The satellite feed zoomed in, the grainy resolution sharpening just enough to reveal the outline of a compound nestled in the folds of the mountains. Rowan’s gaze locked onto the structure, his mind already dissecting it, breaking it down into weaknesses, entry points, exits. This was the kind of op that could go sideways faster than a greased pig at a county fair, and they all fucking knew it.
“Alright, listen up.” Theo’s voice cut through the last of the bullshit like a blade. “This is what we know.” He tapped a key, and the image split—one side the compound, the other a face Rowan hadn’t seen in years.
Mikey Wilson.Guess now I know why Gallus pinged us for this one, don’t I?
The man looked like hell. Bruises darkened his jaw, his left eye was swollen nearly shut, and a cut bisected his eyebrow. But it was his expression that got Rowan. Mikey didn’t show an ounce of fear or even resignation. Just a cold, hard focus, like he was already three steps ahead of whatever fresh hell was coming his way.
“Wilson was taken three days ago during a recon gone bad near the Khyber Pass,” Theo said, pulling up a timeline.
“Taliban or ISIS?” Gael asked.
“Neither. One of the cartel’s growers has got him stashed in this lovely little hellhole—” Theo gestured to the compound, “—run by a mid-level lieutenant named Rafael ‘El Sombra’ Mendoza. Guy’s got a rep for being paranoid, which means he’s got layers of security, and he’s not the type to keep his prisoners in one place for long.”
“So we’re on a clock,” Gael replied. “Wonderful.”
“Always.” Theo moved his laser pointer to a bullet point further down the mission brief. “But this one’s ticking louder. Mercier’s intel says they’re moving Wilson in the next forty-eight. If we don’t get him out before then, he’s gone and will either be dead or buried so deep in the cartel’s network we’ll never find him.”
“What’s the play?” Colson asked, leaning forward. His fingers drummed against the table, restless.
Rowan exhaled through his nose, then pointed at the screen. “We hit them fast, we hit them quiet, and we get the fuck out before they know what’s happening.”
Theo pulled up a blueprint of the compound, overlaid with thermal imaging from a drone pass earlier that day. “Four guard towers, all manned. Two at the main gate, two at the back near what looks like a supply depot. Walls are reinforced, but not impenetrable—standard mud brick with rebar. We can breach with explosives, but we’d be announcing our arrival with a fucking fireworks show.”
“No,” Rowan said. “We go in like a fucking mouse. No need for booms or C4 unless we’ve got no other choice.”
“Then how?” Valley asked, frowning. “Those walls are twelve feet high. We climbing?”
“Not we,” Rowan said. “You and Scout. You’re our eyes on the inside. You’ll go in ahead of us, find Wilson, and get him prepped to move. The rest of us breach at the south wall—” he tapped the screen, “—here. It’s the blind spot between the towers. We hit the guards simultaneously, neutralize them before they can sound the alarm, then move in.”
“And if Wilson’s not where we think he is?” Jericho asked.
“Then you do what we pay you for and you fucking improvise,” Gael deadpanned. “But you don’t leave without him.”
Rowan nodded. “Theo, you got eyes on the cartel’s comms?”
“Working on it,” Theo said. “I’ve got Grif and Rock’s comms dude trying to tap into their radio chatter, but so far, it’s been spotty. They’re using encrypted channels, but we’re close to cracking it.”
“Good. We need to know if they change plans.” Rowan turned to Scout. “You and Valley will insert at dusk. Find Wilson, get him mobile. We breach at oh-three-hundred, when most of the guards will be sluggish, and the night rotation will have just settled in. We move fast, we move quiet, and we get the hell out before they know we’re there.”
“Extraction?” Titan asked.
“Helos are on standby twenty klicks out,” Gael said. “Me an’ Theo will figure out an LZ, but I’m thinking somewhere around here—” he pointed to a flat stretch of land just beyond a ridge, “—but if you find more shit than you bargained for, we’ll have a secondary somewhere near the wadi half a klick east.”
“What about the locals?” Colson asked. “This area’s crawling with Taliban remnants. They see us, they’re gonna want a piece.”
“Then we make sure they don’t see us,” Rowan said. “Brief says we have access to all the gear and birds we want. I say we go in blacked out. No lights or no comms, and we keep our signatures low and off radar.”
Theo pulled up another image—a grainy shot of Wilson, taken less than an hour ago. He was alive, barely… but alive. “Mercier’s contact says Wilson’s been giving them hell. They’ve been working him over, but he’s not breaking. That’s why they’re moving him. They want him somewhere they can really dig in.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. He knew what that meant; hell, they all knew what happened to men who got taken by cartels. They also knew the kind of damage Mikey Wilson was facing wouldn’t just heal with time.
“Alright,” he said, leaning away from the table to grab a protein bar from the stash on the shelf behind him. “Let’s work up a plan.” He glanced at the clock. “We spin up in less than eight hours. Valley, Scout—you’re with me and Gael. The rest of you, check our gear. I want everything checked and triple-checked; we got no room for fuckups.”
The room emptied quickly, the men dispersing to their tasks with the efficiency that came from years of doing this dance. Rowan stared at the screen, at the compound, at the photo of the man who was running out of time.
Gael nudged him with his boot under the table. “You good?”
Rowan didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
