League Main Office Building - Washington D.C., United States

"What the hell do you mean they turned?" Doyal spoke into the phone, walking down the hall with two military security personnel escorting the newly promoted General, Doyal Houston.

"They just did... I'm sorry, sir. I thought I could talk your nephew out of it, but it turns out he didn't take it well," McKenzie replied over the phone, his arm in a brace from a recent injury.

"Yeah, I could tell. Which bone did he break?" Doyal asked as they stopped at the elevator, pressing the button and waiting.

"My arm... I have to say, he really reminds me of you when we were in Vietnam," McKenzie said, glancing at his cast.

"Well, what do you expect? He's mostly my nephew—it runs in the family, I guess," Doyal replied as the elevator arrived. His group stepped in, and they pressed the button for the upper floor as the elevator began to ascend.

"So, what's the plan? How are you planning to get them home? General Reyes received the report from Sobel and several other high schoolers who claim to have contained the traitors," Doyal asked.

"Well, we both know Houston and the others are hard to track down, especially with the match still ongoing. I'd say get me more men because we both know how dangerous your nephew and the others are—especially the kids who survived the Dallas Incident," McKenzie said.

"Right... I'll speak to the League President or my wife to give you a blank check for this operation. Just get those kids home, now," Doyal said, hanging up the phone.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing a polished corridor that led to the Chairwoman's office. General Doyal Houston walked briskly with purpose, his military escorts falling back as he approached the door. He pushed it open without knocking, a familiar action in this space.

Inside, his wife, Delia Houston, sat behind a large oak desk, surrounded by neatly stacked papers and a tablet displaying messages from concerned families. She was focused, pen in hand, going over letters intended for the families of the children involved in the Tomodachi Island match.

Delia glanced up as Doyal entered, momentarily surprised but softening as she saw him. "Doyal," she greeted him warmly, setting down her pen, "I wasn't expecting you."

Doyal closed the door behind him, his expression serious. "We need to talk, Delia. It's about Don and Red."

Delia's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Don and Red? What about them?" She leaned back in her chair, clearly taken aback by the mention of their nephews. "Don't tell me they've done something reckless again. This isn't like them."

Doyal sighed, taking a seat across from her. "That's the problem. They've both turned. Sobel and the others claim they've gone rogue. It's a shock, even to me. Something about this whole thing doesn't feel right."

Delia blinked, her surprise deepening. "Rogue? What do you mean, 'turned'? What exactly have they done? I can't believe they'd betray the League. Not after everything they've been through."

"Neither can I," Doyal admitted, leaning forward, his hands clasped together. "But the reports are saying they've taken sides with a group of other kids. Some of those kids survived the Dallas Incident. You know how that shook everyone, especially Don. But even so, this... this feels different. It doesn't add up."

Delia frowned, her gaze dropping to the letters in front of her. "You think there's more to this, don't you? That they're being hunted... for a reason that we're not seeing?"

Doyal nodded slowly. "I've been in this game long enough to smell when something's off. My gut tells me this isn't just a matter of a few rebellious kids. Why would they turn their backs on the League? And why are they being targeted so aggressively? These aren't random students we're talking about. It's Don and Red. They've always been soldiers. They know better."

Delia's face softened, conflicted. "Don and Red—they've always been close to us. Don idolized you, and Red... well, Red has always been the quieter one, but still loyal. Something must have pushed them to do this. You're sure they're not just caught up in some misunderstanding?"

Doyal sighed again, shaking his head. "I don't know. McKenzie thinks it's because they're dangerous—survivors of the Dallas Incident, trained, and not easily controlled. But that's not enough reason to hunt them down like this."

Delia bit her lip, picking up one of the letters. "I've been writing to the families, reassuring them that the League has everything under control, but now... now I'm not so sure." She looked at Doyal. "What if the League knows something we don't? What if this goes deeper?"

Doyal paused for a moment, thinking. "That's exactly what worries me. I'll talk to the League President about it, but I need you to keep an eye on things from here. If something's going on that they're not telling us, you might be able to spot it. They trust you."

