“Remote enough no one would think to check it,” Juice added. “Until now.”
Viper nodded. “Terrain’s thick with a triple-canopy style rainforest in the northern quadrant. Jungles wrap around the caldera, and most of the southern slope is sheer rock. Entry point’s here—narrow inlet, and a lava-rock beach a couple of klicks east of a freshwater stream system. No locals. No infrastructure. Closest satellite ping gave us a single heat signature too big to be any known wildlife on the island and a boat registered to a known associate of the Fuckwad who’d lived for way longer than he should.”
“Isn’t it a stretch for knowing it’s him?” Kaze leaned over the intel packet, scowling. “Normally, we get more than a boat owned by a known associate to confirm our target is hot.”
“Correct,” Viper confirmed. “He was ID’d in a photo from a day tripper on social media less than forty-eight hours ago.” He turned to Trace, who’d been silent until now, leaning in shadows next to Juice. Viper recognized the darkness of Bran’s eyes flickering amber in the dim light. “You’ll run interference with Langley’s contacts on comms,” he told him. “If they get twitchy about how we proceed, you buy us time.”
Trace’s nod was tight, and his voice was underscored by the growl of his wolf half. “You’ll get it.”
Viper shifted his focus back to the rest of the team. “We go in hard, full combat load. Thermal gear, NVGs, the works. This guy—Al-Rami—isn’t a ghost. Our brothers in the black ops world have given him scars. The last time anyone ran recon on him, he favored his right leg and wore a comms tap in his left ear.” He gave them a moment to scribble that intel onto the inside of their arms. It was always useful to have a manual backup for shit like this in case their equipment took a crap and refused to work. “Thank fuck on this op we aren’t bogged down with rules of engagement.” He paused and met each man’s gaze. “This is payback. It’s justice. It’s the one shot we get to make damn sure no more embassies go up in flames because some fanatic got cute.”
He stabbed the mission map again. “We hit the drop point in ninety minutes. From there, it’s a two-klick hike through volcanic brush, razorleaf vines, banyan root systems, and more goddamn mosquitoes than God intended to exist. Wildlife includes fruit bats, geckos, tenrecs—nothing we haven’t handled before. But keep an eye out for scald pockets. The ground’s not stable. You step where it’s soft, you could punch through into somewhere that’s gonna scald your balls off.”
“Sounds like paradise,” Kaze muttered.
“No time for sightseeing,” Viper snapped. “We’ve got one mission—track Al-Rami, neutralize the target, and exfil before an overzealous day tripper puts our faces on the book of fucking faces and outs us to the world. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Kaze replied.
Viper checked his watch, then scanned the team. Reaper was loading ammo, Zero was double-checking sensors, and Juice was adjusting Trace’s gear—normal routines that sent a jolt of relief through him.
Good. We’re ready to roll.
The tablet in his hand vibrated, and an alert showed at the top of the screen. He tapped into the updated intel from command and winced internally.
Here we fucking go.
“Change of plans.” His voice was clipped as he tapped the satmap that would update their wrist-mounted displays. “New campfire showed up on thermal. Satellite caught movement about a hundred meters off our original LZ. Looks like someone set up shop where we were supposed to drop.”
Zero lifted a brow. “Friendly?”
“Our local source says it’s an archaeology dig site.” It drove him batshit when stuff like this happened. Not because his guys weren’t epic at reacting on the fly to fast changes, but because having civilians in the vicinity made the potential for friendly fire incidents more of a reality than he was comfortable with. “The French government has flagged that site as civilian. There’s zero military presence, but we aren’t going to assume that means no weapons. Don’t take stupid chances, boys.”
“Roger fuckin’ that,” Reaper muttered.
“We bump the DZ two klicks to the northeast,” Viper continued. “Secondary drop zone is tighter, and the tree cover is thicker. But we’ll make it work. Comms are dark, and rolling in five, four, three…”
The ramp door cracked open behind them, and the roar of the wind punched through the cabin. Red light bathed the interior in a blood-colored glow. The C-130 bucked as it found its altitude hold when the night air whipped in. It was humid and thick with heat that had no business being this high up.
Viper stood, checked his rig, and turned to face his team. Juice, Reaper, Kaze, Zero, and Trace. They were all geared up, ready to wage war in a jungle most men couldn’t even pronounce. “You see anyone on the ground, you don’t engage unless they’re holding a weapon or screaming your name. We stay invisible unless this asshole Al-Rami shows his face. You get eyes on that bastard, you call it in—no lone wolf shit. We move together. We take him together.”
“Hooyah,” the team answered.
The green light flashed, and Viper stepped into the wind. Gravity caught him like an old friend with a mean streak. The world went black except for his altimeter and the dull red glow of infrared across his goggles. The wind howled past his ears, stealing breath and thought and fury.
He loved this part, the freefall silence and the high-altitude hush before the world took form again. He drifted through warm air pockets, adjusting his descent with the lightest pressure on his toggles. Below him, the island spread like a predator crouched in the dark. Trees clawed upward, and rock jutted like brokenteeth. He squinted at a couple of low lights from the interior of the island.
What the hell are those?
He committed the approximate location to memory in case they’d found their target’s hidey hole. A vibration against his wrist told him he had five seconds to chute time.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
