PART 1: THE DESERT WOLVES

The heat in Arizona doesn’t just burn; it presses down on you, a physical weight that smells of dust and dried sage. I could feel it radiating through the soles of my boots as I kicked the kickstand down on my Kawasaki Ninja. The engine ticked, cooling in the silence of the Shadow Creek valley.

I took off my helmet, shaking out my hair, and let the dry air hit the sweat on my neck. Fifteen years in Special Operations teaches you to scan a perimeter before you even know you’re doing it. My eyes swept the lot of Johnson’s Gas Station automatically. Two dusty pickups. A security camera that had been dead for a decade, lens cracked like a spiderweb. Multiple approach routes—highway north, highway south, and a dirt track disappearing into the red rock formations that loomed like ancient sentinels in the distance.

Old habits die hard. Or maybe they don’t die at all. They just become the ghosts that keep you alive.

I adjusted my leather jacket, tugging the sleeve down. It wasn’t just for protection against road rash; it was to cover the ink on my forearm. The SEAL Trident. The bird. The anchor. The symbols of a life I was trying to outrun. The nightmares from Guatemala—the screaming, the smell of cordite and burning flesh, the faces of the teammates I couldn’t save—they were still right there, hovering at the edge of my vision like heat shimmer.

I pushed the door open. A bell chimed, a lonely sound in the emptiness.

The old man behind the counter, Joe Johnson, looked up. He didn’t have the vacant stare of a minimum-wage clerk. His eyes were sharp, assessing. He watched the way I moved, the way I instinctively positioned myself near the coffee station so I had a clear line of sight to both the door and the window.

He knew.

“Long way from anywhere, ma’am,” he said. His voice was gravel, but respectful.

“Just passing through,” I replied, pouring the blackest sludge the pot had to offer. My fingers brushed the scar on my right hand—a souvenir from a knife fight in Kandahar.

“You move like you’ve carried a ruck,” Joe said quietly. “Air Force Pararescue. Twenty years.”

I paused, cup halfway to my lips. I looked at him, really looked at him. The weathered face, the stillness. “Navy,” I said. “Team Six.”

He nodded. No questions asked. That’s the thing about operators; we recognize our own. We carry the same invisible weight.

That peaceful, silent understanding lasted exactly three minutes.

It shattered with the roar of engines. Not just engines—weapons. Three motorcycles tore into the lot, revving aggressively, the sound deliberately designed to rattle the windows in their frames.

I didn’t turn around. I watched them in the reflection of the glass pie case.

They were the “Desert Wolves.” I knew the type. Weekend warriors who thought a leather vest and a loud exhaust pipe made them outlaws. But as they dismounted, I analyzed the threat profile.

The leader, a guy with a scarred face and eyes that looked like they hadn’t blinked in a week, walked with a heavy limp. Marcus “Blade” Rodriguez. Dishonorable discharge, Marines, 2009. Aggressive, unstable.
The tall one, “Snake,” had track marks fresh on his arms and a knife visible in his boot.
The mountain of meat they called “Tank” was printing a pistol under his cut, right hip. Sloppy.

They pushed into the store, boots thudding on the linoleum. The air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Blade didn’t look at the snacks; he looked at Joe. Then his eyes slid to me, lingering a second too long, a predatory grin twisting his lips.

“Old man,” Blade said. His voice was a low growl. “Sheriff Cooper says you missed this month’s Business Association meeting. He’s… concerned.”

Joe’s hands trembled as he set down a rag. “Been busy with inventory, Blade. You know how it is.”

“Sure, sure,” Blade said, leaning over the counter, invading Joe’s space. “But see, when the Sheriff calls a meeting, it’s not optional. Shadow Creek is growing. Change is coming. Everyone pays their dues.”

I took a sip of my coffee. It was cold. I cataloged the situation. Three hostiles. One civilian. Limited space. Lethal force authorized? Not yet. Necessary? Probably.

“Maybe,” Joe said, his voice shaking but gaining a sudden, steel edge, “the Sheriff should focus on actual law enforcement instead of running errands for thugs.”

The silence that followed was absolute. You could hear a fly buzzing against the neon sign.

Blade’s fake smile vanished. “What did you just say to me?”

Snake and Tank stepped forward, flanking Joe. It was a classic intimidation pincer movement.

