First of all, special thanks to @Radouglass4 for support on writing this chapter.

And now, before delving into this chapter, there's a few notes I need you all to read:

If I'm not mistaken, this is the longest chapter yet. I started writing, and I just couldn't stop. There were a lot of unanswered questions within the story thus far, and I needed to make sure I got all of them. There's a lot of detail, and I tried to make it as descriptive as possible so you can best understand the backstory that is the Mexico op.

Be advised, this is also the darkest and the grittiest content I've written— more so than anything in Chapters 6-13. There is M-rated language, violence, gore, torture, and rape (not explicit, because I don't write explicit sexual content). I've put some warnings in for some of the heavier content, but reading around ultimately destroys context. Besides, I have a feeling there's going to be something I could slap a warning on that I didn't, and I can't cater to everyone.

Like I said at the very beginning, Operation Holiday Cheer is a very serious story, with darker themes and an attempt at as much realism as possible—in this instance the dangerous and morally dubious realities of espionage and war.

If you cannot handle this, DO NOT READ THIS. I can't stress this enough. I'll try to figure out something with Chapter 28 for any potential skippers. Reader discretion is SERIOUSLY advised here.

And on that note, here is the Mexico op that kicked off this entire story... YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Ciudad Juárez

Chihuahua, Mexico

MI6 Safehouse

Ben POV (nightmare)

"You could not live with your own failure. And where did that bring you? Back to me."

Once again, I found myself in front of the driving cause of it all. The man whose manipulation and evil rivaled al-Qaeda: Joshua Hallal. Shrouded in darkness, it was so easy to slip back into the memories. The gunfire, the blood, the dust, the screams, the pain.

And yet, I resisted. It was nothing more than remembrance of a dead man.

"Oh, you actually think I'm dead?" he maliciously chuckled, reaching out towards me. I tried to back away, but I couldn't budge, allowing him to grab the front of my shirt and press a knife to my throat.

But not just any knife... it was that knife... the one stained with blood... the same one he used when he had me tied up in that chair.

'Come on, Ben!' a mysterious voice suddenly shouted. 'Fight it! Fight it!' I tried to resist, but to no avail. All my strength left my body, and I felt myself slowly black out as the voice of encouragement faded away.

"Oh my... you still think you're the innocent one here. You continue to resist. How pathetic. Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we? Let us remember... Mexico..." Hallal whispered before he put the knife away and began to choke me out. I wanted to resist, but my body was limp. Deprived of oxygen—or whatever it was you breathed in a dream—darkness and hallucination took me.

Third Person POV (flashback)

It all began simply enough. At least, as simple as it could get when the CIA was involved.

SPYDER was fractured after multiple consecutive blows, courtesy of Ben Ripley and his troupe of friends. Now, after disappearing for several months, SPYDER personnel were spotted working with the Sinaloa Cartel in Chihuahua, Mexico.

The information came from a team of MI6 officers already in Mexico, who were hunting down their own target: Adrien Dubois, an arms dealer connected to numerous terror attacks in the UK, including those by al-Qaeda and NIRA. However, beyond illegal arms deals, Dubois was also responsible for robberies, murders, and narcotics and extortion rackets. All this made him one of the most wanted men by Interpol and Europol. As it turned out, Dubois was not only dealing with the cartel, but the SPYDER operatives as well.

Discussions occurred and decisions were made, with orders passed down to initiate Operation Fox Hunt. The objective? To capture all high-value targets present. If the HVTs couldn't be captured, they would have to be killed. They would leave "in restraints or in body bags," according to Cyrus Hale, and failure was not an option.

A team of CIA officers and junior officers—students of the CIA's Academy of Espionage—were deployed to Mexico. The team consisted of Cyrus, Alexander, and Erica Hale, Ben Ripley, Mike Brezinski, Zoe Zibbell, Chip Schacter, and Jawa O'Shea. They went under the cover of a school field trip, with Cyrus and Alexander acting as the chaperones.

On May 22nd, 2014, the team arrived at Aeropuerto Internacional de Chihuahua General Roberto Fierro Villalobos, where they were picked up by a pair of local taxi drivers paid off by the MI6 team. They were taken to Delicias, where they switched vehicles. The taxi drivers disappeared into the night, while the CIA team was driven to the MI6 safehouse by a pair of officers: Catherine Hale and John Fletcher. Upon arrival, they were introduced to the other two members of the British team: Connor Davies and Simon Wright.

None of the British batted an eye at the six children sent by the Americans to assist. Why, one may wonder? Simply put: all four had gone to MI6's School of Intelligence. Upon completion of studies at the School, Catherine had become an intelligence officer whilst Fletcher, Davies, and Wright took the paramilitary option, becoming United Kingdom Special Forces operators, serving in the 22 Special Air Service Regiment, Special Reconnaissance Regiment, and 18 Signal Regiment, respectively. They would serve several tours of duty—including some to Iraq and Afghanistan—before returning to MI6.

Anyhow, the British officers were fairly confident in their intelligence. Dubois was traveling with a small crew, consisting of logistical and financial personnel and a security element, which in total was no more than twenty-seven people. Dubois was meeting with Javier "El Toro" Rebolledo, who oversaw everyone and everything cartel-related in Juárez, and he operated with total impunity. The local police were compromised by the cartel, with those that weren't bought off ending up blackmailed or murdered. According to Wright, it was so bad, "you have a better chance of running into an SAS operator in America than an honest officer here."

Finally, the British discussed the HVTs the CIA was dying to get its hands on: Leah Ellison, Omar al-Assad, and Harlan Newsom, all of whom were members of SPYDER command, confirmed by the MI6 team to be in Juárez.

However, the issue was that this was all they knew. They didn't know where the SPYDER safehouse was, how large their security element was, etc. All the Britishers were able to determine was that the three were here and dealing with Dubois and Rebolledo.

The kids—being some of the Agency's top authorities on SPYDER, oddly enough—had one objective: blend into the background and collect information, which they managed to do masterfully. Ironically, Chip and Mike were the ones to gather the most viable intel, despite the fact that Chip preferred to fight rather than gather intel (and often regrets joining the Agency, due to this) and Mike was... well, the new kid. Furthermore, while Mike had some grasp of Spanish, having listened to his older brother practice for classes, Chip was horrible at foreign languages.

Though, he continually insisted that he does speak languages other than English: pistol, shotgun, and rifle ("Includin' bolt-action and semi-automatic dialects! And, I've dabbled in a bit o' carbine and machine gun!" he joked). Jawa and the former UKSF operators were amused.

Nobody noticed Alexander and Catherine in the background, actually agreeing on something. It's not as if their divorce was a nasty one—it was sad, more than anything else—but it still left them divided on several issues. It also left both of them with holes in their hearts that were never healed.