Delia leaned forward, concern etched on her face. "And what about Don and Red? Are you really going to hunt them down?"

Doyal's expression hardened. "If it comes to that, I'll find them myself. But not to take them in. I need to hear from them directly. Until I know what's really going on, I can't let anyone else make that call."

Delia reached across the desk, placing her hand over his. "Be careful, Doyal. If there's anyone who can get through to them, it's you. But don't forget, they're not just soldiers—they're family."

Doyal squeezed her hand gently. "I know. And that's why I can't let anyone else make a mistake we'll all regret."

Doyal stepped outside the building, needing a break from the intense discussions and the pressure mounting around the Tomodachi Island match. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of impending rain. He looked up at the cloudy sky, gray and foreboding, and it reminded him of a time long ago—a simpler time back in Texas, on the family ranch.

Houston Family Ranch, Texas - Many Years Ago

Doyal, just a teenager, was sitting with his younger brother Vince on the porch of their family's ranch. Their father, Andrew Jackson Houston, had been retired for a few years by then. Once a proud senator, Andrew had traded in the politics of Washington for the quiet life on the ranch. His face, weathered from years in the public eye, now bore the deep lines of a man who had lived through both triumph and loss.

It was a late summer evening, and the sky had the same heavy, brooding clouds that Doyal now saw in Washington. He could still picture the soft rustling of the trees and the distant mooing of cattle. It was a rare moment when Andrew sat with both of his sons, talking about their family legacy—one they were just beginning to understand.

"You boys ever think about your grandfather?" Andrew had asked, his voice deep and thoughtful, eyes staring out over the ranch. Doyal and Vince sat quietly, waiting for their father to continue. "Sam Houston was a great man. A hero to Texas. But you know what made him great wasn't just what he did on the battlefield or in politics."

Vince, always curious, had asked, "What was it, Dad?"

Andrew smiled sadly, running his hand over the worn wood of the porch railing. "It was his sense of duty. To this land, to the people he served, and to his family. He wasn't perfect, God knows, but he did everything he could to leave something behind for all of us. A legacy. And that legacy's not in the statues or the streets named after him. It's in us."

Doyal had listened quietly, absorbing the weight of his father's words. He didn't fully understand it at the time, but he could feel the responsibility pressing down on him even then.

Andrew continued, his voice thickening with emotion. "Your mother used to tell me that the Houston name wasn't just something to wear with pride. It's a burden, too. People expect you to live up to it, and you don't always get to make your own way." He paused, his gaze faraway. "I miss her, boys. Every day. She understood me like no one else. And sometimes I wonder if this—this ranch, this life—is enough without her."

Doyal had never seen his father so vulnerable before. He had always been a pillar of strength, but in that moment, he was just a man grieving the loss of the woman he loved. Vince had shifted awkwardly, unsure how to comfort their father, but Doyal had reached out, placing a hand on his father's arm.

"We miss her too, Dad," Doyal had said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Andrew nodded, swallowing hard. "I know. And that's why I'm telling you this now. You've got to hold on to each other. The Houston name might open doors for you, but it'll close them too. People are going to want to see you fail, to see if you're as strong as your grandfather. As your mother." His voice cracked on the last word.

Vince had finally spoken up, his voice trembling. "We won't let you down, Dad. We'll make sure people remember the name the right way."

Andrew had smiled at that, a glimmer of pride shining through his sadness. "You two are my legacy now. And whatever happens, wherever life takes you, don't forget that."

Present Day - Washington D.C.

Doyal stood in the street, rain beginning to fall in soft droplets as the memory faded. His heart ached, both for the weight of his family's name and for the sense of loss he'd felt that day on the ranch. His father had passed a few years after that conversation, and now Doyal was the one bearing the responsibility of the Houston legacy.

The same sky that had witnessed his father's pain now loomed over him as he faced his own troubles. Don and Red—his nephews, his family—were out there somewhere, maybe fighting against everything he believed in, or maybe just trying to survive in a world that had turned against them. He couldn't tell anymore.

As the rain started to fall harder, Doyal sighed. His father's words echoed in his mind: "You've got to hold on to each other."