I didn’t decide to move. My body just did it. It was muscle memory, honed by thousands of hours in kill houses and combat zones.

I stepped between Blade and the counter.

“He said,” I spoke softly, but I pitched my voice to cut through the room, “that the Sheriff should do his job.”

Blade turned to me, sneering. He reached out to shove me aside. “Sit down, bitch. This is grown-up busi—”

He never finished the word.

As his hand came toward me, I intercepted his wrist. I didn’t just grab it; I applied pressure to the ulnar nerve cluster while simultaneously twisting against the joint’s natural rotation.

Blade gasped, his knees buckling. He went down to one knee, not out of respect, but because his body had no other choice.

“I wouldn’t,” I said calmly to the other two. Tank’s hand was twitching toward his waistband. “Your draws are slow. You telegraph your intentions like amateurs. By the time you clear leather, I’ll have snapped his wrist and put two rounds in your kneecaps with his own gun. Do the math.”

Blade was wheezing, trying to claw at my hand with his free one. I tightened my grip.

“You have no idea who you’re messing with,” Blade snarled, spit flying.

“Actually, I do,” I whispered, leaning in close so only he could hear. “Marcus Rodriguez. Failed Marine. Bully. And judging by the chemical burns on Snake’s hands and the smell of ether clinging to your clothes, you aren’t just running protection rackets anymore. You’re cooking. Or moving something heavy through the old copper mine.”

The color drained from his face. It was the reaction of a man who thought his secrets were buried deep.

“Here’s what happens next,” I said. “You leave. You forget you saw me. Or we find out exactly how many bones I can break before you hit the floor. Your call, Marine.”

I released him. He stumbled back, clutching his wrist, cradling it like a wounded bird.

For a second, I thought they might try it. I saw Tank’s eyes darting, calculating. But they saw something in my stance—the relaxed shoulders, the open hands that were deadlier than their guns—and they broke. Predators know when they’ve met an apex predator.

“This isn’t over,” Blade spat, backing toward the door.

“It can be,” I said. “Up to you.”

They scrambled out, revving their bikes and peeling out of the lot in a cloud of dust and humiliation.

I watched them go until they were just specks on the horizon. My heart rate hadn’t even spiked. That was the scary part. I missed this. I missed the clarity of violence.

“Who are you?” Joe whispered. He was staring at me like I was a ghost.

I sat back down and picked up my coffee. “Just someone who hates bullies.”

But as I stared out at the red rocks, I knew Blade was right. It wasn’t over. I had just painted a target on my back. And if my instincts were right—the chemical smells, the coordinated intimidation, the mention of the Sheriff—this wasn’t just a biker gang. This was a network.

Joe poured me a fresh cup. “Whatever happens next,” he said, “you’re not alone.”

I looked at him. The old PJ. “I didn’t come here for a war, Joe.”

“War finds us, Captain,” he said. “You know that.”

Night fell fast in the desert. The sky turned a bruised purple, then black. I was in the back office of the station, stripping and cleaning my Glock 19. It was a ritual. The smell of gun oil was more comforting to me than lavender.

There was a knock at the back door. I didn’t jump. I just slid a round into the chamber.

“It’s open,” Joe called out.

A woman walked in. She was young, maybe thirty, wearing a Deputy’s uniform but with a jacket thrown over it to hide the badge. Her face was tight, lines of stress etched around her eyes.

“Deputy Sarah Martinez,” Joe introduced us. “She’s one of the good ones.”

“Word travels fast,” Martinez said, eyeing the disassembled weapon on the desk. “You embarrassed Blade. He’s already calling in favors. You just kicked a hornet’s nest.”

“They were threatening Joe,” I said, not looking up from my slide spring.

“I know,” Martinez sighed, pulling out a chair. “But the Desert Wolves are just the delivery boys. You need to see this.”

She pulled a USB drive from her pocket and tossed it onto the desk.

“I’ve been tracking unusual shipments for months,” she said. “Through the old copper mine. Trucks running at 3 AM. No lights. Security that looks military, not biker trash. And look at this.”

She pulled up a satellite image on Joe’s ancient computer. It was grainy, but clear enough. A convoy of black SUVs. And shipping containers.

“Modified,” I murmured, leaning in. “Ventilation ports welded onto the top. Those aren’t for copper ore.”