There wasn't any trace of their actual relationship repairing—both, even Alexander, understood that the mission came first—but they were of the same mind in regards to safety. Juárez was a dangerous city, no place for the children—one of whom was their daughter.

They never voiced their concerns to the rest of the team, or to their superiors. And yet, they still discussed in private. Catherine only learned of the mostly-minor CIA team when they were airborne, and Alexander had reservations ever since his briefing at Langley. In Juárez, what emerged were parental instincts as mother and father thought of ways to ensure the kids' safety. Catherine wanted the children to flat-out leave the country, or at least stay in the safehouse. Alexander wanted the kids to have an incognito security detail, or at least sniper overwatch.

Catherine's plans would jeopardize the mission, whilst Alexander's plans required more personnel. Instead, they encouraged the kids to move only under the watchful eyes of one of the adults. Cyrus objected, stating that Juárez was large, and there was a lot of area to cover.

It was a stereotypical standoff: one side of the argument cared for the personnel, the other side cared for the mission. Hollywood has consistently told us that the latter is the evil element, but the fact of the matter is that both have their points. In this instance, Cyrus was right that they needed to take down SPYDER before they could do more damage, but Catherine and Alexander were justified in asking how far the team was willing to go.

Ultimately, none of Catherine or Alexander's plans would be enacted. Intel gathering proceeded, with the ex-spouses watching nervously, praying that the kids wouldn't be consumed by the dangerous city.

They continued to fail in terms of learning more about the SPYDER operatives, with the only actionable intel being that they were, in fact, in the city. There was success, however, in tagging three members of Dubois's security/support personnel—the ones that were always tailing Dubois, according to Fletcher. They tracked them with the assistance of American ISR (intelligence, surveillance, reconnaissance) assets.

Finally, on June 6th at 0300, Davies had picked up word of a certain location: a small warehouse south of Juárez, in an area that was practically deserted. The Frenchman and the SPYDER operatives were going to be there at 2300 on June 7th, exchanging arms for money and drugs. Even better, the cartel wasn't going to be around.

It was cliche, but the intel was solid. Cyrus made the decision to move in, hard and fast, in a direct action operation. After some communications with Langley, Cyrus was able to get additional ISR assets on station (including a satellite that had to be repositioned to support the op).

He had all of the adults kit up: Daniel Defense MK18s, SIG Sauer P228s, M67 frag grenades, M18 smoke grenades, M84 stun grenades, AN/PVS-21 night optical devices, extra magazines, plate carriers, battle belts, comms equipment, and more. They even had an M249 Paratrooper ("Para" for short), AKMs, and some other "party favours" in the vehicle if shit were to hit the fan. Granted, the AKs might seem out of place in a US/UK operation, but they were there for the team to use when they didn't want a target or witnesses to think that the assaulters were Americans or Britishers.

Though, of course, the concern was mainly for the sake of the Americans, given that Mexico was not at war with the US, the two are in close proximity, and the fact that Americans are more associated with firearms than their cousins from the UK. Britishers argue about biscuits versus crumpets, whilst Americans argue about ARs versus AKs (AR means "ArmaLite Rifle," NOT "assault rifle").

Second Amendment... hell yeah.

Anywho, the kids and Alexander were left behind. It is no surprise that the kids were left behind, but Alexander was shocked. He had improved, and he argued that a team of five wouldn't be enough for their assault on the warehouse. He had a gut feeling that the warehouse was a trap. It was cliche, after all.

Furthermore, he insisted that the entire team go—the kids would stay concealed in the second vehicle while the adults assaulted the building and grabbed the HVTs. And, should shit roll downhill, the kids could even act as a QRF (quick-reaction force).

Cyrus, as expected, denied his objections, ordering him to stay behind. He saw his son as a liability, more likely to hit a friendly than an enemy. He made it very clear to the kids that, should the safehouse be raided, it had armor, helmets, comms gear, and weapons.

And before you ask, Cyrus found "micro plate carriers" that were not only light, but perfect for some of their smaller team members (i.e., Zoe).

While there were other weapons cached, Cyrus had requisitioned MP5SD-N2s (complete with foregrips, tactical flashlights, holographic sights, and slings) for the kids.

Fun fact: Alexander initially suggested some sort of AR-15 pistol chambered in 5.56 mm for the kids. However, Cyrus got MP5s instead. They were a little lighter, a little easier to operate, and had a little less recoil—not like 5.56 is too much for a kid to handle, but that 9-mil in an SMG or AR platform is even easier (also, due to someone in the armory screwing up, there weren't any ARs to requisition).

Furthermore, in the words of Cyrus, "it may be shooting a pansy 9-mil, but these kids haven't done shit in combat apart from get their asses kicked or retreat. Most of 'em don't have a damn clue what they're doing, and when they fall back on fear and forget their training—and end up doing something stupid like fire in full auto—I'm willing to bet an SMG's more forgiving than an AR. An idiot could pick this thing up and survive as long as the ammo doesn't run out."

That last bit, of course, was directed at Alexander, whose frustration was evident in that moment. And yet, it didn't truly manifest or transform into an outburst. He simply nodded, wishing everyone but his father good fortune on the assault. What nobody noticed was that Catherine nearly spoke up for her ex-husband. Furthermore, she even came close to volunteering to stay behind herself—motherly instinct, after all. And yet, she didn't. Instead, she did something that was noticed: she gently squeezed his hand, rubbed her index finger on his wrist, and said, "be safe, Alex."

Erica, Cyrus, and the Brits noticed, but chose not to comment. By 2100, the assaulters had loaded up and driven off to grab the HVTs...

Catherine POV (flashback)

I was silent the whole drive from our safehouse in eastern Juárez, staring at my Toughbook laptop (courtesy of the CIA) as I wondered what I just did—it was a little ritual Alex and I had, something I always did when he left for work. He often said that he never understood my concern, saying his job wasn't that bad. I never responded to that statement. But, I hadn't done this little ritual ever since we were married.

It was a different time then: Alex didn't know my profession, just that I worked for the British government (he figured that part out, at least). We were young, having only recently graduated from our institutions, and new parents.

We met in Germany at a hotel in early 1995, where I was staying due to some work with the Bundesnachrichtendienst (BND—Federal Intelligence Service). Alex's shoelaces had come undone in the dining area, making him trip into me with a glass of champagne. He paid for the cleaning of my dress and dinner, oh-so-politely, if I may add. A week later, I tripped while coming down a staircase in the same hotel, and nearly broke my neck in the process. Of course, Alex caught me, holding me in the same manner that a groom would hold his bride.

"I guess you really do like me, considering that you fell for me, Miss Parker!" he joked. I subsequently began laughing like a maniac, despite the fact that I probably would've been badly hurt had he not caught me.

