdown in under an hour. Four bridges and three tunnels into and out of the country—sealed. Not police checkpoints. Not traffic cones. Full military blockades.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “The kind where if someone tries to push through—”

  “They get lit up like a Christmas tree,” Jack finished. “No warning shots. No negotiation.”

  Sonata exhaled quietly. “Airspace?”

  Jack gave a short nod. “Air traffic control ordered every civilian aircraft within five minutes of Little Bird airspace to land at the nearest airport. Anything further out was diverted to other countries. Planes mid-route just rerouted like the country blinked off the map.”

  Sam whistled softly. “That’s decisive.”

  “The 1st through 35th Fighter Wings crisscrossed the entire country in Combat Air Patrol,” Jack went on. “Nobody knew if it was a hijacked aircraft scenario. Nobody knew if more strikes were coming.”

  Mitchell added, “Majority of Armed Forces mobilized in one hour.”

  Jack nodded. “Evacuations started immediately. Government officials, key military personnel, critical infrastructure leadership—moved to secure locations.”

  Sonata glanced at him. “The underground ones.”

  Jack’s jaw tightened. “The ones not on any official map. Buried deep. Airtight. Hardened. The kind of place bunker busters can’t touch because they’re built so far down the missile runs out of physics before it reaches them.”

  Sam shook his head slowly. “So when the country is attacked, they flip every switch. Total lockdown.”

  “And now?” Jack gestured vaguely. “We’re on foreign soil, off the books, and they wrote us off before we even landed.”

  Mitchell finally looked at him.

  “Little Bird has a million contingency plans,” he said evenly. “And those contingency plans have contingency plans.”

  Jack gave a faint humorless smile. “So which one are we?”

  Mitchell didn’t answer immediately.

  “An expendable variable,” Sonata said quietly.

  Sam looked between them. “That’s comforting.”

  Mitchell’s tone didn’t shift. “You’re misunderstanding the scale. In 2003, the threat was domestic. Sovereign soil. National survival. Different calculus.”

  Jack exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. When it’s home, they burn the rulebook. When it’s foreign? Plausible deniability.”

  Mitchell gave a slight nod. “Correct.”

  They continued moving.

  Sam kicked a loose stone off the ridge and said, “You mentioned contingency plans having contingency plans. Example?”

  Mitchell’s voice remained steady.

  “Contingency Plan Alpha Bravo Zulu 195433.”

  Sonata blinked. “What the hell is that?”

  Mitchell didn’t slow.

  “Military ‘Hammerdown Protocol.’”

  Jack frowned. “Sounds dramatic.”

  “It is,” Mitchell said.

  Sam leaned in slightly. “Define.”

  Mitchell’s gaze stayed forward.

  “If a town or city inside Little Bird is occupied by enemy forces—foreign military or domestic insurgents—the Armed Forces have twenty-four hours to recapture it.”

  “And if they don’t?” Jack asked.

  Mitchell’s answer was blunt.

  “It gets wiped off the face of the earth.”

  Silence fell between them.

  Sonata turned sharply. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  Sam swallowed. “As in… airstrike?”

  “As in thermonuclear response,” Mitchell corrected.

  Jack stopped walking for half a second. “On our own city?”

  “If it’s deemed non-recoverable and strategically compromised,” Mitchell replied.

  Sonata stared at him. “That’s insane.”

  “It’s deterrence,” Mitchell said calmly. “And last-resort denial of infrastructure.”

  Sam ran a hand over his face. “How does that even work?”

  Mitchell explained like he was reading doctrine.

  “Friendly forces must mark critical buildings with green flares and IR strobes—Courthouse, Federal Reserve branches, City Hall, Department of Public Works, ect.”

  Jack’s voice dropped. “And if they don’t?”

  “C2 scans for green flares and IR signatures. If all required countersigns are detected, command reports: ‘Countersigns detected. Abort, abort.’ If not—strike authorization proceeds.”

  Sonata stared at him.

  “Has it ever gotten close?”

  Mitchell’s jaw tightened.

  “Fort Sunction. August 21st, 2005.”

  Sam’s voice was barely above a whisper. “How close?”

  “Summerhill Courthouse roof had to be marked by 11:59:59 PM,” Mitchell said. “Strike window opened at midnight.”

  Jack’s eyes widened slightly. “And?”

  Mitchell’s voice did not change.

  “My sister Twilight’s friend. Starlight. Her company reached the roof at 11:59:30 PM.”

  “Thirty seconds,” Sam breathed.

  “They had thirty seconds,” Mitchell corrected. “Missile launch authorization would have triggered at 12:00:00.”