But how could he hold on to Don and Red when they were slipping away.

As the rain continued to drizzle down, Doyal hesitated, glancing at his phone. The screen lit up with the caller ID: Colonel Stevens. He sighed and answered, his voice heavy with the weight of the moment.

"Colonel," Doyal said, keeping his tone formal.

"General Houston, sir," Colonel Stevens' voice came through, sharp and focused. "I need you at the League President's rally. It's happening right now with the U.S. President in attendance. We need your presence."

Doyal sighed inwardly. Of course, they would want him there. He had little choice. "Understood. I'll be there shortly."

He hung up, his mood darkening. The political side of things always irked him, especially when it was entangled with his family's name. He quickly made his way back to the motorcade that had been waiting nearby, and within minutes, he was en route to the rally.

League President's Rally – Washington D.C.

The rally was packed, filled with supporters of the American Tankery League, politicians, and military personnel. Banners hung everywhere, celebrating the League and its so-called heroes. The crowd buzzed with excitement as Doyal arrived, making his way to a reserved seat among high-ranking officials.

The United States President stood at the podium, flanked by the American flag and the insignia of the Tankery League. His voice was calm, calculated—a man used to addressing large crowds. Doyal listened as the President praised the League and its accomplishments, emphasizing how the Tankery sport had become a symbol of American resilience and strength.

"We owe much to the Tankery League," the President declared, his voice booming across the audience. "It represents the very spirit of American ingenuity, pride, and courage. And today, I'm proud to announce that the United States government will be providing the League with surplus military equipment. We're talking M60 tanks, armored personnel carriers, even modern communication systems—all to keep the legacy of American Tankery alive and growing."

The crowd erupted in applause. Doyal sat stoically, clapping politely but inwardly unimpressed. He had heard similar promises before, always political, always tied to some greater agenda.

As the President wrapped up his speech with the usual patriotic fanfare, the League President took the stage. Doyal knew this man well—charismatic, powerful, and willing to use any means necessary to maintain the League's dominance.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the League President began, his voice filled with emotion, "we stand at a crossroads. Our beloved sport, our national pride, is under threat. Not just from external forces, but from within."

He paused for dramatic effect, scanning the crowd. "It pains me deeply to say this, but some of our best and brightest, heroes of the Dallas Incident—Don Houston, Jaylon Graham, Albert Muller—have turned against us."

The crowd murmured in disbelief, shock spreading like wildfire.

"These young men, once symbols of our strength, have betrayed everything we stand for. They've aligned themselves with those who would see our way of life destroyed—namely, the America Tankery Association and the Sensha-Do Federation High School teams from Japan." His voice grew louder, filled with righteous indignation. "We cannot, we will not allow this treachery to go unpunished!"

The audience roared in agreement, the tension palpable in the air. Doyal clenched his fists in his lap, his stomach twisting.

The League President continued, pacing the stage with fervor. "We will bring them back, we will bring them to justice, and we will ensure that the America Tankery League remains the greatest force in Tankery. We will crush our enemies, whether they be traitors or foreign competitors. This is a battle for the soul of our nation's sport, and we will win."

He ended his speech with a flourish, raising his arms as the crowd leapt to its feet in a standing ovation. "May God bless the United States America."

The words echoed in Doyal's ears as he remained seated, watching the fervor around him. The League President's speech reminded him too much of the speeches he'd heard years ago during the Gulf War. Back then, he was just a Major, listening to similar promises of victory, glory, and patriotism. They had been empty words then, just as they felt empty now.

Tomodachi Island

Ben sat casually on the side of Maho's Tiger I, flipping through the pages of his book, seemingly oblivious to the cold stares from Uncle Sam's and Edison's High Boys as they rumbled along. The tension between him and the other American Tankery teams was palpable, but Ben, ever unbothered, just adjusted his position and kept reading. The ride to Hoja City had been smooth, though the atmosphere among the soldiers was far from it.

As they neared the city, Erika's Tiger II drove up beside Maho's tank, her face tense as she glanced at Ben before turning to Maho. The two commanders began to speak through their radios.

