The Arizona sun was a hammer, beating down on the baked earth with a white-hot fury that seemed personal. It bleached the color from the sky and baked the air until every breath felt stolen from a furnace. Down in the dust, where the world smelled of iron and fear, Eleanor Reynolds was trying to hold a life together with her bare hands.

Blood, dark and thick, seeped through the gaps between her fingers. She pressed harder, leaning her weight into the jagged shrapnel wound in the soldier’s side, feeling the frantic, failing pulse beneath her palms. He was just a kid. They were all just kids. This one, Jackson, couldn’t have been more than twenty. His eyes, wide and glassy with shock, were locked on hers, searching for a truth she couldn’t give him.

At twenty-seven, Eleanor felt ancient. Her auburn hair, the color of a Texas sunset, was pulled back in a regulation bun so tight it made her scalp ache, a small, pointless anchor of order in the heart of chaos. In her dusty combat fatigues, she might have looked like she was playing dress-up, another officer too young for the weight on her shoulders. But her hands told a different story. They were steady, sure, and stained with the residue of a hundred other moments just like this one. They knew the grim arithmetic of the battlefield.

“You’re going to make it, Jackson,” she whispered, the words a worn-out prayer. Her Texas accent, usually softened by years of military precision, thickened and curled around the edges, frayed by stress. “Just stay with me. You hear me? Stay with me.”

He gave a single, jerky nod, a flicker of trust in the abyss of his pain. That trust was Eleanor’s burden. It was her honor. It was the entire reason she was here, kneeling in the dirt twelve thousand miles from home.

Two hundred yards away, the flat crackle of gunfire erupted again, a punctuation mark to their private drama. Insurgents, relentless as the sun, were making another push. The sound was so familiar it barely registered. Eleanor didn’t flinch. She had learned, the hard way, that hesitation was a luxury no one out here could afford. Hesitation got people killed.

Instead, she moved with the fluid economy of a master craftsman. One hand maintained pressure while the other retrieved a syrette of morphine from her thigh pocket. The needle slid into his flesh with practiced ease. Her fingers, deft and sure, packed the wound with hemostatic gauze, the material turning instantly from white to crimson. Her world had shrunk to this single, vital task: to stop the bleeding, to quiet the pain, to keep this one boy’s soul from slipping away.

Then, a new sound cut through the din of combat—a rhythmic, percussive chopping that grew from a distant hum into a life-saving roar. The medevac helicopter appeared over the ridge, its rotors churning the hot desert air into a violent, swirling vortex of dust and grit. It was the sound of angels, or the closest thing to it this godforsaken place had to offer.

Only when the last of the wounded, including Jackson, was secured and the helicopter was lifting away, a dark dragonfly ascending into the hazy sky, did Eleanor allow herself to exhale. The breath came out as a ragged shudder, releasing a tension that had settled deep in her bones. Another one saved. Another soldier who might just see his family again.

Captain Morris materialized beside her as the dust began to settle. His face was a roadmap of too many deployments, the sun and stress having etched deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked tired down to his soul.

“That’s the fourth life you’ve saved this week, Reynolds,” he said, his voice a low gravel. He handed her a sealed manila envelope. “Command noticed.”

Eleanor wiped her blood-stained hands on the thighs of her uniform, a gesture so routine it was unconscious. The crimson smear was just another part of the camouflage pattern. She took the envelope.

“New orders,” Morris explained, his gaze already drifting back toward the fight. “Special assignment. General Parker wants to see you at 0800 tomorrow.”

She just nodded, tucking the envelope into a cargo pocket. It felt heavy, dense with unspoken possibilities. Special assignments were a coin toss. They could mean a cushy billet back stateside, or they could mean a one-way ticket to a problem so nasty they needed someone with her particular, bloody skillset.

The thought should have filled her with dread. Instead, a quiet current of certainty ran through her. This was where she belonged. This was who she was.

Later that night, the temporary quiet of the forward operating base felt more unsettling than the noise of battle. In her spartan quarters—a plywood box that smelled of dust and old sweat—Eleanor sat on the edge of her cot and finally opened the envelope. The single sheet of paper inside was sparse, its language clinical and cryptic. A time, a place, and a designation: Operation Desert Shield II. Most of the details were classified beyond her current clearance. It was an invitation to a locked room, and she had just been handed the key.

Before turning in, her gaze fell on the single personal item she allowed herself: a faded photograph tucked into the frame of her small mirror. It was her father, James Reynolds, in his Marine dress blues. The Silver Star on his chest gleamed even in the dim light. He’d done three tours in the sand before coming home to wear a different uniform, that of the county sheriff in their small Texas town. He’d taught her to shoot, to track, to read the land. He’d taught her that service wasn’t a job; it was a calling.

He died when she was sixteen. Not in a faraway war, not in a hail of gunfire, but on the shoulder of a quiet county road during a routine traffic stop gone wrong. A broken taillight, a nervous kid with a stolen gun, and a lifetime of courage extinguished in a single, stupid moment.

The irony had never been lost on her. He had survived the inferno, only to be consumed by a flicker of violence at home. She had joined the Army to pay for medical school, a practical decision. But somewhere along the way, in the blood and the dust, she’d found something else. A purpose.

Battlefield medicine was a world of brutal clarity. There were no insurance forms, no hospital politics, no bureaucratic gray areas. There was only the immediate, undeniable reality: a body broken, and the skills to either mend it or watch it fail. Save or lose. Live or die. In the chaos, she had found a strange, stark peace.

The next morning, at precisely 0800, Eleanor stood before the door to the designated briefing room. She smoothed the front of her fresh uniform, took a breath, and knocked. Inside, it was not General Parker who greeted her, but a man who seemed carved from granite and time. Rear Admiral James Harrington stood tall and straight-backed, his silver-gray hair cut in the same severe military style he’d likely worn for five decades. At sixty-eight, he radiated an authority that had nothing to do with the stars on his collar and everything to do with the storms he had weathered. His face was a tapestry of faint scars and sun-blasted skin; his hands, resting on the polished table, looked like they could crush stone.

“Reynolds,” he said, his voice a low baritone. He gestured to the single chair opposite his. “Have a seat.”

Eleanor complied, the simple command feeling more like a summons. The air in the room was thick with unspoken gravity. This was no ordinary assignment.

“Your record is impressive,” Harrington began, opening a file folder that bore her name. He didn’t seem to be reading from it so much as confirming what he already knew by heart. “Distinguished Service Cross for actions in Mosul. Combat Medical Badge with three stars. Advanced tactical and sniper qualifications.” He closed the folder with a soft, final thud. His eyes, a pale, piercing blue, fixed on her. “Your father was Captain James Reynolds.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. Eleanor nodded anyway.

“I served with him during Desert Storm,” Harrington said, a flicker of something raw and genuine in his voice. “One of the finest men I ever knew. He saved my life near Basra.”