  Sonata’s expression hardened. “They made it?”

  “With ten seconds to spare,” Mitchell said.

  Jack let out a slow exhale. “Cutting it close.”

  Mitchell’s eyes flicked briefly toward him.

  “Major understatement.”

  For a moment, none of them spoke.

  The wind moved through the pines.

  Sam finally broke the silence. “So you’re telling me Little Bird will nuke its own city if it has to.”

  “Yes.”

  “And today,” Jack said quietly, “they left us to rot.”

  Mitchell didn’t bristle.

  “Different threat profile. Different political weight.”

  Sonata shook her head slowly. “You don’t sound angry.”

  Mitchell looked at her.

  “I understand the logic.”

  Jack stared at him. “That doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

  Mitchell’s voice lowered slightly.

  “I don’t.”

  They resumed walking.

  Jack gave a faint, grim smile. “Let’s hope Salaqueras doesn’t have a Hammerdown Protocol.”

  Mitchell looked back toward San Marcos in the valley below.

  “If they do,” he said quietly, “we don’t give them twenty-four hours.”

  They pulled back from the ridge and settled into a shallow depression out of sight of the depot. Mitchell kept his eyes on San Marcos a moment longer before speaking.

  “It’s a former fuel depot,” he said evenly. “Even if it’s converted, the infrastructure’s still there—underground tanks, old piping, ventilation shafts. Residual vapors linger.”

  Sam grimaced. “You’re saying one bad shot—”

  “—means boom,” Mitchell finished. “No tracers. No careless explosives. No panic fire. Fire and gas never mix. We watch our angles, our backstops, and each other.”

  Jack exhaled slowly. “So this isn’t just a raid. It’s bomb disposal with rifles.”

  “Controlled and surgical,” Mitchell replied. “One mistake turns the whole place into a crater.”

  Sam stared at the valley. “I’d rather be back home hunting terrorists. Serving warrants. Doing federal cases.”

  “You could have said no,” Mitchell said calmly. “You didn’t.”

  Sam gave a thin smile. “Instead I’m on an op that officially never happened.”

  “Correct,” Mitchell said. “If we’re captured, Little Bird won’t know us from Jesus to Mother Teresa.”

  Jack snorted softly at the irony. Sonata didn’t.

  “They didn’t send anyone when Julia went MIA,” Sam added. “We’re only here because Paul tipped you off.”

  Sonata nodded. “He said he could get us in. Getting out is another story.”

  Mitchell glanced at her. “You’ve done operations like that before.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Insertion guaranteed. Exfil optional. Most of my past missions had contingency extraction sites. This one doesn’t. We make our own way home.”

  Sam sighed. “So no backup. No safety net. And we can’t even shoot freely because the place might ignite.”

  Mitchell’s tone stayed steady. “Which means discipline matters.”

  “And if it ignites anyway?” Jack asked.

  “Small chance we survive, high chance we all die,” Mitchell replied.

  They fell quiet after that. Below them, San Marcos looked solid and harmless in the morning light. Concrete, steel, routine.

  Sam muttered, “Paperwork never explodes.”

  Mitchell adjusted his sling. “Convoy intercept tomorrow night. Open road. Lower structural risk.”

  “Relatively,” Jack said.

  Sam looked at the others. “If this goes bad, no one back home even knows we were here.”

  Mitchell met his eyes. “We know. That’s enough.”

  The wind moved through the ridge as they continued watching the depot—thinking how to break it without setting the entire valley on fire.

  _________________

  The humidity sat heavy over the valley, the kind of air that clung to skin and made every breath feel borrowed.

  Sam lay prone on a rocky outcrop overlooking the main supply road, his cheek pressed against the stock of his custom .338 Lapua Magnum. Through his optic, the world narrowed to crosshairs and distance markers. Wind negligible. Elevation adjusted. Pulse steady.

  “Eyes up,” he whispered into comms. “Movement inbound. Two heavies up front.”

  Down in the ditch below, Jack shifted slightly, the bipod of his light machine gun digging into damp soil. The belt-fed rounds glinted faintly in the moonlight.

  “Copy,” Jack murmured. “I’ve got the mouth of the valley.”

  Across from them, hidden in brush and broken stone, Sonata lay beside the detonator. Mitchell crouched at her shoulder, rifle angled toward the road.

  “Convoy composition?” Mitchell asked.

  Sam exhaled slowly. “Two IFVs leading. Soft transports behind. Looks like six trucks total.”

  Sonata’s jaw tightened. “That’s a transfer.”