“People,” Martinez said, her voice cracking. “They’re moving people.”

My blood ran cold. The flashbacks hit me then—Guatemala. The village we found too late. The cages.

“The Sheriff?” I asked.

“Cooper?” Martinez scoffed. “He’s bought and paid for. Half the department is on the payroll. I’ve been building a case, but I have no one to take it to. The Mayor, the City Council… the corruption in Shadow Creek runs deeper than the mines.”

“They’re using the cave systems,” I said, tracing the map on the screen. “Natural cover. Thermal shielding against drones. It’s smart.”

“There’s more,” Martinez said. “I intercepted a comms chatter an hour ago. Blade wasn’t just calling for backup. He called a number in Mexico. He said ‘The Surgeon’ is coming to inspect the operation personally.”

The room stopped spinning. The world narrowed down to a pinpoint.

The Surgeon.

I knew that name. A cartel enforcer. A ghost. The man who orchestrated the ambush that killed my squad. The man whose face I had never seen, but whose handiwork I had nightmares about every single night.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears.

“Positive,” Martinez said. “He arrives in 48 hours. They’re holding a town meeting to distract the locals while they move a massive shipment through the tunnels.”

I stood up. The fatigue was gone. The desire for peace was gone. In its place was a cold, hard resolve.

I pulled my phone out. I had one contact saved under “DO NOT CALL.”

I typed a message: Ghost Team. Activate. Location: Shadow Creek. Target: The Surgeon. Cartel/Human Trafficking. High Value. I need eyes in the sky.

The reply came in ten seconds. On standby. Say the word.

I looked at Joe and Martinez. An old man and a rogue deputy. And me, a broken SEAL. We were about to go up against an international cartel and a corrupt police force.

“They’re coming for you,” Joe warned. “Once they realize you’re a threat, they won’t send bikers. They’ll send the pros.”

I holstered my Glock. I felt the familiar weight on my hip. It felt like home.

“Good,” I said. “Let them come. But first, we need intel. We need to know exactly what’s in those mines.”

“How?” Martinez asked. “The place is a fortress.”

I zipped up my jacket. “We’re going to ask the one person in this town who hears everything.”

“Maria?” Joe asked, a small smile touching his lips.

“Maria,” I confirmed. “Let’s go get some pie.”

As we walked out into the cool desert night, I saw headlights sweeping the highway. Three black SUVs, moving in formation. Surveillance.

They were watching us. They thought they were the hunters.

I climbed onto my bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me.

You have no idea, I thought as I stared at the approaching headlights. You just locked yourselves in a cage with a tiger.

PART 2: THE SHADOW WAR

Maria’s Diner sat at the edge of town like a beacon of nostalgia—chrome accents, red vinyl booths, and a neon sign buzzing with the persistent hum of a dying transformer.

We parked in the shadows around the back. Martinez left her unmarked cruiser behind a dumpster. Joe took up a lookout position near the kitchen door, his eyes scanning the perimeter with the restless energy of a man who hadn’t been on a mission in twenty years but remembered every protocol.

“Bell on the door rings,” Joe whispered into the comms earpiece he’d handed me—ancient gear, probably surplus from the 90s, but functional. “Three cameras inside. Only the one over the register works.”

“Copy,” I said.

I pushed inside. The diner was empty, save for two men in a booth near the window. They wore Desert Wolves cuts, but they weren’t eating. They were watching the street.

Maria was behind the counter. She was a woman made of iron and hairspray, maybe sixty, wiping down the counter with a rhythmic grace. She didn’t look at the bikers. She looked at me. Her eyes flickered to the reflection in the mirror behind the pie case, then back to me. A subtle warning.

“Coffee?” she asked as I slid onto a stool. “Fresh pot.”

“Black,” I said. “And I hear the apple pie is worth dying for.”

Maria didn’t smile, but the corner of her eye crinkled. “My grandmother’s recipe. Though lately, the appetite in this town has changed. Too many new faces. They don’t like home cooking.”

She poured the coffee. “Deputy Martinez called ahead. She said you might be interested in the basement.”

“I’m interested in what connects to the basement,” I said, keeping my voice low. “The copper mine tunnels. The old prohibition routes.”