The words struck Eleanor with the force of a physical blow. Her father had been a quiet man, his wartime experiences locked away in a part of himself he never shared. He brought home the medals but left the stories in the sand. To hear this, here, from a man like Harrington—it was like finding a missing piece of her own history.

“Sir,” she said, finding her voice. “May I ask what this assignment is about?”

Harrington didn’t answer directly. He activated a large screen on the wall, which flickered to life with a high-resolution satellite image. It showed a sprawling compound, a collection of low-slung buildings nestled in a rugged, desolate stretch of northern Arizona’s desert.

“We’ve identified a terrorist training facility operating on U.S. soil,” he explained, his tone hardening. “Intelligence suggests they’re led by a high-value target codenamed ‘The Professor.’ His real name is Nikolai Petrov. A former Soviet bioweapons scientist, presumed dead since the Cold War ended. He’s not.”

Eleanor leaned forward, her eyes tracing the layout of the compound. It was built for a fight. Defensive positions, clear fields of fire, chokepoints.

“The facility appears to include a medical structure,” Harrington continued, using a laser pointer to highlight a building on the compound’s eastern edge. “That’s where you come in. Three weeks ago, we sent in a SEAL team to conduct surveillance. They missed their extraction window and went dark.”

He enlarged the image of the medical building. “Recent thermal imaging shows multiple heat signatures inside. We believe at least some of the team may be alive. Possibly wounded. Or worse.”

The unspoken implications hung in the air, heavy and cold. Captured special operators weren’t just a tragedy; they were a catastrophic intelligence breach, a national security nightmare.

“You’ll be attached to SEAL Team 7 for this recovery mission,” Harrington said, his gaze locking with hers. “Your combat medical experience and your tactical skills make you uniquely qualified if we find survivors in need of immediate, under-fire treatment.”

Eleanor’s mind was already racing, processing the variables, the risks, the objectives. “When do we deploy, sir?”

“Tonight. You’ll meet the team at 1400 hours for briefing and equipment check.” He rose, signaling the end of the meeting. As she stood to leave, he added one last, crucial detail. “Lieutenant Jason Walker is leading the operation. He’s one of our best, but…” He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. “David Mitchell was commanding the missing team. He was Walker’s former C.O. and a close friend. This is personal for him.”

Eleanor understood the warning perfectly. Emotion was a fire that could either forge a mission or burn it to the ground.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” she said.

At precisely 1400 hours, Eleanor pushed open the door to the Tactical Operations Center. The air inside was thick with a palpable, humming tension. Five men, all dressed in desert camouflage, looked up as she entered. Their faces were hard, their eyes narrowed in the silent, swift assessment that elite units reserve for outsiders. It was the look of a wolf pack inspecting a creature it didn’t recognize.

One of them stepped forward. He was around forty, his face a testament to a life lived in hard places. Fine lines radiated from eyes that had seen too much. A jagged, silvery scar cut a path along his jawline. He carried himself with a coiled, hypervigilant stillness that never quite faded, even off the battlefield. This had to be Walker.

“You must be Reynolds,” he said. His voice was flat, neutral, but his eyes were filled with a deep, uncompromising skepticism.

“Yes, sir,” Eleanor replied, her body snapping to a crisp position of attention. “Combat Medic Eleanor Reynolds, reporting as ordered.”

Walker studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment, his gaze sweeping over her, missing nothing, judging everything. “At ease,” he said finally. “We don’t stand on ceremony here.”

He gestured to the other men, his introductions brisk and efficient. “Mark Thompson, our sniper.” Thompson, a man in his mid-forties with salt-and-pepper hair, gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. His hands, resting on the table, were steady and scarred—the hands of a man who made his living in the space between heartbeats. His piercing blue eyes seemed to be cataloging her, filing away potential weaknesses.

“Alex Ramirez, comms and intel.” Ramirez was younger, maybe early thirties, with a quick, intelligent gaze and the ghost of a smile. He offered a small, welcoming gesture. “My sister’s an ER doc. She’d like you.” It was a small bridge, but a bridge nonetheless.

“Daniel Walsh, our explosives expert.” Walsh was built like a defensive lineman, all broad shoulders and powerful limbs. His hands looked like they could bend steel, but his voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly gentle. “Good to have a real Doc with us this time.”

“And Mike Brennan, weapons specialist.” Brennan, red-bearded and stone-faced, just grunted. His expression was a closed door, making it clear he saw her as nothing more than an unwelcome complication.

Walker wasted no more time on pleasantries. He turned to the tactical display, all business. “Let’s get to it.”

The briefing was a masterclass in brutal efficiency. The target: a converted ranch in the remote Arizona desert. The enemy: approximately twenty-five hostiles, most with prior military training, likely Eastern European special forces. The compound was a fortress in miniature: barracks, training areas, weapons storage, and the medical facility where the thermal signatures gave them a sliver of hope.

“Our primary objective is personnel recovery,” Walker stated, his voice cold as steel. “Secondary objectives: gather intel on Petrov’s operation and, if confirmed, his bioweapons research.”

Eleanor’s eyes were glued to the compound schematics. Something about the layout nagged at her, a detail that didn’t quite fit. “The buildings are positioned defensively,” she observed, speaking up for the first time. “Multiple overlapping fields of fire. That’s not standard for a training facility.”

Walker glanced at her, a flicker of reluctant approval in his eyes. “Correct. They’re expecting trouble.”

Thompson, the sniper, spoke up, his voice quiet but firm. “The medical building. Reinforced walls and fewer windows than standard construction would dictate. It’s designed to contain something…or someone.”

The implication hung in the room, heavy and suffocating. If the missing SEALs were inside that building, they weren’t guests.

“Insertion is at 0200,” Walker continued, his focus absolute. “Five-mile approach on foot to avoid detection. Thompson establishes overwatch from this ridge. Ramirez, Walsh, and I will breach the compound perimeter. Brennan secures our exfil route. Reynolds, you’re with me. You’ll accompany us to the medical facility.”

She noted the arrangement. Directly under his supervision. An asset, but one he didn’t yet trust to operate independently.

“Questions?” Walker asked, his gaze sweeping the room.

“What’s our exfil plan if we locate wounded personnel unable to move under their own power?” Eleanor asked, the medic in her running through a dozen grim scenarios.

“Two options,” Walker replied without hesitation. “Primary is helo extraction from this clearing, two klicks south. Secondary is ground transport using captured vehicles to a rendezvous point here.” He tapped a location on the map. He then looked at each of them in turn, his voice turning grave. “Final note. Admiral Harrington has authorized Protocol Zulu for this mission.”

A profound silence fell over the room. Protocol Zulu. The directive was a ghost that haunted every special operator—the authorization to take any and all measures, up to and including the ultimate one, to prevent classified information or personnel from falling into enemy hands. It was a last resort, a choice no one ever wanted to make. The fact that it was being explicitly authorized from the outset spoke volumes about the stakes.