  “Or bait,” Mitchell replied evenly.

  Diesel engines rumbled closer, low and mechanical. The lead IFV rolled into the marked stretch of asphalt.

  Sam tracked the driver’s hatch.

  “Standby… standby…”

  The rear IFV entered the kill zone.

  Sam’s voice cut sharp through the night.

  “Go loud.”

  Sonata pressed the detonator.

  The road split open in a violent bloom of flame and debris. The forward IFV launched upward in a wash of orange light, then slammed down twisted and crippled. A split-second later, the rear vehicle detonated into a storm of shrapnel, sealing the convoy inside the valley like prey in a cage.

  “Rear disabled,” Sonata confirmed.

  Jack rose from the ditch and unleashed controlled bursts, not wild spray—measured, hammering fire that shredded the space between vehicles and forced every disoriented soldier flat.

  Sam fired once.

  A man scrambling toward a mounted weapon collapsed mid-step.

  Another round.

  An officer shouting orders fell backward into the dust.

  “Command element down,” Sam said calmly.

  Mitchell and Sonata moved immediately. No hesitation. No yelling. Just controlled aggression.

  “Left flank!” Sonata called.

  Mitchell pivoted, firing two tight shots into a cluster of militia trying to organize behind a truck. They scattered. One dropped. The others disappeared into the dirt.

  The return fire was chaotic—panicked muzzle flashes, rounds snapping high and wide.

  “Sloppy,” Jack muttered as he walked his fire across the convoy’s midsection.

  Within minutes, resistance crumbled. Burning rubber and leaking fuel filled the air. The valley went quiet except for crackling metal and distant groans.

  “Shift priority,” Mitchell said. “Check transports.”

  They moved fast, weapons still up. Doors were yanked open. Prisoners dragged out.

  Ragged. Beaten. Terrified.

  Sonata stepped into the flickering light of a burning truck and scanned faces one by one.

  “Julia?” she called sharply.

  Blank stares. Confusion. Fear.

  She keyed the private channel.

  “Negative PID on Sergeant Julia Vance. She’s not here.”

  A beat of silence.

  Sam exhaled through his teeth. “Damn.”

  Jack kicked open another transport. Empty except for restraints bolted to the floor.

  “Transfer convoy,” he said. “But not ours.”

  The freed prisoners stared at them—at their posture, their gear, the quiet way they moved.

  Sonata turned to them.

  “You’re free,” she said bluntly. “Grab what you can carry. Weapons, ammo. Head north. Find the Free Salaqueran Front.”

  One of the dissidents hesitated. “You… you are Little Birden?”

  Mitchell didn’t answer.

  But the way they fought had already answered.

  The dissidents looked at the wrecked IFVs. The precision headshots. The surgical destruction.

  They didn’t cheer.

  They didn’t thank them.

  They armed themselves and left.

  Not because they distrusted Little Bird.

  Because they were afraid.

  Everyone in this war had heard stories.

  Little Bird had just clawed its way out of a brutal conflict with the U.S.S.R.—and the way it fought had unsettled even its allies. Controlled chaos. Relentless tempo. No theatrics. No wasted motion.

  War is chaos and unpredictable.

  And war? War is our business.

  And that was before the rumors.

  Weapons that weren’t supposed to exist.

  Particle cannons that turned men into drifting ash.

  Particle bazookas that erased vehicles—MBTs included—like they’d never rolled off an assembly line.

  Heavy Assault Battalions in powered armor—infantry with the mobility of a soldier and the protection of a tank. One operator carrying what should have required a crew.

  Combat robots. Energy weapons. Cybernetics.

  Stealth systems that let recon teams infiltrate, assassinate, and vanish without ever being seen.

  That was just what people knew.

  The FSF members didn’t want to fight alongside that.

  They didn’t want to fight against it either.

  They simply wanted distance.

  Mitchell watched them disappear into the scrub with stolen rifles and borrowed courage.

  “Convoy was real,” Sam said quietly. “Intel wasn’t fake.”

  “Just incomplete,” Sonata replied.

  Jack scanned the ridgeline. “We hit them clean. No chatter on open channels.”

  “Good,” Mitchell said. “We were never here.”

  They moved quickly, stripping what they needed and setting small timed charges to finish what the ambush had started. Flames climbed higher, consuming vehicles and evidence alike.

  By the time the first distant sirens began to wail somewhere beyond the valley, the road was empty except for wreckage.

  Ghosts in.

  Ghosts out.

  And Julia was still somewhere in Salaqueria.

  The valley was still burning when the realization settled in.