Maria wiped the counter, moving closer. “My late husband was a mining engineer. He kept the original surveys. The new owners—this ‘Investment Group’—they think they found all the entrances. They didn’t know about the one behind my pantry. Or the one that comes up in the church confessional.”

“Church?”

“Father Thomas looked the other way during prohibition,” Maria murmured. “God forgives thirst, apparently.”

Behind me, the booth squeaked. Heavy boots on linoleum.

I didn’t turn. I watched in the mirror. The two bikers were leaving, tossing cash on the table. But as the door chimed, three new men walked in.

The temperature in the room didn’t drop this time; it vanished.

These weren’t bikers. They wore cargo pants, tight tactical t-shirts, and oakleys even though it was pitch black outside. They moved differently—controlled, scanning sectors, checking hands. Private Military Contractors. High-end mercenaries.

“Blade said you were trouble,” the lead contractor said. He had a crew cut and a neck as thick as a tree stump. He stopped five feet from my stool. “He didn’t say you were pretty.”

I took a sip of coffee. “And Blade didn’t mention he needed babysitters. What is this, Bring Your Mercenary to Work Day?”

The contractor chuckled, but it was a dry, humorless sound. He leaned in, placing a hand on the counter next to my cup. I saw the callous on his trigger finger.

“This isn’t a biker town anymore, sweetheart. The Investment Group owns the pavement you walk on. We’re just here to take out the trash.”

“Is that what they’re calling human beings these days?” I asked, turning on the stool to face him. “Trash?”

His eyes narrowed. “You ask too many questions.”

“And you telegraph your punches,” I said.

He blinked. “What?”

I didn’t explain. I moved.

The pot of coffee Maria had left on the counter was still steaming. I grabbed the handle and backhanded the carafe into his face. Glass shattered. Scalding liquid splashed across his eyes. He howled, stumbling back, hands clawing at his face.

The second contractor went for his waistband. Professional draw, fast and clean. But I was already inside his guard. I stepped on his instep, pinning him, and drove my elbow into his solar plexus. As he doubled over, I grabbed his head and introduced it to the granite countertop with a sickening crunch.

The third man—the smart one—didn’t rush. He drew a baton, extending it with a metallic snick. He assumed a defensive stance.

“flashy,” I said.

I kicked the stool toward him. He swatted it aside, but that split second was all I needed. I closed the distance, blocked his swing with my forearm—ignoring the bruise that would form later—and swept his legs. He hit the floor hard. Before he could scramble up, my boot was on his throat.

“Stay,” I commanded.

The first man was still screaming, blindingly groping for his weapon. I kicked it away and delivered a precise strike to his carotid artery. He dropped like a sack of cement.

Silence returned to the diner, broken only by the heavy breathing of the man under my boot.

“Who signed your contract?” I asked, pressing down.

He gasped, eyes bulging. “Go… to… hell.”

“Wrong answer.” I applied more pressure. “The Surgeon. Is he here?”

“He’s… coming,” the man wheezed. “Tonight. The inspection… moved up.”

I stepped back, letting him gasp for air. Sirens wailed in the distance.

“Joe,” I tapped my comms. “We have a timeline acceleration. Get the car.”

“Way ahead of you,” Joe’s voice crackled. “Back alley. Now.”

I looked at Maria. She hadn’t flinched. She was holding a heavy ring of keys.

“Pantry,” she said, tossing them to me. “Third shelf, behind the flour sacks. It leads to the drainage overflow. Takes you straight to the church.”

“You need to get out of here, Maria.”

“This is my diner,” she said stubbornly. “I’ve survived three recessions and a flood. I can handle a few bruised egos. Go.”

I ran.

The tunnels were narrow, smelling of damp earth and history. I moved by the green glow of my night vision monocular, navigating the maze that Maria’s husband had mapped out decades ago.

I emerged in the basement of the First Baptist Church. It was cool and quiet, smelling of incense and old wood.

Joe and Martinez were already there. Martinez had spread a large topographical map over the collection table.

“You made a mess,” Martinez said, but there was respect in her eyes. “Two of those guys are in the ICU. The third is singing to anyone who will listen about a ‘demon’ in the diner.”

“They know we’re here now,” I said, pacing the small room. “The element of surprise is gone. But we got something better.”

I slammed my hand onto the map.

“Panic.”

“Panic?” Joe asked.