"Commander, are you sure we can trust this Yankee?" Erika asked, her voice full of suspicion as she pointed at Ben, who still hadn't looked up from his book.

Maho gave a small sigh, understanding Erika's concerns. "What choice do we have? Don ordered him to watch over me. He wouldn't send him if he didn't trust him."

Erika frowned but remained silent, still not fully convinced. Before the conversation could continue, Johnathon's voice came over the comms.

"Hey, girls, we're here," Johnathon announced.

Ahead of them, Hoja City loomed, its tall buildings with their countless glass windows glistening in the dimming light. It was the same cityscape Maho remembered, and despite everything, it brought a small smile to her face.

The joint high school team from both the America Tankery Association and the Sensha-Do Federation rolled into the city, attracting the surprised glances of other schools. Tanks from Montana, Virginia, Saunders, and St. Gloriana littered the streets, and their commanders gathered as the unexpected arrivals of their friends caused a stir.

Kay, Rivers, and a few others rushed over, visibly shocked. Rivers was the first to speak, her voice full of surprise as she spotted Maho and the others. "Johnathon, I thought you guys were prisoners!"

Johnathon, still seated on his tank, gave a small shrug. "We were... until there was a mutiny."

"A mutiny?" Kay echoed, clearly taken aback.

"Yeah," Johnathon replied. "Most of the boys in the League who didn't like how we weren't getting a harsher punishment turned against us. Commander Houston, Graham, Muller, Wesley, and Elijah—they were the targets."

Maho nodded in agreement, her expression turning somber. "It's strange, isn't it? Their own comrades betrayed them. We weren't sure what was going to happen until we were freed by one of the Rangers. He told us to leave—quickly."

Miho, standing beside Maho, looked troubled. "Why would they do it? Betray their own commanders like that?" She shook her head, still grappling with the reality of the situation.

Katyusha chimed in with her usual bluntness. "Seems like chaos is brewing in the League. Are you sure this isn't part of some bigger plan?"

Johnathon looked around the group before answering. "No one knows for sure, but one thing's certain—we were meant to be punished, and those boys wanted blood. It wasn't going to stop until someone stepped in."

The group stood in tense silence, absorbing the gravity of the situation. The betrayal within the League, the mutiny, and the mysterious orders—it was all leading to something bigger. Something they couldn't yet see.

Ben, still sitting on the tank, turned another page in his book, offering a casual remark. "It's like a chess game, isn't it? Everyone's just moving their pieces around, trying to see who makes the first mistake." He glanced up at the group for the first time, his eyes sharp behind his casual demeanor. "And trust me—there are plenty of mistakes to go around."

As Rivers pointed out Ben, her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she noticed him wearing the Davy Crockett medic uniform. "Wait, why is he with you guys?" he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

Maho glanced at Ben before responding, "Well, he was ordered to watch over me by Commander Houston."

Ben, without looking up from his clipboard, casually replied, "Damn right. I wouldn't disappoint my boss, so here I am. And no, I'm not a prisoner—I'm a doctor. Don't expect me to give you guys any more information than that."

Kay crossed her arms, clearly not buying it. "Right..."

Maho, realizing the awkwardness in the air, decided to change the topic. "Speaking of which... where's Edward?"

"He's at the war room," Rivers explained. "He was drawing up plans on how to get you guys out, but seeing you here changes everything." Before she could finish speaking, Edward's voice rang out from behind them.

"Maho!" Edward called, running towards her. He embraced her tightly, and the two hugged for a moment, the tension between them easing.

"Are you alright? Did they do anything to you?" Edward asked, pulling back to look her over, concern evident in his voice.

"I'm fine, Edward, really. It was scary at first, thinking they'd interrogate me, but they didn't get the chance," Maho reassured him.

Edward nodded but still looked worried. "Okay, but what about the baby?" he asked softly.

Maho smiled, placing her hand on her stomach. "The baby's fine."

Edward frowned slightly, still not fully convinced. "Just to be sure, I brought Samuel to check on you," he said, and with that, Samuel appeared, wearing his Uncle Sam High medic uniform.