  Sonata stood near the wrecked transport, watching flames crawl over the shattered hull of the lead IFV. Smoke rolled thick and oily into the night air. Her gloves were blackened, her posture rigid. She wasn’t pacing. She wasn’t shouting.

  She was furious.

  “He said she’d be in this convoy,” she said at last, her voice flat and controlled in a way that made it worse.

  Sam didn’t respond. Jack kept his eyes on the bodies scattered near the road. Mitchell studied the third IFV—its chassis torn open, flames licking through exposed metal—before answering.

  “He also said he was exercising his liberty not to talk,” Mitchell replied calmly. “Then he changed his mind.”

  Sonata turned toward him sharply. “He gave specifics.”

  “He gave us something,” Mitchell corrected.

  The convoy told its own story. Three IFVs. Multiple transports. On paper, it looked like a high-value movement. But the bodies on the ground told a different narrative. The fallen soldiers were young. Ill-fitted gear. Poor firing posture. Several had clearly never gotten a round off before being cut down.

  “These aren’t veterans,” Sam muttered, crouching beside one of the militia. “Newblood. Pressed in.”

  Jack nodded slowly. “They froze when the blast hit. No rally. No coordination.”

  “Four people,” Sam said under his breath. “We broke a convoy with four people.”

  Mitchell’s gaze stayed steady. “They heard the explosion and defaulted to panic. No fallback discipline. No counter-ambush procedure.”

  Sonata’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t change what he said.”

  “No,” Mitchell agreed. “But it changes what this was.”

  He looked back at the burning IFVs.

  “Three armored vehicles to move new conscripts? That’s not balance. That’s staging.”

  “You think it was bait,” Sonata said.

  “I think he wanted us moving somewhere predictable,” Mitchell replied. “Committed. Invested.”

  Sam rubbed his neck. “You really think he lied just to buy another day?”

  Mitchell nodded once. “Fear makes people cooperative. It also makes them strategic.”

  He paused, then added quietly, “One thing my teachers drilled into us—always trust your gut. Natural instinct exists for a reason.”

  Jack gave him a sideways glance. “So your gut says he played us.”

  “My gut says he stalled,” Mitchell said. “Pivoted. Gave us actionable intel that costs him nothing if we die chasing it.”

  Sonata stared at the wreckage for a long moment. Julia wasn’t here. All the planning, the explosives, the precision—none of it mattered if she wasn’t in those transports.

  Her hand drifted to her belt.

  She drew her knife.

  The sound was soft.

  “When we get back,” she said evenly, “I’m having a one-on-one chat with him.”

  Sam exhaled. “That doesn’t sound conversational.”

  “It won’t be pleasant,” Sonata replied.

  Mitchell didn’t argue. He didn’t discourage her. He simply watched her.

  “If he lied,” he said calmly, “make sure he understands the cost.”

  Sonata slid the blade back into its sheath with quiet finality.

  “Oh,” she said. “He will.”

  Behind them, the last IFV’s fuel ignited with a deep, hollow boom. None of them flinched.

  _________________

  They were still a few hundred feet from the safehouse when Mitchell slowed and raised a hand. The road ahead was wrong. Too many silhouettes. Too much light.

  Lightly armored troop transports were parked at angles around the old mechanic shop and gas station. Several transport trucks idled nearby, exhaust drifting into the humid night. Muzzle flashes flickered near the bay doors, and the sharp crack of rifle fire echoed off concrete and metal.

  “That’s our place,” Sam muttered.

  “Royal Guard,” Jack confirmed after a quick look through his optic.

  Sonata’s voice hardened. “They came for their officer.”

  Mitchell didn’t hesitate. “We hit them from behind. Disrupt command first.”

  They moved without further discussion. Sam climbed to a higher angle along the rocks to gain elevation. Jack slid into a drainage ditch parallel to the road. Mitchell and Sonata circled wide through scrub and broken fencing until they were positioned behind the outermost Royal Guard vehicles.

  Mitchell tapped his comm twice. “Mark.”

  Sam fired first. A Royal Guard officer shouting into a radio dropped mid-command. Jack followed with tight, disciplined bursts into the nearest transport, forcing guards to dive for cover. Mitchell stepped from behind a truck and placed controlled shots into two soldiers trying to reposition. Sonata cleared a mounted gun before its operator could swing it toward them.

  The Royal Guard hadn’t expected fire from their rear. Confusion spread quickly. Orders overlapped. Men scrambled in the wrong directions.

  Mitchell ducked behind a troop carrier and reloaded smoothly. “We need to swap these out,” he said, glancing at his civilian-pattern rifle. “Grab modern kit.”