A pickup line later, and I agreed to have dinner with him that night—as payment for his favour. It was quite enjoyable.

Two days later, we had dinner again, which led to wine in his bedroom, where I ended up staying for the night. I left in the morning, and this continued for a month, as I got to know the tall, handsome, blue-eyed man.

And no, he never bedded me throughout our time at the hotel together, though we came very close on numerous occasions (I had to replace some underwear). He did steal several kisses, however. I'd snogged boys at the School, but Alex was my first man, and... well, he was a very good kisser.

He left the hotel before I did—claiming that his vacation was over, and he had to return to America—and he took a bit of me with him, despite the fact that we both agreed that some sort of long-distance relationship wouldn't work. It was ultimately a fling. I felt sad it was over, though.

But then, I saw him again in London months later. He was working with MI6 (which I knew, as I noticed him walking with some officers through the MI6 Building from afar). Two days after this sighting, I tripped into him in Piccadilly Circus.

No, it wasn't on purpose.

He said he was in Britain on a business trip. I didn't indicate that I knew otherwise (though I will admit, I would have bought his lie had it not been for the sighting). One thing led to another, and we began dating and... fornicating. Eventually, we eloped, and in 1997, Erica was born. We lived in Virginia for a time. Things were going well, and we were happy. But, of course, things fell apart, resulting in the divorce that exists today.

The worst part? I couldn't even remember why we divorced in the first place. Something along the lines of us just not making time for each other. All I knew was that I regretted it, as I ultimately let go of two of the best things that happened to me: Alex and a proper life together with our daughter.

I missed many things: his warmth, his laugh, his ability to come up with silly jokes, his hugs, waking up in his arms... and yet, my head won over my heart. I was convinced it was for the best.

Which is why I found myself ultimately wondering: why did I do our ritual, if I thought our divorce was the best thing? Why did I keep my married name, rather than revert to my maiden one? Were these old feelings coming out of hiding too late, or were these feelings that were still valid and true to my heart?

I didn't have time to answer the question, because we arrived at our destination. Or rather, 1.5 kilometres west of the warehouse. Wright had gone off-road, concealing the car in a convenient section of hill and trees.

"Okay, Fletcher and Davies with me. We'll breach on the west side. Wright, you establish overwatch, facing the north side of the building. The road runs east-to-west, and the warehouse only has entrances on the north and west sides of the building. Use the ridgeline for cover," Cyrus ordered. "Catherine will stay with the car and be the TOC (tactical operations centre), since we're executing radio silence with the safehouse. Now, what's the word on our HVTs?"

"Well, we already know that Dubois is arriving first. The SPYDER team will arrive at 2300, but Dubois is arriving at 2245. Assuming a margin of error of fifteen minutes, we should be ready for our Frenchman a quarter of an hour early," I replied, before checking my Toughbook. "Okay, trackers are still active, and they appear to be holding their position in the city."

"Don't forget, lads, we need him alive," Fletcher stressed as he and the rest of the men donned their helmets, PVS-21s attached. "Oh, and the SPYDER blokes too. Four prisoners, minimum."

"Rog'," the rest of my colleagues replied in unison. To amplify his response, Davies pulled out one of the "party favours": a Remington M870 shotgun, complete with bean bag rounds.

"Nab our X-rays, stack the rest. No problem, Leftenant," the former sergeant replied, making his fellow operators let out a short laugh.

I was quite glad they were on our side.

"Catherine, remember that we're Havoc. I'm 1, Fletcher is 2, Davies is 3, and Wright is 4. Objectives are Kingpin, Widow, Recluse, and Zebra, representing Dubois, Ellison, al-Assad, and Newsom, respectively. Questions? ... Okay, let's move," Cyrus ordered. The men dismounted with their gear while I moved to the driver's seat.

"Oi, Catherine!" Wright said before I closed the driver's side door. "Watch your arse, yeah?"

"Check. Shoot straight, Simon," I replied before the former corporal lowered his NODs and began his lone march to his sniper position, L129A1 in hand.

Yes, I know the DMR (designated marksman rifle) is American-made (specifically by Lewis, Machine, and Tool Company), along with the carbines we're using.

As Chip put it (much to the amusement of Alex), "you say you're better n' us, but y'all are relyin' on American rifles! Once again, we're the arsenal o' democracy, huh (we were called that despite bein' a constitutional republic... oh well)?"

I replied that the American South drinks a lot of tea—which the British brought over. He refuted that southerners did drink tea, but it was drunk "the proper way" ("the American way")—ice-cold and sweet, unlike the "pompous metric leaf water" we drank in England.

I gave up at that point. Chip could really banter, especially when defending the honour of his homeland.

I pulled up a program my Toughbook, giving me a live feed of the area, courtesy of American ISR assets (a drone, if I remember correctly). The beacons on Dubois's people stayed put in the city, and I could see four blips—the IR (infrared) strobes that marked my colleagues and former father-in-law as they approached their set points.

Soon, they had reached their positions. Now, all we had to do was wait for our quarry to arrive...

Wright POV (flashback)

During my time in special forces, I became qualified as a sniper, learning both how to be the spotter and shooter. This, however, is only the third time I can recall having to act as both simultaneously.

"Buddy system, my arse," I grumbled as I made my way up the hill overlooking the warehouse, which was around 200 metres away. "Then why am I trudging up a pile of dirt in Mexico alone?"

"Havoc, this is TOC. Radio check, over," Catherine called over the radio, her voice filling my ears.

"TOC, this is 4. Have reached the ridgeline, establishing overwatch at this time," I groaned as I got into a prone position, setting up my DMR and equipment.

"TOC, this is 1. We're about half a klick from the target. Will send traffic when we are closer," Cyrus replied, his whisper loud and clear thanks to the throat mics we were using.

"Roger, 1. Out."

Thankfully, I didn't have to zero my scope again, having taken care of it prior to leaving the safehouse. I checked other factors: humidity, wind, the exact distances to the target, etc. Granted, I was only 300 metres (317.5 to be precise) from the target—a distance at which a marksman didn't need to worry about such problems, but I felt that it didn't hurt to be too careful. We were about to capture one of the most wanted men in Europe.

I wanted that bastard dead, especially since he murdered some friends of mine, but orders were orders: bring him back alive. I pushed those thoughts away, focusing instead on the present. I raised my NODs and peered down my scope, whose night vision capability was thankfully better than the equipment attached to my helmet.

"Havoc-4, this is Havoc-1. We are 200 metres from the target. Do you have eyes on our strobes?" Cyrus asked. I shifted myself, turning my rifle towards my right until I found three strobes on my scope, their owners kneeling in a thick patch of shrubbery.

