The tech’s a stark reminder of the stakes—cartel secrets, Obsidian Ventures, a death threat hanging over Miles’ head.
I lean back in a creaky leather chair, a cigar between my fingers, the rich, earthy smoke curling upward as I sip my whisky, the burn grounding me.
Cole’s across from me, his lean frame slouched in another chair, his own cigar smoldering as he watches the laptop.
Max’s sprawled on a couch by the window, his broad shoulders relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, flicking to the decoding rig.
The three of us are quiet, the crackle of the cigar embers and the faint hum of the tech filling the space. I take a drag, exhaling slowly, and break the silence.
“Guys, I owe you,” I say. “Sticking your necks out for me, going off-script with Mr. G—this could bite us all in the ass. Thanks for having my back on this.”
Cole waves it off, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t mention it, Travis,” Cole says. “You’d do the same for us.”
Max snorts, swirling his whisky.
“Yeah, don’t get sappy,” he laughs. “We’re in this together. Always have been.”
I grin, leaning forward, my joker side kicking in.
“No chance I’d risk my neck for yousonsofguns,” I say, winking. “You’re on your own next time.”
They laugh, Cole’s sharp chuckle mixing with Max’s deep rumble, and for a moment, it’s just us, the way it’s been since our first mission together.
I take a glug of whisky, feel the satisfying burn in my throat, and close my eyes.
My mind drifts back to that day, eight years ago, when the Guard threw the three of us into the deep end. The memory’s vivid, like it was yesterday…
Eight Years Ago
The Rocky Mountains loom around us, jagged peaks cutting into a sky so blue it hurts to look at. The air’s thin, sharp with pine and snow, and our boots crunch on the rocky trail as we track Ivan “The Bear” Klashnev, a Russian Bratva leader who’s been dodging us for weeks.
Klashnev is holed up in a remote cabin, rumored to be planning his escape back to Moscow, and Mr. G wants him alive—intel on his network’s worth more than his corpse. Cole, Max, and I are green, barely a year into the Guard, but we’re hungry, ready to prove ourselves.
Our packs are heavy with gear—ropes, rifles, comms—and the cold bites through our tactical vests.
Cole’s on point, his scope scanning the ridgeline, his voice low in my earpiece.
“Cabin’s half a mile out. Two guards, armed. Klahsnev inside.”
Max, behind me, adjusts his pack, his breath puffing in the chill. “Let’s move fast. He’s slippery.”
We push forward, silent as shadows, the trail narrowing to a precarious ledge along a cliff face. The drop’s sheer, a thousand feet of nothing but rocks and wind below.
My heart’s steady, but my palms sweat inside my gloves.
We’re close when it goes to hell—a guard spots us, shouts, and gunfire erupts, bullets pinging off the rocks.
Cole drops one guard with a clean shot, but Klashnev bolts, sprinting across the peak toward a clearing where a private plane’s engine is already roaring.
“Move!” I bark, and we’re running, the ledge crumbling under our boots.
A misstep sends Max skidding, his pack dragging him toward the edge, and I grab his arm, yanking him back as stones tumble into the void.
Cole’s ahead, his broad frame a blur, but Klashnev is fast, a bear of a man charging for the plane. The wind’s screaming now, the drop inches away, and my lungs burn as we chase him across the rocky peak.
Another guard pops up, firing wild, and I return fire, my shot grazing his shoulder. He falls, but Klashnev is almost at the plane, its door open, the pilot waving him in.