  Sonata was already stripping a fallen guard’s rifle. “Standard 5.56,” she confirmed after checking the chamber. Jack did the same, slinging his previous weapon. Sam hesitated for half a second before abandoning his preferred rifle in favor of Royal Guard issue.

  “We’re not home,” Mitchell reminded him calmly.

  Gunfire intensified near the garage entrance. Then something heavier entered the fight—metal striking pavement, hydraulic servos whining under load. One of the Royal Guard transports suddenly flipped onto its side as if kicked by something enormous.

  Through smoke and muzzle flashes, Cadenza emerged from the bay doors in full Project Thunderbolt Assault Power Armor. The reinforced plating sparked as rounds struck and deflected. The suit moved with terrifying smoothness despite its mass. She carried an assault rifle in each hand, firing alternating bursts with mechanical precision.

  “Left flank suppressed,” she said evenly over comms.

  A guard attempted to flank her from behind a truck. She pivoted, cut him down, and continued advancing. Mitchell stepped forward to join her push, coordinating fields of fire with Jack and Sam. Within minutes, the Royal Guard assault collapsed into retreat. Vehicles reversed in haste, dragging wounded aboard and peeling off under scattered covering fire.

  Silence returned, broken only by the ticking of hot engines and the crackle of small fires.

  Mitchell approached Cadenza as the last truck disappeared down the road. “You good?”

  Her helmet retracted slightly along the jawline, revealing her mismatched green-and-blue eyes. “They moved in about twenty minutes after you left,” she said. “First wave cautious. Second wave attempted breach. Third wave escalated with heavier weapons.”

  She shifted one rifle casually. “I’ve held them off for approximately two hours. I estimate wave twenty was about to begin.”

  Sam stared. “You counted?”

  “I always count,” she replied.

  Sonata stepped closer. “Did they bring a fifth vehicle? Separate transport?”

  Cadenza shook her head once. “No additional transport unit. No reinforced prisoner carrier. If Julia had been part of the transfer, they would have committed more assets.”

  Sonata exhaled slowly. “So she wasn’t.”

  “The latter is correct,” Cadenza said.

  Mitchell scanned the horizon for returning headlights. “They escalated,” he said quietly. “Which means we hurt something.”

  “Or embarrassed someone,” Sam added.

  Cadenza glanced back at the scarred facade of the safehouse. “They wanted their officer. They did not retrieve him.”

  “Good,” Sonata said.

  Mitchell nodded toward the entrance. “Inside. Debrief.”

  “And then?” Jack asked.

  Mitchell’s expression didn’t change. “Then we talk to our guest.”

  They moved back inside the safehouse quickly, closing the battered bay door behind them.

  The mechanic shop smelled of cordite, oil, and scorched metal. Bullet holes stitched the concrete walls. Tools and spent casings littered the floor. The cage in the corner still held their Royal Guard officer—silent now, listening.

  Mitchell called the debrief without ceremony.

  “Report.”

  Sam leaned against a support column, wiping grime from his hands. “Ambush was clean. No sign of Julia. Convoy composition inconsistent with high-value transfer.”

  “Agreed,” Jack said. “Royal Guard response here was aggressive. They committed in waves.”

  Sonata crossed her arms. “Which tells us he mattered.”

  They all glanced briefly at the cage.

  Cadenza stood near the center of the garage in full Project Thunderbolt Assault Power Armor. The servos gave off a low mechanical hum as she moved, systematically packing equipment into cases. Even in the heavy plating, her motions were efficient and deliberate.

  “They’ll come back,” she said calmly.

  Mitchell nodded. “Royal Army would’ve cut losses.”

  “And retreated,” Jack added.

  “But Royal Guard?” Sam said.

  “They escalate,” Sonata finished.

  The difference mattered. The Royal Army was mostly forced soldiers—citizens pressed into service, minimally trained, broad in number but thin in discipline. The Royal Guard were not. They were loyalists. Better trained. Better equipped. Superior body armor. Better weapons. More willing to bleed for the regime.

  “They won’t let this stand,” Mitchell said.

  Cadenza finished sealing a crate, then paused.

  “I’ve placed contingencies,” she said evenly.

  Sonata’s eyes flicked to her. “Where?”

  Cadenza didn’t answer directly. “Hidden.”

  Mitchell gave her a look. “Pattern?”

  “Overlapping fields,” she replied. “Pressure-triggered secondary.”

  Sam blinked. “You booby-trapped the place.”

  “I optimized it,” Cadenza corrected.