"Affirmative, 1. I have eyes on," I replied. "Target building is clear at this time. TOC, are you picking up anything on ISR?"

"Negative, Havoc. ISR shows nothing except for you," Catherine responded after a brief moment of silence.

"Roger, TOC. Havoc-1, you are cleared to the door."

"Good copy, 4. Moving," the old American whispered as he led Fletcher and Davies across the Mexican landscape before they finally stacked up alongside the wall of the warehouse, slowly advancing towards the door. After a few moments, from what I could tell, Cyrus took his left hand off his carbine's foregrip and made a fist, lightly tapping it against his head: breacher up.

Fletcher came forward and, after checking the door for possible booby-traps, tried opening the door. When this failed, he pulled out his lock-picking equipment. After an agonizingly long thirty seconds of the assault team being exposed, Fletcher successfully unlocked the door. He then pushed it in and stood to the side while Cyrus and Davies went in, going in right after them to clear the building. After a moment, the team closed the door behind them.

"TOC, this is Havoc-1. We have breached the target building and are clearing rooms at this time. Will check in later," Cyrus called over the net.

"Solid copy, 1. Just—wait a minute!" Catherine suddenly exclaimed. "Havoc, be advised, there is a vehicle moving westward towards your pos on the road! 500 metres out!"

"Is it our X-rays?"I asked, adjusting my rifle.

"Hang on... negative, I'm not picking up any signal. Could be a civilian or something else."

"Roger that. 4, just let 'em pass. Let us know otherwise," Cyrus replied. After a couple of minutes, the vehicle drove past—it looked like a lorry of workmen going home for the evening.

"All stations, this is Havoc-4. Vehicle appears to have been a civilian lorry. They have passed the target," I said after the lorry drove by.

"Roger, 4. They're not slowing down. Doesn't appear to be a threat. 1, what's your status on the target building?" Catherine asked.

"First deck is clear, TOC," Cyrus replied. "Moving to clear second deck and catwalk at this time. Be advised, it appears that the building is Dubois's weapons cache. He is not bringing the weapons with him like we originally thought."

"Good copy, 1."

I laid in silence after that, watching my surroundings and waiting for the assault team to check in. After an agonizingly long wait, Cyrus reported in.

"All stations, this is Havoc-1, building is clear. I say again, building is clear. Moving to set up traps," Cyrus radioed.

"Roger that, 1. Be advised, it is now 2200. Thirty mikes til HVTs may arrive," Catherine replied.

"Good copy, TOC."

"Havoc-4, if you need to take a piss, now is the time," Fletcher said over the radio.

"Solid copy, Havoc-2," I replied.

"Hang on, that's not right. Piss isn't solid, shit is!" Davies snarked.

"You're a bloody wanker, 3," I shot back.

"Shut the hell up, you idiots," Cyrus ordered. "Maintain radio silence."

Not wanting to anger the old American, we obeyed, falling quiet once again. I continued to provide overwatch, took an piss, and checked in with Catherine over the status of our HVT. I even provided cover to Fletcher and Davies as they set up traps outside and relieved themselves.

Imagine needing sniper cover to take a shit. Awkward, but necessary.

Finally, the trap was set, and everyone had gotten into position at 2228.

"All stations, local time is 2228. Check in," Catherine ordered. One by one, we replied:

"Havoc-1, in position."

"Havoc-2, set."

"Havoc-3, good to go."

"Havoc-4, ready."

"Good copy, Havoc. Be advised, our quarry is still in the city. Stand by for further information."

"Roger, TOC."

"Wait a minute... I have movement. I say again, movement. All three beacons are moving at this time. ... Looks like they're en route, moving... westward. I'd estimate that they're ten mikes out."

"Roger, X-rays ten mikes out," Fletcher acknowledged. "Havoc-4, you set?"

"A-firm. 4 is set," I replied.

"Roger, 4. Out."

And yet again, we fell into silence as we waited for our targets to arrive. It was a relatively cool night as I laid still, covered in sand and webbing for additional camouflage. In retrospect, it wasn't one of my better ideas to wear plates for a sniper mission, considering the lack of comfort with decreased maneuverability, but Cyrus had insisted on it. He was expecting shit to roll downhill.

I hoped he didn't refer to me.

"Havoc, be advised, beacons appear to be five kilometres out. At the rate they're traveling... hang on... four mikes out. They're moving in three vehicles," Catherine reported.

"Check, three vehicles four mikes out. Get ready, lads," Fletcher replied.

Soon, I could see the vehicles approaching from the east, reporting that I had visual on them. As Catherine said, there were three, all appearing to be capable of carrying 6-8 people. When they pulled into the area beside the factory, two men dismounted from each vehicle.

"All stations, this is Havoc-4. I have visual on six X-rays, all armed," I murmured. "Looks like security. They've got... wait, looks like everyone else is dismounting. I'm seeing... hang on... eighteen X-rays. I say again, eighteen."

"Roger, 4. Eighteen X-rays. Do you have visual on Kingpin?" Fletcher asked.

"Negative, 2. No Kingpin... wait, looks like one more's stepping out from the second vehicle. Can't quite make out his face, but it might be Kingpin. Stand by." I backed out of my scope and looked at the laminated sheet with all the HVTs' photographs I kept in my pocket. After a few back-and-forth comparisons, it seemed like the thin, mustachioed man with no earlobes and a slight limp in his left leg was Dubois. But still, given that I was looking at the man through a sniper scope and night vision, it was difficult to be 100% certain.

"All stations, I have possible PID on Kingpin. Mustache, no earlobes, left leg limp, 1.5 metres in height, thin. TOC, can you confirm description?"

"Stand by, 4... say again your last, over," Catherine requested.

"I have possible PID on Kingpin. Subject has a mustache, no earlobes, left leg limp, about 150 centimetres in height, and thin."

"Er... roger, 4. Description matches Kingpin."

"4, this is 1. I have visual on subject from my pos. Appears to match the description. I say again, I have PID on Kingpin," Cyrus said. "2 and 3, be advised, eight tangos—er, X-rays—are about to enter building. Kingpin is with them. Go radio silent until the other HVTs arrive."

"Check," Davies replied.

"Rog," Fletcher acknowledged. At his words, one of the gunmen pulled out a set up keys and unlocked the door, entering with Dubois and seven others, whilst the other ten stood outside, guarding the vehicles. A quick check of my watch showed that it was 2245, with fifteen minutes until the SPYDER operatives arrived.

I waited with bated breath, praying that Dubois and his thugs wouldn't accidentally discover the assault team. They had, as per the plan, spread out through the second deck and catwalk of the warehouse, in ideal positions where they could direct fires down and out. But still, if I remembered correctly, it would be difficult to egress from their hiding spots.

Time passed. There were no shouts, no gunshots, nothing to indicate that the assaulters had been made. Luck was on our side, as it seemed.