“The Surgeon is moving up his arrival,” I explained. “He’s coming tonight. That means they’re rushing. Rushing leads to mistakes. They’re going to try to move the ‘product’—the girls—before he lands, so the inventory looks clean.”

Martinez’s face paled. “There are twenty-three missing women reported in the Tri-County area in the last six months. If they move them…”

“They’re gone,” I finished. “Across the border, vanished into the network. We can’t let that happen.”

My phone buzzed. It was the secure line. Mike.

Message: Satellite shows private jet inbound. tail number matches shell company linked to Gulf Cartel. Landing at private strip north of town in 2 hours. Also, intercepted heavy comms traffic. They are bringing in a ‘Cleaner’.

“A Cleaner?” Joe asked, reading over my shoulder. “Victor?”

I nodded, my stomach tightening. “Victor. Ex-Spetsnaz. The Surgeon’s head of security. He’s the one who rigged the compound in Guatemala. He doesn’t just kill people; he erases them.”

“We have two hours,” Martinez said, checking her service weapon. “We don’t have the manpower for a frontal assault on the mine. There are thirty hostiles, minimum.”

“We don’t need to assault the mine,” I said, tracing the blue lines of the underground map Maria had given me. “We need to make them think the mine is the safest place to be… until it isn’t.”

I looked at Joe. “You still have those breaching charges you mentioned? The mining explosives?”

Joe grinned, a wolfish expression that took ten years off his face. “I might have ‘forgotten’ to log a few crates back in ’98. They’re a bit unstable.”

“Unstable is good,” I said. “Martinez, can you trust your deputies?”

“Four of them,” she said. “The rest are Cooper’s.”

“That’s enough,” I said. “Here’s the play. We’re going to split them up. Martinez, you and your deputies create a diversion at the main gate. Flashing lights, sirens, make it look like a raid. Draw their eyes outward.”

“And you?”

“I’m going inside,” I said. “Through the tunnels. I’m going to wait for them to bring the girls to the central cavern—the Cathedral—for transport. And then I’m going to lock the doors from the inside.”

“You’ll be trapped in there with them,” Joe said quietly. “With Victor.”

“I’m not trapped with them, Joe,” I said, checking the magazine of my Glock. “They’re trapped with me.”

The insertion was grueling. The “drainage overflow” Maria mentioned was actually a slurry pipe that hadn’t been used in forty years. It was tight, claustrophobic, and crawling with things that had too many legs.

I belly-crawled for three hundred meters, dragging my kit bag behind me. The air grew warmer, thicker. I could hear the hum of industrial ventilation fans.

I reached a grate. Through the slats, I saw the “Cathedral.”

It was massive. A natural cavern reinforced with steel beams and concrete. High-intensity floodlights cut through the gloom. And there they were.

Shipping containers.

Rows of them. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I saw men moving below. Not the bikers. Not even the contractors from the diner. These were uniformed, disciplined soldiers. Cartel elite.

And standing in the center, looking at a tablet, was a man I recognized from the briefing files in Guatemala. Victor.

He was huge, bald, with a tattoo of a spider on his neck. He was shouting orders in Russian-accented Spanish.

“Move the cargo to the loading bay! The Surgeon lands in sixty minutes. If we are not ready, he will skin us all alive.”

I watched as they opened one of the containers to check the occupants. I saw huddles of terrified women, blinking in the harsh light.

Rage, hot and pure, flooded my system. I had to fight the urge to open fire right then. But I had to wait. I had to set the board.

“Ghost One to Base,” I whispered into my comms. “I have eyes on the target. Confirmed hostiles. Confirmed captives. I am placing the charges.”

“Copy, Ghost One,” Joe’s voice came back, tense. “Diversion team is in position. On your mark.”

I moved silently along the catwalks, high above the cavern floor. I placed the charges on the main support pillars for the tunnel exits—not to bring the roof down on the girls, but to seal the exits. To turn this cavern into a cage.

I was setting the last charge when my luck ran out.

A sensor I hadn’t spotted—a laser tripwire—blinked red as my boot grazed it.

A silent alarm strobe flashed on the floor below.

Victor looked up instantly, his eyes locking onto my position in the rafters. He didn’t yell. He just raised his rifle.

Pop-pop-pop.

Three rounds sparked off the metal grating inches from my face.