  No one argued.

  Within minutes, they were loading into a battered van they’d staged behind the building. Mitchell took the driver’s seat. Sonata slid into the passenger side, detonator resting in her hand. Sam and Jack climbed into the back. Cadenza, still armored, folded herself into the rear compartment with mechanical precision.

  They drove.

  Not fast. Not slow. Just enough distance to avoid immediate suspicion.

  A mile down the road, Mitchell eased the van off onto a dark shoulder lined with scrub. He killed the lights.

  Engines.

  Headlights crested the bend behind them.

  A convoy.

  Troop transports. Multiple.

  Sam leaned forward slightly. “They’re moving heavy.”

  Through the windshield, they watched the Royal Guard vehicles roar past them, heading straight for the safehouse.

  Sonata’s thumb rested lightly on the detonator.

  “Wait,” Mitchell said quietly.

  The convoy reached the garage.

  The first truck rolled into the open bay. Others stacked behind it.

  Silhouettes moved inside the building.

  “Now,” Mitchell said.

  Sonata pressed the detonator.

  The mechanic shop disappeared in a violent bloom of orange and white. The initial blast punched outward through concrete and steel. A heartbeat later, secondary detonations erupted from inside the structure.

  The first truck lifted off its wheels.

  The second exploded.

  Fuel tanks ruptured.

  A chain reaction rippled down the line of troop transports as flames engulfed one vehicle after another. Ammunition cooked off in rapid succession, turning the road into a corridor of fire and shrapnel.

  The night sky pulsed with light.

  Inside the van, no one flinched.

  Sam watched the inferno reflect in the windshield. “That’s not just plastic explosive.”

  Cadenza’s helmet tilted slightly.

  “What did you put in there?” Sam asked.

  The armor’s visor shifted faintly as she turned toward him.

  “A magician,” she said calmly, “never reveals secrets.”

  Jack whistle as another truck detonated, sending debris spinning into the air.

  Mitchell restarted the engine.

  “We were never here,” he said.

  Behind them, the Royal Guard convoy burned in a cascading chain reaction, and the safehouse—compromised, spent, and now erased—left nothing but fire and smoke in its place.

  ___________________________

  The van rolled to a stop in front of what used to be a farmhouse.

  The structure leaned slightly to one side, porch sagging, windows boarded or shattered. The barn behind it was worse—sun-bleached wood, rusted hinges, roof panels missing in uneven patches. Weeds had swallowed most of the gravel drive.

  Mitchell killed the engine.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Sonata looked out the windshield at the peeling paint and broken shutters.

  “This is cozy,” she said, barely managing to contain the sarcasm.

  Cadenza, still encased in Project Thunderbolt armor, tilted her helmet slightly as she surveyed the property.

  “It’s structurally sufficient,” she said evenly. Then, after a beat, “Hope your tetanus shot is up to date.”

  Sonata blinked. “Tetanus what?”

  Sam snorted.

  They stepped out of the van.

  The front porch creaked under Jack’s boot when he tested it. Cobwebs clung thick to the corners of the doorway. Loose floorboards shifted under even careful steps. The paint hadn’t been touched in at least two decades, and the dust inside suggested the place had been abandoned since the early to mid-1990s.

  Jack nudged a chair with his foot. It disintegrated.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “Definitely charming.”

  Mitchell glanced toward the barn instead of the house. “Not the house.”

  He made a tight U-turn in the yard, then reversed carefully, backing the van toward the barn until it sat just a few feet from the warped sliding doors.

  The barn doors groaned when Jack pulled them open.

  Inside, it was darker, but dry. Old hay bales rotted in corners. Tools hung rusted along the walls. A tractor carcass sat half-dismantled near the rear.

  Mitchell shut off the engine fully and pocketed the keys.

  Sonata unbuckled and turned toward the back of the van.

  “I’m going to have a chat with our guest,” she said calmly.

  Jack and Sam exchanged a look but didn’t comment. They swung open the rear double doors and began unloading crates—rifles, ammunition, medical kits, comms gear.

  Cadenza stepped forward.

  Even without powering down the armor, she moved with controlled ease. She reached into the van, grabbed the reinforced cage that held the Royal Guard officer, and lifted it as if it weighed nothing.

  The officer grabbed the bars instinctively as the cage shifted.

  “Wait—” he started.

  Cadenza didn’t respond.

  She carried the entire cage into the barn and set it down near a central support beam with a heavy metallic thud.

  The sound echoed.

  Mitchell walked in last, scanning the treeline beyond the open barn doors.

  “Perimeter first,” he said.