Maho tried to wave it off, though, her voice firm but light-hearted. "Edward, I'm really fine. Their own medic already checked me out."

"Who?" Edward asked, his confusion growing. Just as the words left his mouth, he saw Ben flipping through a clipboard, reading off Maho's medical reports and notes on her anxiety.

Ben and Samuel locked eyes, and at the same time, they both exclaimed, "OH HELL NO!"

Ben glared at Samuel, clearly agitated. "I should've known you'd be here, you son of a bitch!"

Samuel threw his hands in the air, his irritation just as evident. "Same to you, Ben! I should've expected you to turn up!"

Miho, standing off to the side, blinked in surprise and whispered to Johnathon, "Um... why are Samuel and Ben arguing?"

Johnathon smirked and leaned in to explain. "Well, let's just say back in the States, we had this 'Best Medic' award assembly between the League and the Association. Samuel won first place while Ben got second. Ben didn't like that too much, especially when Samuel taunted him about it. It led to a huge brawl between the Davy Crockett boys and the Uncle Sam boys. After that mess, neither organization ever hosted the award ceremony again."

Miho stifled a giggle, understanding now why the two medics were at each other's throats. "Sounds like they've got some unresolved issues."

Johnathon nodded. "Yeah, and this isn't the first time they've clashed. Those two? They could start a fight in a quiet room."

Ben and Samuel, still glaring daggers at each other, escalated their argument rapidly.

"I'm the best medic, Ben!" Samuel declared, puffing out his chest. "I saved more lives during the  finals than you ever did in those cushy Davy Crockett matches."

Ben rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Please, Samuel. I'm a licensed surgeon, and I earned that at eighteen. What've you got? A first-aid certificate?"

Samuel's face turned red as he shot back, "Oh, so now you're gonna throw your precious little license around? Big deal, you probably got that because no one wanted to tell you no after you whined about losing first place."

Ben pulled out his wallet, flipping through it until he triumphantly held up his official surgery license. "See this?" he waved it in front of Samuel's face. "This is hard-earned, Samuel. You can take your field bandages and your 'participation' trophies and shove them where the sun doesn't shine!"

"Oh, is that so?" Samuel growled. "The only thing you're good at is stitching up egos, Doctor. I heard about the time you passed out during a simulation exercise! And now you're sitting on a tank reading a book while the rest of us actually work."

Ben's eyes narrowed. "At least I know how to read medical journals instead of just watching YouTube tutorials, Mr. First Place. Tell me, how many surgeries have you performed? Oh, wait—you don't even know how to hold a scalpel."

Samuel smirked. "You know what, Ben? You talk a lot for someone who couldn't even handle a basic amputation."

"Say that again, Samuel. I dare you," Ben warned, his hands balling into fists.

Samuel sneered. "Fine! You're nothing but an overrated medic, Ben, and the only reason anyone respects you is because your precious Commander Houston made sure no one else stood in your way!"

That was the last straw. Ben dropped his clipboard, lunging at Samuel just as Samuel took a step forward, fists clenched, ready to throw down.

"Alright, enough of this!" Edward shouted, rushing in with his guys as they quickly intervened, pulling the two medics apart before they could start swinging.

"Calm down, both of you!" one of Edward's boys yelled as he held Ben back.

Johnathon grabbed Samuel by the shoulders. "C'mon, man, take a deep breath. You're both acting like kids!"

Ben, still fuming, struggled against the grip of Edward's boys. "He started it!"

Samuel, just as angry, shot back, "No, you started it with your license nonsense!"

Edward stepped between them, his voice commanding. "I don't care who started it—both of you need to stop. We've got bigger problems to worry about than who's the best medic. You're professionals, so start acting like it."

The room was tense for a moment, both medics still glaring at each other, until Ben grudgingly muttered, "Fine. But I'm still better."

Samuel crossed his arms, scowling. "Whatever."

Edward, Rivers, and Johnathon gathered around Ben, still eyeing him with suspicion after the near-brawl with Samuel. Their faces turned serious as Edward crossed his arms, his voice low and steady.