"Havoc-4, this is TOC. I have visual on four vehicles moving eastward towards your position, two klicks out," Catherine warned.

After a few moments, I heard the vehicles approaching from the west: four pickup trucks, tarpaulins covering their beds. Not long after I reported visual, they pulled up to the warehouse, setting up in a line across from Dubois's vehicles.

"TOC, this is 4. Vehicles have stopped. Looks like the other HVTs. Eight X-rays have dismounted, four have visible weapons. Appears to be two females, six males."

"Good copy, 4. Eight X-rays, two females and six males."

"I have possible PID on Widow and Recluse. No visual on Zebra," I mumbled as I checked my photo sheet. "Hang on, hang on... I have possible PID on Zebra."

"Roger, possible PID on Widow, Recluse, and Zebra."

The SPYDER personnel seemed to exchange some words with Dubois's thugs before one of the latter motioned for the former to follow. The three I had possible PID on, plus one of their gunmen, followed, with the rest of the SPYDER crew remaining with the pickups.

"Havoc-1, this is 4. Possible HVTs have just entered the warehouse," I warned. "Aaaand, they closed the door behind them. Do you have eyes on?"

For a couple of minutes, there was no response, until Davies jumped on the channel.

"4, this is 3. I have visual on all of them. PID on all four HVTs."

"Say again, Havoc-3. You have PID on Kingpin, Widow, Recluse, and Zebra?" Catherine asked.

"Affirmative, I have PID on all four HVTs, plus ten extra X-rays."

"Roger that. All stations, stand by to engage. Havoc-1, make the call."

"Roger, execute on my mark," Cyrus whispered, making me tense. "1... 2... 3... execute."

Almost immediately, several explosions went off outside as the traps were set off: four M18 Claymores, set and rigged by the assaulters. Smoke and steel engulfed the enemy force, eliciting surprised yells and screams of pain.

Music to my ears.

While the vehicles didn't explode along with the Claymores, it was still rather easy to see just how damaged they were by the explosion. The personnel that weren't killed still got knocked about by the shockwave, making them easy targets for me to pick off from afar. I sealed the fates of five X-rays with well-placed rounds of 7.62 before the rest got wise.

"Ah, shite!" I cursed as one of them trained a PK on my position, forcing me to get low. I supposed my camouflage wasn't as good as I thought it was. When the bursts of fire ceased, I moved up a bit, adjusting my L129A1 and taking potshots at the machine gunner. His mate ended up going down, but I failed to notice that two others were almost right on top of me, having advanced while the machine gunner laid down suppressive fire.

I pulled out my P228 and put two rounds in the first one, but before I could engage the second thug, he had already trained his AK on me.

But, by some divine miracle, when he squeezed his trigger, nothing happened. He moved for his sidearm, but I was faster, and the gunman fell dead with rounds in his face and chest.

"Thanks for the misfire," I mumbled, briefly looking up at the heavens. I then reloaded my sidearm and holstered it. But, there was no time to celebrate when the PK gunner opened fire once more, forcing me to duck for cover. I took the opportunity to reload, but before I could consider crawling to a different position, an RPG exploded ten metres to my left.

"Dammit!" I cursed, flinching from the blast. "All stations, this is Havoc-4! I am pinned down! X-rays have RPGs and a PK! Requesting suppo—" another explosion cut me off, though this time, it wasn't from an RPG.

In fact, it had occurred over by the warehouse. Furthermore, the machine gun fire had stopped, and was replaced by strangely quiet gunshots.

"4, this is 2. X-rays are down. Don't get your knickers in a twist, yeah?" Fletcher asked snarkily. A peep over the hill with my rifle revealed none other than Fletcher as he held up what appeared to be an "OK" sign with his left hand. If I had to guess, he threw a frag, neutralizing the remaining X-rays, and then fired security rounds to ensure their demise.

"Nice, mate. Guess I owe you one," I chuckled. "I'm taking a look now... We're clear. I'm not seeing any movement apart from you."

"Same from here... actually, hang on," he said before raising his carbine and firing security rounds at six more bodies. "Now we're clear," he finished firmly as he raised his NODs and reloaded his carbine.

"TOC, this is Havoc-1. I pass Jackpot. All HVTs are in custody," Cyrus reported. "I say again, all HVTs in custody. Remaining force is EKIA. Requesting exfil at primary extract."

"Roger, Havoc. HVTs in custody. Good work, gents. Moving to primary extract, out," Catherine replied.

"Good copy, TOC. All Havoc stations, commence SSE (sensitive site exploitation)."

"Check. Commencing SSE. 4, get your arse down here," Fletcher ordered. I made my way down, assisting him with searching the bodies and vehicles for anything we could use in future operations. Eventually, Cyrus and Davies came outside with the HVTs, the latter being restrained with hoods over their heads. Davies forced the HVTs to their knees, guarding them whilst Cyrus joined us in our search.

"What about the arms, drugs, cash?" Fletcher asked.

"No time. Best we can do is mark the location and relay it to HQ," Cyrus answered.

We took several sets of keys, papers, notebooks, photographs, phones, hard drives, laptops, and more. We also took photographs and fingerprints of the people we killed as part of the SSE, so that our agencies could use the information later on, or even pass them on to other agencies. Right when we were finishing up at 2305, Catherine arrived with the van.

"Time to go!" she called as she rolled down the window. After placing all the gathered material into some duffle bags, we ran for the van, shoving the prisoners into the back and mounting up. Once everyone and everything was secure, we began our drive back to the safehouse.

"Well, that went swimmingly, eh lads?" Davies said a few minutes later, smacking me on the shoulder as he removed his helmet.

"Perfect, I'd say," I agreed, replying in kind.

"First, let's get back home," Cyrus said, not even looking up from his Toughbook, where he had finished sending a communique to his superiors via a secure channel. Granted, he had a point, but what was wrong with a little premature celebration?

Suddenly, the burner phone we kept in the space between the driver and passenger seats began to ring, making us go silent. I looked at the others in confusion before picking it up and looking at the "Unknown" caller ID.

"Should I...?" I asked.

"Remember, answer as Geoffrey of the Morrison residence," Fletcher said, reminding me of the burner phone protocol.

"I know, you git," I scoffed, pointing at the laminated note taped to the back of the burner before answering. "Morrison residence. Geoffrey speaking."

"Havoc, this is Alpha Hotel. Be advised, Adobe has been burnt. I say again, Adobe has been burnt. We are at Alker, how copy?" a male voice said.

While the callsign was not one we had used throughout the op, it was easy to deduct who it was: Alexander Hale. And, based on his message, he was at the secondary safehouse—Alker—rather than the primary safehouse—Adobe—because the latter was... burnt?