  Sam grabbed a carbine and stepped back outside.

  Jack followed, circling wide.

  Inside the barn, Sonata stepped toward the cage slowly.

  She stopped a few feet from him.

  “Round two,” she said.

  The barn creaked in the night wind.

  Sonata stepped back out of the barn and walked to the van without a word.

  She popped the hood, propped it open, and leaned in. A few seconds later she pulled the battery free with a metallic scrape and set it on the fender. Then she reached into the back, retrieved a pair of jumper cables, and closed the hood slowly.

  Inside the barn, the Royal Guard officer shifted nervously in his cage as she walked back in holding both.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice thinner now.

  Sonata didn’t break stride.

  “Bad cop interrogation,” she replied calmly.

  Jack and Sam watched but didn’t interfere. Cadenza stood near the barn doors, armor humming softly.

  Sonata unlocked the cage and hauled the officer out by his collar. He stumbled, boots dragging through hay dust.

  “On your feet.”

  She shoved him into a rotten wooden chair near a support post. The wood creaked ominously as she forced him down. Rope came next—tight, efficient knots around wrists and chest. She secured his ankles to the chair legs.

  The officer swallowed. “You can’t—”

  “Wrong,” Sonata said evenly.

  Mitchell stepped into the barn at that moment.

  “We’re securing the perimeter,” he said, voice steady.

  The officer looked up at him sharply, searching for leverage.

  “You think this ends here?” the officer snapped. “You have family, don’t you? A wife? Children? You think we can’t find them?”

  The barn went still.

  Mitchell didn’t react the way the officer expected. He didn’t tense. He didn’t step forward.

  He just looked at him.

  “Harm my family?” Mitchell said, “That’s a laugh.”

  The officer faltered slightly.

  “You send someone to lay one finger on my family,” Mitchell continued, voice calm and level, “the person you send will have their head sent back home to their own family or friends.”

  No theatrics. No raised voice.

  Just fact.

  The officer stared at him, trying to read something—anger, fear, hesitation.

  He found none.

  What the officer didn’t know—and never would fully understand—was that Mitchell’s mother-in-law was a spook. A professional. An operative of the LBIAOSA—the Little Bird Intelligence Agency and Office of Strategic Action.

  And LBIAOSA agents were not bureaucrats with badges.

  They were assassins who could dismantle a life without leaving fingerprints.

  Mitchell had once heard her say, half-joking over dinner, “LBIAOSA agents know a hundred possible ways to kill a man and make it look like natural causes.”

  She hadn’t been exaggerating.

  Mitchell held the officer’s gaze one second longer, then turned.

  “Perimeter,” he repeated, and walked out of the barn.

  Outside, the night had settled thick over the rundown farm. Crickets buzzed. Wind stirred dead grass along the fence line.

  Mitchell moved clockwise along the outer edge of the property, rifle low but ready.

  Cadenza powered down the external lights on her armor and stepped into the treeline opposite him. Even in the heavy suit, she moved with deliberate stealth, covering the northern arc.

  Jack took the eastern fence line, weaving between broken posts and rusted farm equipment.

  Sam moved west, checking the shallow ditch and the collapsed shed near the edge of the field.

  They didn’t patrol as a fireteam. They didn’t need to.

  Each had their own sector, their own lane of responsibility—walking from one marked point to the next before circling back again.

  Inside the barn, Sonata attached one clamp of the jumper cables to the battery terminal.

  The officer’s breathing quickened.

  She didn’t rush.

  Outside, four silent figures rotated through darkness, securing a perimeter that felt less like a farm and more like a temporary fortress.

  And inside the barn, the “bad cop” prepared to ask her questions.

  The barn door creaked softly as wind pushed against it.

  Inside, only a single lantern hung from a nail, casting long, warped shadows across the warped wood walls. The Royal Guard officer sat bound to the rotten chair, wrists cinched tight, boots tied to chair legs that looked like they might collapse if he thrashed too hard.

  Sonata dragged an old metal toolbox across the floor and sat down on it a few feet in front of him. The battery rested beside her boot. Jumper cables coiled loosely in her hand.

  She didn’t speak at first.

  Silence stretched.

  The officer shifted. “You’re not going to do that,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “You need me.”

  Sonata tilted her head slightly. “Need is a strong word.”

  “You don’t know where she is,” he pressed. “You killed the wrong convoy.”

  She didn’t blink. “You told us that was the transfer.”

  “It was,” he snapped quickly. Too quickly.

  Sonata’s eyes sharpened.

  “See,” she said quietly, “that’s interesting.”

  She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.