“Dismissed,” Walker concluded. “Gear check at 2000 hours.” He held up a hand as the others began to file out. “Reynolds. A word.”

Eleanor remained, standing before him as the room emptied. When they were alone, the rigid mask of the commander slipped just enough to reveal the man beneath.

“I’ll be direct, Reynolds,” he said, his voice low and intense. “I don’t care about your commendations or who your father was. Out here, reputation is something you earn, not something you carry in a file. My only priority is finding my men and completing this mission. If you slow us down, if you become a liability, I will not hesitate to send you back. Is that understood?”

Eleanor met his hard gaze without flinching. Her own resolve was a quiet, solid thing. “I understand, sir.”

He held her eyes for a moment longer, searching for something—a weakness, a crack. Then he looked away, the scar on his jaw tightening. “David Mitchell saved my life. Twice. Whatever it takes… I’m bringing him home. One way or another.”

The raw, personal cost of leadership was written in the lines of his face. She recognized the fierce, desperate loyalty in his voice. It was the same invisible thread that bound all soldiers together, the unspoken promise that you don’t leave your people behind. Ever.

“We’ll find him, sir,” she said, her voice soft but certain.

That evening, as the desert cooled and the sky deepened to indigo, Eleanor prepared her medical kit. It was a ritual, a form of meditation. Each bandage, each vial of medication, each surgical instrument was checked and placed with methodical precision, organized for instinctive access in the dark, under fire, when seconds were the only currency that mattered.

A large shadow fell over her. It was Walsh, the demolitions expert. He set a heavy case down beside her. “Thought you might want to familiarize yourself with these,” he said, opening it to reveal a neatly organized collection of wires, detonators, and diffusing tools. “If we run into IEDs, having another set of eyes that knows the basics could save a life.”

Eleanor recognized the gesture for what it was: an olive branch. An offering of trust from a member of a very exclusive club.

“These wires here,” Walsh explained, his large, powerful hands surprisingly delicate as he demonstrated a mock-up. “Most people see the red one and think that’s the one to cut. Classic movie trope. But a lot of the time, that’s a decoy. The real trigger is this little blue one, tucked underneath.”

For the next hour, he walked her through a dozen different configurations, his voice a low, patient rumble. He answered her questions without a hint of condescension. By the time they finished, Eleanor had gained more than just a rudimentary knowledge of explosive devices; she had gained a measure of Walsh’s respect.

“You catch on fast,” he said, packing the kit away.

Eleanor shrugged, a small, wry smile touching her lips. “After you’ve sewn a guy back together while mortars are dropping around you, not much else seems all that intimidating.”

For the first time, Walsh actually smiled. It was a rare sight, she suspected, and it transformed his imposing features.

Later, at the 2000-hour gear check, she found herself working alongside Thompson as he meticulously cleaned and calibrated his sniper rifle. It was a beautiful, lethal piece of engineering, and she noticed the custom modifications immediately—the specialized scope, the perfectly weighted stock.

“Schmidt & Bender PMII,” she commented, nodding toward the high-powered optic.

Thompson glanced up, a flicker of genuine surprise on his face. “You know optics.”

“My father taught me to shoot when I was twelve,” she explained, her hands busy checking the seals on her own equipment. “Said every person should know how to defend themselves. He was a stickler for good glass.”

Thompson stopped what he was doing and studied her with new interest. “Your file mentions a sniper qualification.”

“I’m no expert like you,” she said simply. “But I can hit what I aim at.”

He almost smiled. Almost. “It’s not just the equipment,” he said, his attention returning to the rifle. “It’s reading the environment. Wind, humidity, temperature, even the rotation of the earth on a long shot… they all affect the trajectory.”

“Like medicine,” Eleanor observed, the parallel striking her. “Every patient is different. You have to read the signs, feel the changes, adapt to the conditions. It’s all just problem-solving under pressure.”

Thompson considered this, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Never thought of it that way.”

The ice was breaking. Slowly, piece by piece, she was earning her place. Not with everyone—Brennan still watched her with a cold, simmering disapproval—but it was a start.

At midnight, they gathered for one final briefing. Walker had new intelligence. “Thermal shows approximately twenty-five personnel on-site,” he said, his voice clipped. “Most are concentrated in the main barracks, but we’re still seeing significant activity in that medical facility. Could be good news for our team.”

“Or very bad news,” Brennan muttered from the back, just loud enough to be heard.

Walker ignored him, his focus absolute as he ran through each team member’s role one last time, emphasizing stealth and silence until they could confirm the status of the captured operators. As he was wrapping up, the door opened and Admiral Harrington entered. The team instinctively straightened to attention.

“As you were,” Harrington said, his gravelly voice commanding the space. “I wanted to see you off personally.” He walked to the tactical display, his old, sharp eyes taking in the plan with a shrewdness born of decades of command. “This mission goes beyond personnel recovery,” he said, his tone turning heavy. “What Petrov may be developing could represent an existential threat. If he’s acquired the biological agents our intelligence suggests, the danger to national security cannot be overstated.”

The weight of responsibility in the room grew heavier, pressing down on Eleanor’s shoulders. This wasn’t just about finding lost soldiers anymore. It was about preventing a potential catastrophe of unimaginable scale.

“One last thing,” Harrington added, his voice dropping, becoming solemn and deeply personal. “Mitchell… David was my godson. Bring him home, if you can. But complete the mission. At all costs.”

The team filed out of the room in silence, each man shouldering the immense burden of those words.

At 0200, they assembled on the tarmac. A stealth Blackhawk helicopter waited, its composite blades already turning in a near-silent whisper. The night air was cool and crystalline, the Arizona sky a vast, dark velvet blanket punched through with brilliant stars. In the practiced silence of professionals, each operator performed their final checks.

Eleanor cinched her helmet, the familiar weight of her tactical vest a strange comfort. It was loaded with medical supplies, but also with the standard combat gear: a sidearm, extra magazines, a radio, water. She was both healer and warrior, a walking paradox.

Walker approached, his face half-hidden in the shadows cast by the waiting aircraft. “Ready, Reynolds?”

“Yes, sir.”

He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Your father would be proud,” he said quietly. Then, his voice hardening with resolve, he added, “Let’s go bring our boys home.”

They boarded in a single, fluid motion. As the helicopter lifted off, banking east into the immense, waiting darkness, Eleanor looked at the faces of her new teammates, illuminated in the faint green glow of the cabin lights. Walker’s grim determination. Thompson’s zen-like focus. Walsh’s quiet strength. Ramirez’s alert intelligence. And Brennan’s barely contained aggression. For some, it was about duty. For Walker, it was personal. For Eleanor, it was rapidly becoming both.

Below, the scattered lights of civilization gave way to the profound, empty blackness of the northern Arizona wilderness. A perfect place to hide something you didn’t want the world to find.