“Contact high!” Victor roared. “Kill her!”

“Execute!” I screamed into the comms. “Execute now!”

Above ground, I heard the distant boom of Martinez’s diversion—a fuel tank blowing at the main gate. The cavern shook.

But down here, hell had just opened for business.

I vaulted over the railing, dropping twenty feet onto a stack of crates. I rolled, came up shooting, and dropped two guards before they could raise their weapons.

Victor was barking orders, coordinating a suppression team. He was good. He was flanking me.

“Welcome to the party, Commander!” Victor shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “I wondered when you would show up!”

I ducked behind a forklift as bullets chewed up the concrete.

“You remember me?” I shouted back.

“I remember your file!” Victor laughed. “The survivor. The one we missed. Tonight, we correct that error!”

I checked my ammo. Two mags left. Plus the detonator for the tunnel collapse.

I looked at the containers. The guards were starting to push the women back inside, trying to lock them down.

“Not today,” I hissed.

I pressed the detonator.

The explosions were deafening. The main tunnel entrances collapsed in a cloud of dust and rubble. We were sealed in.

Victor stopped firing for a second, looking at the blocked exits.

“You are insane!” he shouted. “You have buried us!”

“I just leveled the playing field,” I replied, reloading.

The dust swirled around us, thick and choking. The lights flickered and died, leaving only the red emergency strobes pulsing like a heartbeat.

I smiled in the darkness. This was my world now.

“Part 2 complete,” I whispered to myself.

PART 3: THE CATHEDRAL OF SHADOWS

The red emergency lights turned the cavern into a scene from a nightmare. Shadows stretched and danced with every pulse of the strobes. The air was thick with pulverized limestone dust, creating a fog that obscured everything beyond ten feet.

Perfect.

“Switch to thermal,” Victor’s voice barked from somewhere in the gloom. “She is one woman. Flush her out!”

I was already moving. I didn’t stay behind the forklift. That’s what a soldier would do. I wasn’t a soldier right now; I was a hunter. I scrambled up a stack of pallets, hauling myself onto the crane gantry that ran the length of the ceiling.

Below me, I saw them through my own thermal optics—white-hot ghosts moving in the cool blue of the cavern. Five guards advancing in a wedge formation toward my last position. Victor was hanging back near the shipping containers, using the hostages as a human shield. Smart. Evil, but smart.

I needed to separate the head from the body.

I pulled a flashbang from my belt. I didn’t throw it at the guards. I threw it at a cluster of hydraulic hoses on the far wall.

BANG!

The explosion ruptured the line. High-pressure fluid hissed out, sounding like a screaming banshee. The guards spun toward the noise, firing blindly.

I dropped from the gantry behind them.

I didn’t use my gun. Gunshots give away position. I used the karambit knife sheathed on my vest.

The rear guard never heard me. I clamped a hand over his mouth and drove the blade into the subclavian artery. He went limp silently. I lowered him and moved to the next.

The second guard sensed something. He started to turn. I swept his leg, driving his face into the concrete, and silenced him with a strike to the temple.

Three left in the kill squad.

“Check in!” Victor roared. “Report!”

“Team One is… silent,” a shaky voice replied.

“She is behind you, idiots!”

The remaining three spun around. I was already gone, melted back into the darkness between the shipping containers.

I was working my way toward the captives. I could hear crying from inside the metal boxes.

“Victor!” I called out, my voice echoing from everywhere at once. “Your extraction route is gone. The Sheriff is busy upstairs. And The Surgeon? He’s going to find a graveyard when he lands.”

“The Surgeon does not tolerate failure,” Victor shouted. He sounded closer now. “If I die, these women die with me. Is that what you want, hero?”

I froze. He was standing by the open door of the main container, a grenade in his hand, pin pulled. He was holding the lever down. If I shot him, he dropped it. Everyone inside died.

“Come out, Commander!” he taunted. “Let us finish this face to face. Like warriors.”

I stepped out from the shadows, hands raised, Glock holstered.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m here.”

Victor sneered, his scar twisting in the red light. “So noble. Drop the weapons.”

I unbuckled my belt, letting it fall with a heavy clatter. “Let them go, Victor. This is between us.”

“You have nothing to bargain with,” he laughed. “I kill you, then I dig my way out.”