  “When someone lies once, I can forgive that. When someone lies twice, I start to wonder whether they’re improvising.”

  “I’m not lying,” he said. “Intel changes.”

  “Intel doesn’t sprout legs and walk,” she replied calmly.

  She reached down and clipped one end of the jumper cable to the battery terminal. The metal clicked into place.

  The officer’s breathing hitched.

  “You’re bluffing.”

  Sonata looked at him like he’d said something mildly inconvenient.

  “Bluffing implies uncertainty.”

  She stood slowly and walked behind him. The barn creaked under her boots.

  “Let’s simplify,” she continued. “You told us Julia would be in that convoy. She wasn’t.”

  “I said she might be,” he countered quickly.

  “No,” Sonata corrected. “You said she would be.”

  He swallowed.

  Outside, faint footsteps crossed the gravel—one of the others passing by on perimeter rotation.

  Sonata came back into his field of vision and crouched in front of him again.

  “You understand the difference between Royal Army and Royal Guard, don’t you?” she asked conversationally.

  He blinked at the shift. “Of course.”

  “Royal Army,” she said, ticking off a finger, “pressed citizens. Broad numbers. Thin loyalty. Minimal training.”

  She ticked another.

  “Royal Guard. Voluntary. Loyalists. Better armor. Better weapons. Better discipline.”

  She leaned in closer.

  “And tonight? The Royal Guard sent wave after wave to get you back.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “That tells me you matter.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Sonata clipped the other end of the jumper cable to a metal brace on the barn wall, then let the remaining clamp dangle loosely in her hand.

  “You matter,” she repeated. “So either you fed us bad intel on purpose… or someone fed you bad intel.”

  He hesitated.

  She watched that hesitation like a hawk.

  “You’re not stupid,” she said. “You don’t survive long in the Guard by being careless.”

  “I told you what I knew,” he said.

  She leaned back slightly. “And where did you ‘know’ it from?”

  He said nothing.

  Sonata’s tone lost all warmth.

  “Names.”

  “I don’t—”

  The clamp snapped against the metal brace beside his head with a sharp crack, inches from his ear. He flinched violently.

  She didn’t even touch him.

  “Names,” she repeated.

  He stared at the floor.

  “Convoy routing came from San Marcos logistics,” he said finally. “I wasn’t in the planning cell.”

  “Who was?” she pressed.

  “Captain Ibarra. And Major Del Toro.”

  “San Marcos Depot?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Subterranean storage?” she continued.

  His eyes flicked up briefly. “It’s not just storage.”

  She waited.

  “There’s a holding section,” he said reluctantly. “Temporary. For high-value detainees before redistribution.”

  Sonata didn’t interrupt.

  “Convoy tomorrow night,” he added quickly. “That’s the real transfer.”

  “You already told us that,” she said evenly.

  “No,” he insisted. “This one was misdirection. They knew someone was leaking information. They wanted to flush you.”

  The barn seemed to tighten around them.

  “Flush us?” she asked softly.

  “Yes. The convoy tonight was deliberately over-armored. Low-value personnel. They expected an ambush.”

  She studied him.

  “And Julia?”

  He hesitated again.

  Sonata lifted the clamp slightly.

  “She’s at San Marcos,” he said quickly. “Below ground. Holding sector C.”

  “Why wasn’t she moved tonight?” she asked.

  “Because they wanted to see who would hit the bait.”

  Silence.

  Sonata held his gaze for several seconds.

  “You understand something,” she said quietly. “If this is another stall… if you’re buying another sunrise…”

  “I’m not,” he said, panic creeping back into his voice. “I swear.”

  She stood slowly.

  “You swore before.”

  She disconnected one clamp from the brace and let the cables fall loosely at her side.

  “I’m going to verify what you just told me,” she said.

  “If you’re lying, you won’t need to worry about your government executing you.”

  He stared at her.

  She stepped closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear.

  “I will.”

  She turned and walked toward the barn door.

  Outside, Mitchell was finishing another sweep of the perimeter. Cadenza stood near the north treeline, armor silhouette faint against the moonlight. Jack and Sam crossed paths briefly before continuing their separate routes.

  Sonata stepped into the cool air.

  “He’s talking,” she said calmly.

  Mitchell looked at her. “Credible?”

  “San Marcos. Subterranean holding sector C. Bait convoy tonight to flush us.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “And,” Sonata replied, “if he’s right… they already know we’re hunting her.”

  The wind moved through the dry grass.

  Mitchell nodded once.

  “Then we stop reacting,” he said quietly. “And start hunting back.”