"Alright, Ben," Edward said. "Now that we've settled that little argument, I think it's time you tell us what's really going on. Where are the rest of your boys? Where's the League High School team?"

Rivers nodded in agreement, leaning in. "You can't expect us to believe you're the only one here. What's the play, Ben? Where are they?"

Ben, still rubbing his temples after the heated exchange with Samuel, glanced at each of them before letting out a long breath. He closed his book and set it aside, resting his hands on his knees. His usual laid-back demeanor shifted slightly as his eyes hardened.

"Hiding," Ben finally said, looking up at Edward, Rivers, and Johnathon.

"Hiding?" Johnathon raised an eyebrow. "That's all you're gonna give us?"

Ben shrugged. "That's all I can give you. They're scattered around the island. We were ordered to lay low, keep our heads down."

Edward's brows furrowed. "Ordered by whom? Houston?"

Ben shook his head, his expression unreadable. "Houston's off the grid for now. There's a bigger problem at hand. You're not the only ones hunting them down."

The confusion in the room was palpable as the three commanders exchanged looks. "What do you mean by that?" Rivers pressed. "Who else is after them?"

As the tension simmered in the room, the scene shifted, transitioning to another part of Tomodachi Island, far from the calm of Hoja City.

On the west side of the island, in an abandoned and crumbling high-rise building, the League High School had set up a temporary safehouse. Inside a dimly lit room, the sound of heavy breathing and the rattling of chains echoed off the walls. A young boy, one of Houston's former comrades who had betrayed him, sat tied to a chair, his wrists bound tightly with rope, his face bruised from the light torture he had endured.

Standing before him, with an intense look in his eyes, was Graham, dressed in his rugged military fatigues. His expression was cold, unyielding, as he looked down at the boy. Beside him, Albert Muller was calmly recording the entire scene with an old-fashioned Walkman, the tape turning with a steady whir.

Graham had taken the role of persuader. With the truth serum already coursing through the boy's veins, he leaned down to face him. "It's going to hurt a lot less if you just cooperate," Graham said in a low voice. "You're in deep already. We just want answers."

The boy whimpered but remained silent, his eyes darting between Graham and Muller, sweat dripping down his brow. He wasn't used to this level of intensity, and the fear in his eyes betrayed him.

Muller, holding the Walkman, stepped forward. "We're recording everything. You understand that, right?" His voice was calm but calculating, almost cold. "This tape is going to someone important, so the sooner you give us what we need, the sooner you walk out of here."

Graham, not waiting for a response, slowly inserted a syringe filled with the truth serum into the boy's arm, the needle puncturing his skin. The boy winced, biting his lip.

"Now," Muller continued as the truth serum began to take effect, "Let's start with something simple. Where are the others? Where's the rest of the League team hiding?"

The boy's eyes fluttered for a moment before he groaned, his muscles relaxing against the restraints. He opened his mouth, his voice trembling. "They... they're on the east side... the old shipyard... near the docks."

Graham exchanged a glance with Muller, who nodded subtly. The interrogation was yielding results.

"Good," Muller said. "Now tell us... why did you betray Houston? Why did you turn on him?"

The boy's face paled, his lips quivering. "I didn't... have a choice... I swear... They threatened us... said if we didn't comply, they'd... they'd make our families suffer."

Graham's expression softened for a split second, but then he hardened again. "Who are 'they'? Who's giving the orders? The League?"

The boy hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yes... but... but there's someone else... someone higher. I don't know who... but they're controlling everything. They're the ones pulling the strings."

Muller, still recording, leaned in. "Who are they working with?"

The boy looked up at Muller, fear glimmering in his eyes. "I don't know their names... but they're not just from the League. There are military types... black ops... people from outside the island."

Graham clenched his fists. "And why Houston? Why target him and the others?"

The boy swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "Because... Houston's dangerous. He knows too much. They can't afford to let him live."

Outside the interrogation room, Houston stood with his arms crossed, his expression hard as he watched through the glass window. The boy tied to the chair inside looked worn down, his head slumped forward, but Houston's mind was elsewhere, trying to piece together the mystery of why someone wanted him dead. He could handle the League trying to punish him for his choices, but this felt larger—like something else was moving in the shadows.