“Five minutes to drop point,” the pilot’s voice crackled in their headsets.

Final weapons checks. The metallic click-clack of bolts being seated was the only sound. Eleanor felt Thompson’s eyes on her.

“First time with the Teams?” he asked, his voice low.

She nodded.

“Stick close to Walker,” he advised, the words an unexpected offering of support. “He’s the best combat leader I’ve ever seen. He gave you a rough start, but he won’t let you down when it counts.”

“Thanks,” she replied, genuinely surprised.

The helicopter descended rapidly, hovering just feet above a small, dark clearing. No landing, no lights. Fast-ropes snaked down. One by one, the team slid down into the darkness, Eleanor moving with the same practiced efficiency as the seasoned operators. The moment her boots hit the ground, the rope was released and the helicopter vanished back into the night, leaving them in an almost absolute silence.

Walker, already on one knee, activated his night vision and gave the signal to move out. Eleanor fell into position behind him, her role as medic temporarily shelved. For the next five miles, she was simply another shadow moving through the desert.

The terrain was a brutal, unforgiving obstacle course of steep ravines, loose scree, and thorny brush that snagged and tore at their gear. But the team moved with a liquid grace, a single organism flowing over the land, maintaining a perfect, silent formation. Eleanor kept pace, her breathing controlled, her movements precise. She had trained for this. She was ready.

Two hours later, they lay prone on the ridge overlooking the compound. Below, it was a cluster of dark shapes under the pale moonlight. Thompson set up his sniper position, the rifle becoming an extension of his body as he settled behind the scope.

“I have eyes on four sentries,” he reported softly into his radio, his voice a calm whisper. “Regular patrols, ten-minute intervals. Standard military pattern.”

Walker scanned the compound through his own binoculars. Ramirez, hunched over a small tablet, worked his own brand of magic.

“Detecting wireless camera signals and motion sensors along the perimeter fence,” Ramirez confirmed. “I can loop the feeds, but only for three minutes per sector. It’ll be enough, if we time the breach perfectly.”

Walsh, the explosives expert, pointed out three potential points of entry. “Main gate is a death trap. East fence has less coverage, but it’s too close to the barracks. The south approach offers the most cover.”

“We’ll take the south approach,” Walker decided. “Thompson, you have overwatch. Walsh and Brennan, secure our exfil and be ready to create a diversion at the north end if we need it. Ramirez, Reynolds, you’re with me. We infiltrate and locate the prisoners.”

As the team began to make their final preparations, a tension coiled in Walsh’s posture. He was studying the perimeter through a high-powered scope, his expression troubled. “Walker,” he called softly. “You need to see this.”

The lieutenant moved to his side, taking the offered scope.

“The patrol patterns,” Walsh explained, his voice tight. “That’s a classic sweep formation. They aren’t just guarding the place. They’re actively hunting. They’re expecting company.”

Walker was silent for a long moment, his expression hardening into stone. “They know we’re coming.”

“How?” Ramirez whispered, the question hanging in the cold night air. “This mission was sealed tight.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” Walker replied, his voice a blade. “We adjust. Thompson, can you take out the sentries simultaneously with Brennan? South and east guards.”

“Yes,” Thompson confirmed. “West will be a problem from this angle.”

“We’ll risk it,” Walker decided, the decision made in a split second. “We stick with the south approach, but we accelerate the timeline. Thompson and Brennan, you eliminate the sentries on my mark. We breach and move directly to the medical facility.”

The team acknowledged the change, a ripple of silent assent passing between them. But as they prepared to move out, a cold unease prickled at the back of Eleanor’s neck. The mission parameters kept shifting, the threat level ratcheting up with every new piece of information. Something was wrong.

“Sir,” she asked quietly, moving to Walker’s side. “What aren’t you telling us about this mission?”

He paused, turning to study her in the darkness. When he spoke, his voice was so low it was barely a breath, meant only for her.

“The missing team wasn’t just on a surveillance run,” he admitted. “They were sent here to eliminate Petrov. The intel we had was incomplete. If he’s weaponizing Cold War pathogens here, on our soil… this goes beyond terrorism. This is a potential extinction-level event.”

The full, crushing weight of their mission finally settled on Eleanor. The extreme classification, Harrington’s personal involvement, the authorization of Protocol Zulu. It all made a terrible kind of sense.

“So our real mission,” she clarified, her voice as low as his, “is to find our men if we can, but the priority is to confirm Petrov’s work, eliminate him, and destroy his research.”

“And the air strike is already authorized for the moment we’re clear,” Walker confirmed grimly.

Before she could process the enormity of that, Thompson’s voice came through the radio, sharp and urgent. “Movement. South entrance. Vehicle approaching.”

The team froze, all eyes fixed on the compound gate. A black SUV, its headlights cutting through the darkness, pulled up. Guards snapped to attention as a figure emerged from the back seat. He was tall, thin, and moved with the careful, deliberate stiffness of an old man.

“That’s him,” Walker whispered, his voice tight with loathing. “That’s Petrov.”

Through her own binoculars, Eleanor watched as the elderly man, dressed in what looked like a white lab coat even at this hour, was escorted inside by a team of heavily armed guards. He was heading directly for the medical facility.

“Change of plans,” Walker decided instantly, seizing the opportunity. “They’re distracted. We move now. Petrov is in the facility. If our men are still alive, that’s where they’ll be.”

As they prepared to descend the ridge, the nagging detail about the compound’s layout clicked into place in Eleanor’s mind with sickening clarity.

“Sir,” she said, her voice urgent. “I think this entire compound is a trap. The obvious approaches, even the less guarded ones… look at the lines of sight. They’re all pre-sighted killing zones.”

Walker paused, his eyes sweeping the compound again, this time with her perspective in mind. His expression shifted as he saw it, too—the subtle, interlocking fields of fire, the perfectly placed funnels. He looked at her, the skepticism in his eyes finally, completely gone, replaced by stark acknowledgment.

“Good eye, Reynolds,” he said. He keyed his mic. “Ramirez, alternative approach. Now.”

Ramirez’s fingers flew across his tablet. “There’s a drainage culvert on the west side. Satellite imagery shows it runs under the perimeter fence. It’ll be a tight fit, but it’s there.”

“That’s our way in,” Walker declared. “Thompson, stay on overwatch. The rest of you, with me.”

They moved down the ridge, their steps silent and sure, toward a concrete pipe barely three feet in diameter, half-hidden by overgrown creosote bushes. One by one, they disappeared inside, crawling into the black, claustrophobic tube. Eleanor focused on the sound of her own breathing, the scrape of her gear against the concrete, the feeling of the cold, damp air. Inch by inch, they moved deeper under the wire.

After an eternity, they reached a heavy metal grate. Walsh, at the front, examined it with a penlight, then produced a set of specialized cutters. With painstaking, silent precision, he snipped through the rusted bolts.