"Putting you on speaker, mate," I replied as I did so. "Say again your last."

"Damn it, Havoc! Adobe. Has. Been. BURNT! We. Are. At. ALKER!"

"What the—? What the hell do you mean 'Adobe has been burnt?'" Cyrus questioned. "Why are you at Alker?"

"Adobe was compromised! Bravo Romeo has been captured! I say again, Bravo Romeo has been captured!"

At that, we fell silent. Nobody had any idea how the safehouse could've been compromised. The only reason we even set up Alker was as an afterthought, since we were so confident in Adobe's safety.

Even worse, the young lad Ripley was captured.

"Say again your last, Alpha Hotel. Who captured Bravo Romeo?" Cyrus pressed, a hint of shock in his voice.

"Unknown," Alexander replied, frustration and anger evident in his voice. "But get your asses to Alker, now!"

Alexander POV (flashback... at 2228 hours)

I couldn't sleep.

Granted, I wasn't supposed to, given that it was my watch on the roster, but even if it was someone else's turn, I know I would've still been awake.

Also, the fact that I was still wearing most of my kit probably had something to do with it. I still wore my plate carrier, battle belt, comms gear, and had my MK18 on a sling. I sat in darkness on an uncomfortable chair, a cup of coffee by my side. I'm fairly certain that, even if I wanted to, I had no chance of falling asleep due to my kit. How the hell grunts slept with all this shit plus their helmets, I didn't know.

Dad made a bad call, and I knew it. We should've brought everyone on the op: I could've helped the assault team while the kids remained concealed in the second vehicle, wherever the first one was stashed (because I was almost certain they wouldn't just roll up to the target).

The term "liability" didn't hold as much validity anymore, especially since I'd been spending more time doing PT and improving my gunfighting skills. I still sucked with pistols and long-range engagements, but I had found great success in CQB drills with my AR-15, as well as mid-range engagements. Granted, I wasn't as good as someone like a Ranger or a Raider, but I was fairly certain I was on par with the average infantryman.

But of course, I was sidelined. My screwups were monumental, yes, and I understood that I needed to face the music eventually. And sure, maybe there was a little bit of ego in my indignation. But the same feeling persisted in my gut: something was wrong. And Dad, Mr. Gut Instinct himself, said otherwise.

The intel painted a perfect picture. A little too perfect.

How do I know this? My time in Afghanistan, for one. A Taliban fighter never waylaid me with a monkey wrench, but a convoy I was in did fall victim to an IED... the Ranger platoon I was attached to subsequently got into a firefight with a group of Taliban fighters, but I spent most of it radioing the base while the M2 and MK19 gunners neutralized the threats.

This aside, I've seen firsthand how often intel screws things up. One time, another CIA officer presented intel to a SEAL platoon and because two small details were out of place, half of the platoon ended up seriously wounded—with two SEALs and an attached TACP losing their lives—and their HVT slipping away once again. Worse, a thirty-man QRF unnecessarily risked to rescue the platoon, with three soldiers in said QRF ending up seriously wounded.

One month later, the HVT would be killed by a Ranger platoon in a raid, but not before the bastard was able to successfully enable four more suicide bomber attacks against Coalition and Afghan National Army forces.

News flash: intelligence agencies possess little actual intelligence within their employees. While they aren't much better, I've seen military intelligence do a better job than the CIA, MI6, or any other similar agency. In Afghanistan, the most successful and reliable intelligence collectors I saw weren't intel personnel, but snipers, SOF personnel (including the occasional attached Cultural Support Teams), Female Engagement Teams, and infantrymen.

Yes, during the tour I had in Afghanistan, freaking infantrymen—the majority of which were 19-year old boys with GEDs or high school diplomas—collected more actionable intel than CIA officers with college degrees. "Uneducated numbskulls" that are "the lowest of our low," as I've heard several academics, educators, doctors, politicians, journalists, and even fellow CIA officers call them.

Let that sink in. If anyone ever tells you that not having a college degree makes you an idiot or that having a degree makes you intelligent, tell that person he or she is a jackass that should shut the hell up. Those scumbags I mentioned earlier are the same people that look down on tradespeople, farmers, law enforcement officers, firefighters, and other blue-collar jobs.

Remember the HVT from early? It was intel gathered by infantrymen from the 10th Mountain Division that allowed a Ranger platoon to finally put the son of a bitch in the ground—the platoon leader and platoon sergeant had college degrees, five other NCOs and a PFC had associate's degrees, and the rest of the soldiers had nothing more than high school diplomas. Oh, and most of the platoon were infantrymen, "the lowest of our low."

Now you understand why I thought something was wrong with the Mexican op. The only question was: if there was something off about this op, what was it? Was this a diversion? Was this a trap? Was the entire mission a trap?

"Dammit," I grumbled, sipping a cup of coffee. Boredom and worry surged through me like electricity in water—powerfully, unrelenting. Drinking coffee was likely to make it worse—along with making me piss my pants—but I didn't particularly care at the time, since the caffeine was all that mattered to me.

"Hey," a voice said, and a glance revealed none other than my daughter. For the first time I could recall throughout her teenage years, Erica didn't look pissed to see me. Her face was neutral, with a hint of concern.

That was odd. She was never concerned about me.

"Hey," I replied in a monotone voice. "Something wrong?"

"No, just can't sleep."

"Hm."

She sat down in another chair as we fell into silence once more, and any fatherly concern I had dissipated. I anticipated some big lecture about how I was a fraud and deserved this, but surprisingly, it never came. I guessed she was thinking of the words to do so, so I went ahead and said them.

"Before you say it, I know I'm a piece of shit. I screwed you over, I screwed over everyone else, I deserve to be sidelined. If that's what you were going to say, you should just leave."

"Dad—"

"Don't 'Dad' me, Erica," I sighed in frustration, turning towards her. "Remember what you said all those years ago? How I was an asset because I was old, not because of any sort of skills I had? Guess what? That little asset has just come back into play.

"You think the CIA screws shit up? Because of your 'experience?' Because you know the school and camp inside out? Because of the few ops you went on? Not only have you not seen shit, but in most of those, you ended up getting your ass saved by an FNG (F-ing New Guy). Me? I've been around long enough to see firsthand what goes down because intel screws up.

"Good people have died—people far greater than me, you, or even your beloved grandfather. Some of those men went through years of training, becoming some of the finest warriors on the planet, just to get blown up by a random IED jury-rigged from Soviet munitions by a goddamn terrorist. All because intel—CIA, DIA, you name it—messed up. Because I messed up. Good men—with wives, children, families—have died because I messed up.