Just then, the door behind him opened, and Muller entered the observation room, quietly stepping up beside Houston. "We got what we needed," Muller said, his voice low as he placed the Walkman on the table. "But there's something off, Commander. This isn't just about Dallas. This group, whoever they are, seems to have a specific interest in you."

Houston glanced at Muller, his brow furrowed. "Why? What would they gain from taking me out? I've made my enemies, sure, but this is a whole new level. None of this feels right."

Muller nodded. "It's not just you, though." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Graham and I—we're targets too. The kid gave up more under pressure. They're gunning for all of us."

Houston's confusion deepened. "Why us? We've already left the League behind. What's their angle here?"

Before Muller could respond, Graham entered the room, wiping his hands with a rag. "The kid coughed up more," he said, his tone cold and professional. "He's scared out of his mind, but there's no doubt—whoever's behind this isn't just looking for revenge on you, Houston. It's bigger. He doesn't know who's pulling the strings, but it's clear: you, me, Muller—we're all in their crosshairs."

Houston's mind raced. The League had powerful backers, but this felt like more than a vendetta for past actions. Something darker. Something orchestrated.

"He doesn't know much else," Graham added, shaking his head. "But he was clear about one thing—they're not stopping until we're out of the picture. Permanently."

Houston frowned, the pieces of the puzzle not quite fitting. He turned to Graham, his voice quiet but firm. "Get Sergeant Dean. Take the prisoner to the 'Train Station.'"

Graham gave him a curt nod and left the room without question. Muller's eyes followed Graham as he left, then shifted back to Houston. "You sure about this?"

Houston's eyes narrowed. "We need to send a message."

---

Later that night, under a heavy sky filled with stars, the hum of an idling Humvee broke the quiet. Sergeant Dean sat behind the wheel, his face illuminated by the dashboard lights, clad in his Ranger uniform. The prisoner, still bound but now seated beside him in the passenger seat, seemed relieved that Houston had decided to let him go. The road they traveled was desolate, winding through a rocky landscape far from any prying eyes.

"Thanks, man," the boy muttered, his voice shaky but grateful. "I really thought you guys were gonna... you know. But Houston's a good guy, right? He's letting me go."

Dean said nothing, his face unreadable as he drove toward a remote cliffside that overlooked the dark waters below. The only sound was the tires crunching over gravel as the Humvee came to a stop. Dean killed the engine, and the silence felt oppressive. He stepped out of the vehicle, the cool night air brushing against his face, and moved to the back to grab the boy's few belongings.

The boy, still confused but compliant, shifted nervously in his seat as Dean tossed his bag over the edge of the cliff. It disappeared into the darkness below, and a faint splash could be heard as it hit the water.

"Hey," the boy said, his voice shaking now with confusion. "What the hell are you doing? This isn't the train station. Where are we?"

Dean turned to face him, his eyes cold and distant. He walked over, opened the passenger door, and pulled the boy out by his collar. The boy stumbled, looking around in a panic. "Where... where are we going? This... this isn't right!"

Dean's voice was low and emotionless as he spoke. "It is. Welcome to the Long Black Train."

The boy's eyes widened in horror as the realization dawned on him. He barely had time to plead before Dean pulled out his pistol, a standard-issue sidearm that gleamed in the moonlight. There was no hesitation. Dean leveled the gun at the boy's head and pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed through the night, sharp and final. The boy's body crumpled, lifeless, to the ground. Dean stared down at him for a moment, his face blank, then gave the body a slight push with his boot, sending it tumbling over the edge of the cliff into the black waters below.

Dean holstered his weapon, his breath visible in the cool air. There was no satisfaction in his expression, only the grim reality of a soldier carrying out orders.

As the water below absorbed the body, Dean turned back to the Humvee and climbed into the driver's seat. He started the engine and drove off into the night, leaving no trace of what had transpired.

In the distance, the faint sound of waves lapping against the rocks was the only sign that anything had happened at all.