“Ramirez first, then Reynolds, then me,” Walker whispered. “Walsh, Brennan, you hold this position. This is our exfil route.”

They squeezed through the opening, emerging into the compound’s blind spot behind a row of storage sheds. The medical facility stood fifty meters away, a squat, ominous building with light glowing from its few small windows. Guards patrolled the perimeter, but their attention was focused outward, their eyes scanning the dark desert beyond the walls, waiting for an attack that was already inside.

“Walker, all clear from my position,” Thompson’s voice whispered in their ears. “You’re in their blind spot. Wait.” A pause. “Movement at the med facility entrance. Two guards escorting someone inside. Can’t confirm ID.”

“We move now,” Walker decided. “Ramirez, loop the cameras. Reynolds, on my six.”

With the fluid precision of a predator, they moved through the shadows, from one patch of darkness to the next. Eleanor’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her body was a machine, her senses cranked to their absolute limit. They reached the side entrance, a plain steel door. Walker flattened himself against the wall beside it while Ramirez attached a small, humming device to the electronic lock. Seconds stretched into an eternity. A tiny light on the device blinked from red to green.

Ready! Walker mouthed, holding up three fingers.

Eleanor and Ramirez nodded, weapons raised.

Two.

One.

The world exploded.

But the explosion didn’t come from them. It came from the opposite side of the compound—a massive, ground-shaking detonation, followed by the familiar, brutal chatter of automatic weapons.

“We’ve been compromised!” Thompson’s urgent voice screamed through their comms. “Multiple hostiles, north ridge! They’re using our diversion plan against us! It’s an ambush!”

Alarms began to shriek across the compound, a piercing, synthetic wail of discovery.

Walker didn’t hesitate. “Breach now!”

He kicked the door open and they plunged inside, weapons leading, only to find themselves in a perfectly orchestrated nightmare. The sterile white hallway was lined with armed guards, at least a dozen of them, all with their weapons trained directly on the doorway. On them.

At the far end of the hall stood Petrov, a thin, triumphant smile playing on his aged lips.

“Lieutenant Walker,” he called out, his Russian accent thick and syrupy. “We have been expecting you. Your friends… they have been quite informative.”

From a room behind Petrov came a sound that turned Eleanor’s blood to ice. It was a low, pained moan, the sound of a man who had been taken past the limits of human endurance and left to suffer in the dark.

“Drop your weapons,” Petrov commanded, his voice cold and amused. “Or you can watch your comrades die. One by one.”

Walker’s face was a mask of stone, but Eleanor could see the furious calculations churning behind his eyes—assessing odds, searching for an escape route that didn’t exist. They were trapped, outgunned, and utterly exposed. Outside, the firefight intensified. Thompson’s voice came through again, broken and desperate. “Walker… an ambush… they’re everywhere…”

In that single, critical moment, as the world seemed to slow down, Eleanor’s medic’s eye caught a detail the others might have missed. The guards. All of them were wearing subtle but distinctive breathing apparatuses—thin, clear masks that covered their noses and mouths.

“Biological containment,” she whispered to Walker, the words barely audible. “They’re protected from something airborne.”

A flash of understanding lit Walker’s eyes. Whatever horror Petrov had been cooking up in this lab, whatever he had done to the missing SEALs, it was something you could breathe.

As Walker slowly raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his finger brushed against a specific spot on his tactical vest. It was a nearly invisible movement, a ghost of a touch, activating the emergency signal for Protocol Zulu.

The ground rumbled, another explosion, this one much closer. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling tiles. Petrov’s smile never wavered.

“Your government’s persistence is admirable, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “But I’m afraid you are too late. The tests are complete. The specimens are ready for deployment.” He gestured to a lab visible through a large glass partition. On shelves inside stood rows of gleaming metallic canisters. “Your friends provided excellent data on American immunological responses.”

“You won’t make it out of here alive, Petrov,” Walker said, his voice a blade of ice.

“On the contrary,” the old Russian replied, his smile widening. “I believe it is you who—”

The wall behind them didn’t just break; it ceased to exist. A deafening roar and a concussive blast of raw force threw Eleanor off her feet. Her ears rang, her vision swam in a sea of gray smoke and swirling dust. Through the haze, she saw two massive shapes charging through the newly created breach. Walsh and Brennan, their rifles barking in controlled, devastating bursts, cutting down the disoriented guards.

In the heart of the chaos, Eleanor scrambled toward Walker, who was already struggling to his feet, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead.

“The prisoners!” he roared over the gunfire. “Find them!”

Eleanor didn’t need to be told twice. She moved down the hallway, past the fallen guards, toward the rooms where Petrov—who had vanished in the confusion—had been standing. The hallway was a charnel house of smoke, cordite, and death. Her medic’s instincts screamed at her to triage the wounded, but her tactical training screamed louder: complete the mission.

She kicked open the first door and found them.

The sight stole the air from her lungs. Three men, strapped to hospital beds, their bodies emaciated and covered in grotesque, weeping lesions. Wires and tubes connected them to a bank of humming monitors. They were barely recognizable as the elite warriors they had once been. One of them, his skin pale and waxy, turned his head at her entrance, his eyes widening with a flicker of recognition at the flag on her shoulder.

“American…” he whispered, his voice a dry, rasping sound.

“Yes,” Eleanor replied, her voice thick as she knelt beside him, her fingers automatically going to his wrist to check for a pulse. “U.S. Army. We’re getting you out of here.”

His hand, skeletal and weak, closed around her wrist with surprising strength. “No,” he rasped, his eyes burning with a desperate urgency. “Escape. We’re… infected. Protocol Zulu.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. The full, monstrous horror of their situation crashed down on her. These men hadn’t just been tortured. They’d been used as living incubators. Human test subjects.

“Walker!” she yelled into her radio, her voice cracking. “Found three survivors! Medical bay, east side. They’re infected with an unknown pathogen. Need immediate extraction and full containment protocols!”

Only static answered her. The comms were down.

She started working on the man’s restraints. “What did they use on you? What is it?”

“Modified… hemorrhagic fever…” he managed, each word an agony. “Airborne… genetic targeting… They called it… Red Death.”

Outside, the battle raged. Eleanor moved to the other two men. One was unconscious but his vitals were stable, if terrifyingly weak. The third had no pulse. He’d been dead for hours.

The door to the room burst open. Eleanor spun, her sidearm coming up, then lowered it as Walker appeared, his uniform torn and his face smeared with blood and grime.

“Status?” he demanded.

“Two alive, one KIA,” she reported, her voice flat and professional, a shield against the horror. “They’ve been exposed to an engineered pathogen. Petrov was using them as test subjects.”

Walker’s face, already a mask of grim determination, darkened further. “Can they be moved?”

Eleanor hesitated. “Moving them risks spreading the contagion. Without proper containment—”

“Not an option,” Walker cut in, his eyes darting toward the hallway. “This whole facility is wired to blow. Thompson spotted a countdown timer. We have less than seven minutes to clear the area.”