"I'm a shitty father, and a shittier officer. I'm going to be paying for my sins for a long time. I'll probably end up in Hell for all I know. And at this point, I don't care, considering that eternity with Satan seems better than this. Dad's pulling a dumbass move right now. He sees an opportunity, I see a trap. Nothing ever goes right on any of these ops. Jawa was right that the supermajority of CIA ops end without conflict, but what he doesn't know is that very few of those ops go perfectly.

"So yeah, like I said. You want me to resign? You want me to stop contacting you? You want me to jump off a bridge, put a gun in my mouth, inject myself with arsenic, 'accidentally' drown? Fine! I'd be more than happy to! I'll walk right up to Saint Peter and tell him, 'send me to Hell! I've got a date with Satan, and my family booked the table!' If it makes you, Dad, and everyone else happy, sure! I'll do it as soon as we're back in the States! Until then, don't give me bullshit that Dad spoon-fed you. I know a bad op when I see one," I hissed, ending my long-winded rant.

Throughout my diatribe, I noticed Erica trying to protest, but words never came out of her mouth, resulting in my speech of frustration going uninterrupted. And, in retrospect, maybe I had misjudged her. Hell, I probably jumped to conclusions. Maybe she cared.

Still, my taunts were nothing short of the truth. I was more than happy to leave this world once and for all. As it seemed, not only did I have no worth, my existence only made things worse. Death honestly felt more welcoming than anything else on Earth.

You see, when we were getting briefed back in the States, Dad was obviously disappointed that I was assigned to work with him. That was okay. Erica didn't care, as usual. That was okay too.

But now, the line was drawn. Everything I said during this op was backed up by Catherine—from methods to ensure our junior officers' safety, to intel I gathered from spying on Dubois, to mapping out different ingress and egress points throughout our intel collecting operations. But now, even when I provided a better solution for an assault that was based on too-perfect intel, Dad shot me down. Now, he was just unnecessarily risking the lives of the Britishers. And Catherine.

I bet you all think that I sound like a real scumbag, drawing the line where my ex-wife is endangered rather than where my daughter is endangered. First of all, despite my parental instincts, it's a little difficult not to feel more of an attachment towards the person that doesn't despise you with all his/her being (i.e., Catherine), rather than the one that does (i.e., Erica). Secondly, there is the fact of the matter that the other three MI6 guys really didn't deserve to be caught up in this mess. Call me an unethical son of a bitch, but I do have morals.

This? This was nothing more than Hale family drama.

Now that I think about it, Catherine is the best of us all, considering that she actually has her shit together (at least, better than the rest of us). Ironically, she wasn't born a Hale, but she became one by marriage.

Sorry, getting off track. Where was I? Oh yes, my present family drama and vocalized intent to kill myself once the mission was over. In the words of Indiana Jones—who actually came close to doing the same thing I was planning, if I remembered Raiders of the Lost Ark correctly—I was going to do it because "I've got nothing better to do."

"Dad... are you serious?" Erica asked, stupefied. "Are you out of your mind?"

"How is that possible? You always seem to think I don't have one!" I shot back.

"Dad, that's different! You can't just commit suicide because Grandpa said 'no' to you!"

"Well, news flash, kid! Dad is right! I can't believe I'm only just now realizing it, but he is 100% right! I've been a complete waste of space since the day I was born! He has never—and I mean never—given a damn about whether I live or die. Why do you think my middle name is 'Nathaniel?' You know, our oh-so-great ancestor that was actually a shit spy? Dad may be an asshole, but he didn't get this old by being wrong! You're everything he's ever wanted, and he's everything you want! But don't worry, I'll be out of your lives soon enough."

"But—"

"Don't even try it. You're just saying all of this so it doesn't weigh on your conscience. That is, if you have one," I muttered, shifting away from her. "But who am I kidding? I'm not one to talk, since I don't have one either."

At the last bit, I noticed her shoulders slump, indicating that I had struck a nerve. Of course, just as I thought, her actions were out of guilt, not any sort of real care.

Though, I suppose, that's life. You try so hard to gain your father's respect, you end up losing his and your daughter's in the process, all while your ex-wife stands silently in the background, not hating you, but not exactly supporting you either.

What an existence.

"You can't be serious," she murmured.

"Oh I am. Now go back to bed. We have a long day ahead of us," I sighed, not bothering to look at her. After a moment, she stood, silently beginning to walk back to her cot. I supposed I had made my point.

But all of a sudden, she stopped, a look of confusion on her face as she turned back towards me.

"Dad?"

"Erica, what in the hell—"

"No, Dad, do you hear that?" she pressed. Before I could snap back, my ears began to register noises: a vehicle, just outside our building. Initially, my mind conjured an image of Dad and the MI6 officers, returning triumphantly with the HVTs. There was just one problem.

That noise didn't match the sound of the van's engine. Furthermore, it was far too loud to be a single vehicle. Then, after a few seconds, the din was gone.

"Erica, wake the others and arm up, now," I hissed, quickly putting on my helmet and eye pro as she bolted for the rooms where the others slept. I considered the situation: we were in a two-story building, with the ground floor mostly serving as our garage and storage space of non-mission essential equipment. The top floor was our living quarters and ops center.

Our building was in the less-populated section of the city, in a large lot with the road connecting to our garage on the north side. If this was what I thought it was, we were about to partake in a close-quarters firefight. We had a lot of hiding places, but so did the enemy. At least, assuming that this was one.

A peep out of one of the building's few windows only confirmed my fears. I could see at least three SUVs and a pickup truck, with several armed men dismounting with an assortment of weaponry: rifles, SMGs, shotguns. I counted fifteen at minimum.

"Aw, hell," I muttered, fumbling for the push-to-talk button on my plate carrier. "Guys, this is Alex. We have at least fifteen tangos moving in on the building, and they are heavily armed. Stay on defense and watch your fires."

"Hold on, we're still arming up," Zoe said after a moment, with scuffling noises in the background.

"Hustle it up. Stand by, contacting Havoc at this time," I replied, switching my radio to a different frequency. "Havoc, Adobe has fallen. I say again, Adobe has fallen, how copy?"

There was no response. After sending the same message twice more, I thought of two possibilities: either our equipment was faulty, or the enemy was somehow jamming our comms. At this point, either seemed likely.

"Damn it," I cursed, before switching back to the first frequency. "Kids, be advised, I am unable to contact Havoc. We're on our own."

"That's not good," Erica said, having crouched behind me without my knowledge, MP5 in hand and in full kit.

"What do you think you're doing?!? I told you to stay on defense!" I hissed. Even in the dark and through her eye pro, it wasn't hard to see the rolling of her eyes.

"What were you going to do, go in alone? You'll be torn to shreds!" she shot back.

"Yeah, like you care—"

"Dad, I understand you're pissed at everyone and everything, but we need to be realistic! I just looked outside. They're about to breach, and you won't be shit against fifteen fighters!"