“You’re assuming,” I said, taking a slow step forward, “that I came alone.”

Victor frowned. “My sensors picked up only one heat signature.”

“Sensors look for body heat,” I said. “They don’t pick up… the cold.”

I nodded slightly.

Behind Victor, a ventilation grate high on the wall silently fell inward.

Joe Johnson, suspended by a rappel line, hung upside down like a giant bat. He held a suppressed MP5.

Thwip-thwip.

Two rounds took Victor in the shoulder holding the grenade. His arm spasmed, flinging the grenade away—not into the container, but skittering across the floor toward the open cavern.

“Fire in the hole!” I screamed.

I tackled Victor, driving him away from the container, shielding him from the blast with my own body—not to save him, but to keep him as a shield for myself.

BOOM.

The shockwave rattled my teeth. Shrapnel pinged off the containers.

Victor was strong. He roared, throwing me off him like a ragdoll. He scrambled up, his left arm useless, but his right hand drawing a massive combat knife.

“I will gut you!” he screamed, charging.

I didn’t have my gun. I didn’t have my knife. I had my hands.

He slashed—a wide, brutal arc. I ducked, feeling the wind of the blade. He was fast for a big man. He thrust, aiming for my gut. I sidestepped, grabbing his wrist, but his sweat made it slippery. He broke free and backhanded me.

I tasted blood. Stars exploded in my vision. I hit the ground hard.

Victor loomed over me, raising the knife for the killing blow. “Die, seal.”

My hand closed around something on the floor. A jagged shard of metal from the exploded hydraulic line.

As he brought the knife down, I thrust upward.

The shard pierced his armpit, finding the gap in his vest. He gasped, the knife clattering to the floor inches from my ear.

I didn’t stop. I swept his legs, bringing him down, and rolled on top of him. I locked him in a chokehold—a blood choke.

“Sleep,” I whispered, tightening my grip as he thrashed. “Go to sleep.”

His struggles weakened. His eyes rolled back. Finally, he went limp.

I held it for ten more seconds, just to be sure. Then I rolled off, gasping for air, my ribs screaming.

“Clear!” Joe shouted, dropping to the floor and covering the room. “Hostiles down. Secure.”

I stumbled to the container. The women were huddled together, terrified.

“It’s okay,” I rasped, unlocking the gate. “You’re safe. We’re getting you home.”

Getting out was harder than getting in. We had to blow the secondary airlock. But when we emerged into the cool desert night, it was to a scene of flashing lights.

Not police lights. Federal lights.

Black SUVs with government plates. Helicopters with “FBI” and “DEA” stenciled on the side.

Mike was there, standing by a command vehicle. He looked at me—dust-covered, bleeding, holding my side—and grinned.

“You cut it close, Rachel,” he said.

“Did you get him?” I asked.

Mike pointed toward the airstrip. “We intercepted the jet on the tarmac. The Surgeon is in custody. Martinez turned over her files. Cooper is in cuffs. The whole network is rolling up as we speak.”

I watched as EMTs tended to the women. I saw families reuniting, tears, relief. I saw Joe sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, getting his arm bandaged, looking tired but happy.

I walked away from the noise, toward the edge of the mesa. The sun was starting to crest over the red rocks, painting the desert in gold and fire.

Mike followed me.

“You know,” he said, “The Agency has been looking for someone to lead a new task force. Specifically for dismantling these kinds of networks. Off the books. No red tape.”

I looked at my hands. They were shaking, just a little. The adrenaline crash.

“I’m retired, Mike,” I said. “I just wanted a coffee.”

“You’re not retired,” Mike said softly. “You were just resting. You saw what happened here. You saw what one person can do. Imagine what a team could do.”

He handed me a file. It was thin. Classified.

“Think about it.”

I watched him walk away.

I looked at the sunrise. I thought about Blade, and Victor, and The Surgeon. I thought about the girls in those containers.

I touched the scar on my hand. The nightmares would probably still be there tonight. But maybe, just maybe, they’d be a little quieter.

I walked over to my bike. It was dusty, scratched, but ready.

Joe waved from the ambulance. “Where to, Captain?”

I pulled on my helmet. I looked at the file Mike had left on my seat.

“I don’t know, Joe,” I said, revving the engine. “But I think I’m done running.”

I kicked it into gear and rode toward the sun.