The wounded SEAL, the one who had spoken, struggled to sit up. “Walker… leave us,” he coughed, a spray of blood speckling his lips. “Complete the mission. Can’t risk… spreading it.”

Walker knelt beside the man, a look of dawning, agonizing recognition on his face. “Davis?” he choked out. “Jesus, Davis.” For a split second, his voice broke. “Where’s Mitchell?”

“Dead,” Davis rasped. “Two days ago. The others… separate facility. Don’t know where.”

Walker’s radio crackled to life, a voice cutting through the static. It was Ramirez. “Lieutenant! We’ve secured the lab! Found research data and samples! Petrov is attempting to escape—helo on the north pad!”

Walker looked torn, his gaze flicking from the dying men who were his brothers, to the hallway that led to the man responsible for it all.

“Go,” Eleanor said, her voice firm, making the decision for him. “Stop Petrov. I’ll handle the evacuation.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the impossible choice warring on his face. Then he nodded. “Five minutes to the extraction point. Or we leave without you.”

“Understood.”

As Walker vanished down the smoke-filled corridor, Eleanor turned back to the two survivors. “I’m getting you out of here,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

“No,” Davis shook his head weakly. “Too dangerous… We’re contaminated.”

Eleanor was already pulling emergency isolation equipment from the cavernous pockets of her medical pack—specialized, reinforced body bags designed for the containment of contaminated personnel. “I’m not leaving anyone behind,” she stated, the words a promise, a creed. “That’s not how we operate.”

As she wrestled to secure Davis in the heavy-duty containment unit, the building shook with another powerful explosion. Time was bleeding away. Through the grimy window, she could see the firefight still raging across the compound. In the distance, she heard the whine of a helicopter taking off—Petrov making his escape.

With a final, desperate surge of effort, she managed to get both men sealed into the containment bags. The unconscious SEAL, Torres, was dead weight, over two hundred pounds of limp muscle and bone. Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes, as she dragged them one by one into the hallway. The smoke was thicker now, acrid and choking. At the far end of the corridor, she could see the flickering orange glow of flames.

“Need extraction assistance!” she yelled into her radio, hoping someone could hear. “Medical bay hallway, east entrance!”

She had barely dragged them ten feet when the wall beside her exploded inward. The force of the blast threw her across the hallway like a rag doll. A supernova of pain erupted in her shoulder as she slammed into the opposite wall. Through a swimming, blurry haze, she saw armed men pouring through the new breach. More of Petrov’s forces.

Eleanor drew her sidearm, her hand shaking from the impact, and fired, scrambling backward to shield the containment bags. Two men went down, but more were coming. Just as she thought she was about to be overrun, a colossal shape materialized out of the smoke behind the attackers. It was Walsh. He charged forward like an avenging angel, his rifle barking in controlled, precise bursts, dropping the remaining hostiles before they even knew he was there.

“Reynolds!” he shouted, rushing to her side. “You hit?”

“I’m good,” she gasped, though her shoulder felt like it was on fire. “Help me with them!”

Walsh slung his rifle and grabbed the drag handles of the heavier bag. “Biological containment?” he asked, recognizing the gear.

“Yes! Full protocols! Don’t breach the seals!”

They moved as one, half-running, half-stumbling through the collapsing, burning facility. Ceiling panels crashed down around them. Electrical wires sparked and hissed. The heat was becoming unbearable. They burst out into the chaotic courtyard just as the rising sun began to cast long, bloody shadows across the scene of the battle. Bodies lay scattered across the ground amid burning vehicles. Above them, two helicopters were locked in an aerial dogfight—Petrov’s escape chopper being pursued by a military attack helicopter that had arrived as reinforcements.

“Extraction point!” Walsh yelled over the din, pointing toward the western perimeter where Ramirez was waving frantically from a breach in the fence.

They staggered across the open ground, painfully exposed. Bullets kicked up dust at their feet as the last pockets of resistance fired on them. From his high perch, Thompson’s rifle cracked, and the threats were silenced, one by one.

A specialized Blackhawk was touching down just beyond the fence, its rotors whipping up a storm of dust.

“Move! Move! Move!” Walker shouted from the open door, laying down a stream of covering fire.

With a final, lung-bursting effort, they dragged the bags through the fence and toward the waiting helicopter. A HAZMAT team rushed forward, quickly and expertly securing the contaminated SEALs inside the aircraft’s specialized mobile containment unit.

“Petrov?” Eleanor gasped as Walsh hauled her aboard.

Walker’s face was grim. “Got away. For now.”

The helicopter surged upward. Thompson, sprinting from his now-abandoned sniper nest, made a desperate leap, and was hauled aboard by Brennan and Ramirez just as the chopper banked sharply away from the inferno. Through the window, Eleanor watched as a series of massive, secondary explosions ripped through the compound, consuming everything in a raging firestorm. Protocol Zulu, executed to perfection. No evidence left. All contaminants neutralized.

Walker collapsed into a seat beside her. For a long moment, they sat in silence, the roar of the helicopter filling the space between them. Finally, he extended a hand.

“You did good back there, Reynolds,” he said, his voice raw. “Really good.”

Eleanor took his hand. The simple handshake, firm and solid, conveyed more respect than a thousand words. “Thank you, sir.”

“Those men would be dead without you,” he continued, his gaze distant. “I’m recommending you for the Silver Star.”

She shook her head. “Just doing my job, sir.”

Walsh folded his massive frame into the seat opposite them. “Hell of a job, Doc,” he said. He gestured toward the containment area. “They gonna make it?”

Eleanor considered the question, the medic in her resurfacing. “Too early to tell. Depends on what, exactly, Petrov used on them. But if anyone can save them, it’s the team at Fort Detrick.”

As the helicopter raced toward the rising sun, the weight of what they had accomplished, and what they had failed to do, settled upon her. Petrov was still out there. And he had his weapon. This battle was over, but the war had just begun. The adrenaline began to fade, and a bone-deep exhaustion swept over her. She closed her eyes, letting the vibration of the helicopter lull her into a state between waking and sleep. For now, they had done what soldiers do. They had brought their people home.

Three days later, Eleanor sat in a sterile white hospital room, her left arm in a sling, her ribs taped so tightly it hurt to breathe. Dislocated shoulder, three cracked ribs, multiple shrapnel wounds. The doctors had wanted to keep her for weeks. She had given them one day.

Admiral Harrington entered, his face drawn, the lines around his eyes carved deeper than before. “Davis will live,” he said, wasting no time on pleasantries. “The other SEAL, Torres, is still critical, but he’s stable. Your actions with the containment protocols saved their lives. And potentially thousands more.”

A wave of profound relief washed over Eleanor. “And the pathogen, sir?”

“Worse than we thought,” Harrington said, his voice grim. “Initial analysis confirms it’s a modified hemorrhagic fever, but it’s been genetically engineered to target specific DNA markers. Petrov wasn’t just building a weapon, Reynolds. He was designing a virus that could target specific ethnic groups while leaving others completely untouched.”

The clinical description of industrialized genocide sent a chill down her spine. “The canisters Petrov escaped with…”

“At least six are unaccounted for,” Harrington said, moving to the window and staring out at the scrubby hills of the classified base. “Intel is working every angle, but he’s gone completely dark.”

“What about Walker’s team?” she asked.

“Already prepping for the next phase. Walker specifically requested you remain attached to his unit.” Harrington turned, his penetrating gaze locking onto hers. “He said you proved yourself beyond any reasonable expectation.” Coming from Walker, it was the highest praise imaginable. “Davis has been lucid in short bursts. He provided critical intel. Petrov has a secondary facility, somewhere near the Mexican border.”

Eleanor was already processing, her mind shifting back into mission mode. “When do we move?”

A faint, wry smile touched Harrington’s lips. “You’re on medical leave for two weeks.”

“With respect, sir, we don’t have two weeks. Those canisters could be anywhere.”

The admiral nodded, unsurprised. “Briefing is at 0800 tomorrow. Medical will clear you for limited duty.” He started for the door, then paused, his hand on the knob. “He’d be proud, you know. Your father. He had that same stubborn refusal to stay in a hospital bed when there was a job to do.”

After he left, Eleanor forced herself to her feet, ignoring the screaming protest from her shoulder and ribs. She looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman looking back was different. Harder. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. A new, thin scar traced a line along her jaw. The mission had changed her, reforged her in ways she was only just beginning to understand. She closed her eyes, and saw the ravaged faces of Davis and Torres. Whatever it took, this had to end.

The next morning, the briefing room was a place of quiet, focused intensity. Walker stood at the tactical display, his own face a mask of fatigue and unwavering resolve. Thompson, Walsh, and Ramirez were there, their gazes serious. Even Brennan gave her a nod that bordered on respect as she took her seat.

“Satellite imagery has identified three potential locations for Petrov’s secondary facility,” Walker began, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “All within twenty miles of the border.”

Ramirez pulled up thermal imagery. “This site shows the most promise,” he said, indicating an old, abandoned mining operation. “Regular supply deliveries, consistent power usage, and heat signatures indicative of lab equipment.”

Walker turned to Eleanor. “Davis mentioned something about the delivery system. Specialized drones, capable of dispersing the pathogen over populated areas.”

Eleanor’s mind flashed back to the lab. “The canisters I saw… they were about the size of a fire extinguisher. Ideal for drone deployment. They had specialized nozzles designed to aerosolize the contents.”

“That fits,” Walker said grimly. “Intel has intercepted communications suggesting a ‘demonstration’ of the weapon is scheduled within the next seventy-two hours.”

The room went cold.

“Our mission,” Walker declared, “is to locate that facility, identify the target of the demonstration, and shut it down. Permanently.”

As the meeting concluded, Walker pulled her aside. “Medical says you shouldn’t be in the field.”

“I’m ready, sir.”

He studied her face, the new scar, the determination in her eyes. “This is going to be worse than the last one, Reynolds. Petrov knows we’re coming now. He’ll be ready.”

“So will we,” she replied.

That night, Walsh appeared at her door. He handed her a small metal case. Inside was a customized Sig Sauer P226, its grips modified for smaller hands.

“Noticed your standard issue was a bit unwieldy,” he said, almost shyly. “Thompson zeroed the sights himself. Said to tell you it was the least he could do.”

The weight of the weapon in her hand felt perfect. It was more than a tool; it was a symbol. She was no longer the outsider. She was one of them.

At 0400, they were airborne again, two teams in separate Blackhawks, streaking across the pre-dawn sky. Eleanor’s team—her, Walsh, and Ramirez—was heading for the abandoned mine.

“Approach will be challenging,” Ramirez explained over the thrum of the rotors. “Canyon walls limit our insertion options. We’ll have to rappel down.”

Eleanor studied the thermal scans again, a familiar unease prickling at her. “These readings… they’re inconsistent with a lab. It looks more like… incubation chambers.”

“You think he’s growing the pathogen on-site?” Ramirez asked, his eyes wide.

“It’s possible,” she said. The thought was terrifying.

They rappelled down the sheer canyon wall as the first light of dawn bled across the horizon. Her injured shoulder screamed, but she pushed the pain down, converting it to focus. The facility below was silent. Too silent.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered as their boots touched the canyon floor. “This place looks like it’s been deserted for months.”

They found the entrance to the main mineshaft, a dark maw leading into the earth. Inside, the air was still, but there was a faint current, a sign of a ventilation system. They moved deeper, their lights cutting through the oppressive darkness, until they reached a heavy, reinforced steel door.

“Recent installation,” Walsh noted. “I can bypass it, but it’ll take time.”

While he worked, Eleanor noticed the ventilation filters. “They’re filtering the air going out,” she observed. “Containment. They were working with live agents.”

The door swung open, revealing a sterile, white corridor, an alien environment in the heart of the mountain. Beyond it, they found what they were looking for: a fully equipped, modern laboratory. It was deserted.

“Check the computers,” Eleanor ordered Ramirez, as she moved to the humming refrigeration units. Inside, she found them: rows upon rows of vials, filled with a dark, viscous fluid. Samples. Dozens of them.

“Oh, God,” Ramirez breathed from the computer terminal. “These are test results. Human subjects. These trials… they date back months.” He looked up, his face pale with horror. “He was testing the variants on migrants captured crossing the border.”

A cold, pure rage burned through Eleanor. “Download everything,” she ordered, her voice tight. “Every file. Then we burn this place to the ground.”

Walsh had found another door, this one protected by a biometric scanner. “Can’t bypass this one,” he said.

“Then we breach it,” Eleanor said, all finesse gone.

The controlled explosion shattered the lock, and they pushed into the true heart of the operation: an automated production facility. Huge fermenters bubbled with the dark pathogen. An assembly line was filling the same type of canisters she’d seen before.

“It’s all automated,” she realized with a dawning horror. “That’s why no one is here.”

Walsh was at the control panel. “The whole place is on a timer. Final batch completion is set for…” He trailed off, his face going ashen. “Six hours from now.”

The demonstration was imminent. On a large wall map, a single location was blinking red: Fort Huachuca. The Army’s main intelligence and drone operations center.

“I’ve found the target,” she said grimly.

“Can’t raise Walker’s team,” Ramirez cursed, trying the radio. “Something’s jamming us.”

“Walsh, rig this place to blow,” Eleanor ordered, making a split-second decision. “Ramirez, help him. I’m going topside to alert Command.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Ramirez protested.

“I can move faster on my own,” she snapped. “Meet me at the exfil point in thirty minutes.”

She took the data drive and sprinted back through the tunnel, her wounded body screaming in protest. She burst into the daylight and tried her radio. Static. She tried again, moving to higher ground. Still nothing.

Then she heard it: the high-pitched whine of an approaching drone. It wasn’t a surveillance craft; it was armed. She fired, clipping a rotor, then fired again, and it exploded. But more appeared, at least six of them, sleek black machines armed with small missiles.

She scrambled for cover, returning fire, knowing she couldn’t win. She had to draw them away from the mine entrance, to give Walsh and Ramirez a chance. “Surface is hot!” she yelled into her radio. “Multiple armed drones! Get out now!”

“Roger that!” Walsh’s voice crackled back. “Ten-minute timer! We’re on our way!”

Eleanor broke cover and ran, zig-zagging across the canyon floor, the drones in hot pursuit. A missile exploded behind her, the concussion wave throwing her to the ground. She rolled, got up, and kept running. She ducked into a dilapidated stone mining office just as another missile struck where she’d been.

Through the window, she saw Walsh and Ramirez emerging from the mine. The drones immediately shifted focus. Seeing her chance, she took careful aim and dropped the one that had been targeting her. But her position was exposed, and now she heard the sound of approaching vehicles. Reinforcements.

She burst from the building, running toward her teammates. They were laying down covering fire, but they were outnumbered, outgunned. She was twenty meters away when the bullet hit her. A white-hot, searing pain exploded in her left thigh. She stumbled, cried out, but forced herself to keep moving. Ten meters. Five.

Walsh reached her, scooping her up in his powerful arms as if she weighed nothing and carrying her behind a large boulder.

“Extraction is five minutes out!” Ramirez yelled, laying down suppressive fire.

Walsh applied a quick pressure bandage to her leg. “Clean through. You’re lucky.”

She almost laughed. “Bigger problems,” he said grimly. “Those charges are going to blow in about three minutes.”

They were pinned down, with more enemies arriving, and the entire mountain was about to come down on top of them. “The ridge,” Eleanor gasped, pointing. “It might shield us.”

Walsh didn’t hesitate. He threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and ran. Ramirez followed, walking backward, his rifle spitting fire. They reached the base of the ridge with seconds to spare.

“Thirty seconds!” Walsh yelled. “Heads down!”

They huddled behind the rock as the world ended. The explosion was beyond massive. The ground bucked and heaved. A wave of scorching heat washed over them. When they looked up, the mine, the canyon, the enemy forces—it was all gone, replaced by a smoking, collapsing crater.

The extraction chopper appeared through the dust cloud. As Walsh helped her to her feet, Eleanor knew. Petrov would know his facility was gone. He would accelerate his timeline.

The real battle was about to begin.

The command center at Fort Detrick was a hive of controlled panic. Walker’s team had been compromised. He’d been captured.

“Petrov moved up the timeline,” Admiral Harrington announced, his face a grim mask. “The demonstration is in nine hours.”

Ramirez, analyzing the data Eleanor had recovered, pointed to the screen. “He’s targeting three locations simultaneously. Fort Huachuca, Kirtland Air Force Base, and… Control Point Alpha.”

“That’s the Southwest Border Patrol Center,” Eleanor said, the pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity.

“Our priority has to be stopping the attack,” Harrington said, his voice heavy. “We cannot risk millions of lives, not even for Walker.”

The cold calculus of command. The needs of the many. But Eleanor couldn’t accept it. “With respect, Admiral,” she said, forcing herself to stand, her wounded leg screaming. “I believe we can do both.”

She laid out the plan: a surgical strike. Use the recovered data to hit Petrov’s headquarters while a main force created a diversion. Hit him where he least expected it, while he was distracted, preparing for his triumph.

Harrington studied her, then gave a single, decisive nod. “Who do you want on your team?”

“Walsh, Ramirez, and myself,” she answered without hesitation.

“You’re injured, Reynolds.”

“So was Walker when he carried me through gunfire in Mosul,” she shot back. “It didn’t stop him.”

A flash of something—memory, respect—crossed the Admiral’s face. “Very well. Wheels up at 2200. Bring him home, Reynolds. And stop that attack.”

Two hours later, they were in the air, flying low and fast through the darkness. Eleanor, her leg numbed and bandaged, reviewed the schematics of Petrov’s ranch house headquarters. The diversion began precisely on schedule, a storm of noise and fury miles away. Under the cover of that chaos, their team slipped through the perimeter wall.

They moved like ghosts through the compound, neutralizing the skeleton crew left behind. They breached the basement, where Walker was being held. They found him strapped to a chair, beaten but unbroken.

“About damn time,” he rasped, a bloody smile on his lips.

“The drones,” he said urgently, as Ramirez cut him free. “They’re in the main hangar. He’s launching them now.”

Just then, Walsh’s voice came over the radio. “You need to see this.”

In a nearby lab, a countdown timer on a monitor showed less than thirty minutes. “He moved up the timeline,” Walsh said. “The diversion spooked him.”

They fought their way to the hangar, bursting in to a scene of frantic activity. Petrov stood at a control console, shouting orders as technicians prepped three large drones for launch. The hangar roof was already retracting, opening to the night sky.

“Kill them!” Petrov shrieked, and the hangar erupted in a storm of gunfire.

“Cover me!” Walsh yelled, charging toward the first drone, a small explosive charge in his hand.

Eleanor laid down a stream of fire, her MP7 kicking against her good shoulder. She saw her opening and sprinted for the second drone, ignoring the fire in her leg. She slapped a charge on it and rolled away.

She looked up. The third and final drone was already lifting off, the canister of death secured beneath it. In a desperate, adrenaline-fueled leap, she jumped, catching hold of its landing strut as it rose toward the open roof.

She dangled twenty feet in the air, one hand holding her weight, the other fumbling for her last charge. She slapped it onto the drone’s housing, set the timer for ten seconds, and let go.

She hit the concrete hard, a fresh wave of agony tearing through her leg. On the ground, the first two drones exploded. She looked up just as her charge detonated, sending the third drone plummeting back to the hangar floor in a tangle of ruined metal.

The battle turned. Walker, armed and moving with a cold fury, circled behind Petrov.

“Walker, no!” Eleanor cried out, her voice lost in the din. “We need him alive!”

Whether he heard her or not, he adjusted his aim. A single shot, and Petrov went down, clutching his leg, alive but neutralized.

Moments later, the hangar was flooded with friendly forces. The threat was over.

As a medic worked on her leg, Eleanor watched Walker oversee Petrov’s capture. He walked over to her, his own face a testament to the hell he’d been through.

“Looks like I owe you one,” he said, his voice rough.

“Just returning the favor,” she managed, a weak smile on her lips.

They loaded her onto a medevac helicopter. Through the open door, she could see the first hints of dawn painting the eastern sky. A new day, bought with blood and courage. She closed her eyes, the exhaustion absolute. The war wasn’t over. But this battle, against all odds, was won. And she was no longer an outsider. She was home.