"... fine," I conceded before getting back on my radio. "Kids, this is Alex. Erica and I are moving to first deck to engage tangos. Set up fighting positions from second deck. Break out the weapons cache."

"Roger, sir. Moving to establish fighting positions," Chip replied. Upon receiving his acknowledgement, I turned around to face my daughter. At that moment, any anger I felt faded, and was replaced with an odd combination of determination and fear: determination to win the firefight and fear of loss.

"Stay on my ass, you hear?"

"Check."

"Alright, moving."

"On your six, Dad."

We stood, moving to the door that led to the staircase. We stepped through it, with Erica closing it behind us before we crept towards the top of the stairs. As we reached it, noises of the enemy—thugs from the cartel or Dubois, I didn't know—trying to breach the doors reached our ears.

"When they breach, toss a flashbang," I whispered as we slunk down the stairs.

"Got it." The garage came into view as we approached the bottom. Erica secured her weapon and prepared a flashbang while I kept my carbine aimed towards the entryway next to the garage door. Rattling could be heard as the gunmen seemed to be trying to fiddle with the locking mechanism. We moved behind the 4x4, positioning ourselves in front of the headlights and behind the engine block.

Steadying my breathing, I knelt to a more stable stance while lining up the door within my sights. My plan was to avert and close my eyes, with the hope that would protect me enough from the flash and still allow me to fire upon the disoriented enemy force.

"Ready," Erica whispered with a tap on my shoulder.

"Kids, it's now or never," I murmured on the radio, praying that they were ready. Only a few moments later, the sounds of breaking wood and metal filled the air as the gunmen breached the door, with three making entry. With a sharp exhale, Erica tossed the flashbang while I steeled myself.

Despite having shielded my eyes, I could still see a bright flash, as well as the loud bang that came with it. I opened my eyes to see the three enemies, shocked and shouting Spanish obscenities.

Suddenly, I felt as if I was back on the range in Virginia, staring down the numerous targets while the rangemaster behind me prepared his stopwatch. My grip tightened on my AR-15 as I prepared to engage the steel plates.

"Shooter ready?"

"Yeah."

"Stand by..." he warned before a loud beep could be heard in my left ear.

Bringing my mind back to Mexico, my muscle memory from the drill kicked in. After setting my carbine to the "1" setting, I fired two rounds at the gangbanger on the right, then two on the middle one, cutting off their curses. The third blindly shot in my direction with his pistol before Erica fired upon him, dropping the man.

Two gunmen outside began blind-firing around the corner with their AKs, forcing us to take cover. Bullets went everywhere, hitting the 4x4 and the walls. The tires burst, the glass shattered, and holes riddled the body.

"Damn!" Erica cursed as she tried to peek over, only to narrowly avoid a round. We compacted ourselves as much as we could, using the wheels and engine block for cover, but still ended up having at least a dozen close calls with stray rounds.

Suddenly, the barrage stopped, and despite my ringing ears, I could just make out the clicks of the AKs being reloaded. Erica was about to move from her crouching position, but I stopped her.

"Draw them in. Wait for my go," I whispered as quietly as I could. She took a second to process the information—her ears were probably ringing worse than mine—before nodding. Turning my attention back to the room, I heard the gunmen talking to each other in Spanish. Slowly, two of them walked in through the door, using their flashlights to illuminate the garage.

They carefully approached us while calling for their friends to enter. Erica tapped me on the shoulder and showed me four fingers, then a thumbs-down. I nodded before focusing back on the room, preparing to engage at least four tangos.

Finally, a gangbanger with a shotgun passed the driver's seat. Right when he looked around the corner, I quickly put six rounds in his chest, eliciting shouts and gunfire from the other three. Because of their positioning, their rounds only impacted the engine block, windows, and wheel. Unfortunately, I was still in a bad spot, unable to effectively return fire, and was stuck with blind-firing and praying that some of my rounds landed on bad guys.

But almost as quickly as it began, it ended. In the confusion, Erica had snuck around the other side of the 4x4, using the distraction to put rounds in the three bad guys.

"Three tangos down!" she said as she reloaded her MP5 and flattened herself against the wall next to the garage door, giving her easy access to the regular door.

"Good shots!" I complimented as I reloaded my MK18 and trained it on the same door. It seemed like we were in a good spot until the pickup truck rolled right in front of us, with a gunman pulling a tarp off the truck bed to reveal none other than a mounted PK machine gun.

"Technical!" I warned before taking cover from the hail of gunfire. Erica did the best she could, narrowly avoiding a couple rounds that penetrated the garage door. In quick glances, I was also able to make out another gangbanger firing a PK, increasing the volume of enemy fire.

"Erica, toss a flashbang!" I shouted over the radio.

"I don't have a good angle to work with!" she protested as another round just barely missed her.

"Kids, we got machine guns on the north side! Now would be a good time to engage!"

"We're engagin' now, sir," Chip replied, his heavy southern accent distinct among the gunfire. "Hit the deck."

Seconds later, explosions rocked the street, and the PKs went silent. As I peeked around the badly damaged 4x4, I could see the dust and smoke resulting from said explosions, and two dead cartel members... or what was left of them.

"Two tangos down," Jawa reported.

Zoe POV (flashback)

"Good kills, guys," Alexander sighed, his relief palpable over the radio.

Chip, Jawa, Ben, Mike, and I were on the second floor. We had just finished arming up—having required extra time for Mike because he was unprepared—and ended up digging around the weapons cache for just a little too long. After splitting up weapons and ammo, Ben and Mike went to watch the back and side, while the rest of us went to the front.

We got there ready in time for Chip and Jawa to break open a window and toss two frag grenades into the street, neutralizing the enemy machine gunners.

"Check. You still got tangos down there, so watch yourselves," Jawa replied, ducking down before a few gumen began firing up at the windows.

"Guys, we got some dudes here trying to breach the back window with a ladder!" Ben called.

"You go help them. We'll stay on the front," Chip ordered. "Put grenades in your bag and get ready to move!"

"Okay!" I shouted over the din, quickly pulling two flashbangs, two smoke grenades, and two frags from their bags and stuffing them in one of my own. "Ready!"

"When this frag goes off, you run! Stay down and watch yourself!" Jawa barked. After my nod in acknowledgement, he warned the Hales downstairs and tossed the frag out the window. After hearing Spanish obscenities and the explosion, I bolted, keeping myself as low as possible as I made it to the hall adjacent to the south side window.

"Friendly, friendly!" I warned as I came in behind them. They were stacked up at the corner, with Mike being the high man and Ben as the low man. I was extremely impressed with the fact that Mike was this calm, especially considering that this was, if my memory was correct, the most intense firefight he had ever been in.

"It's relatively small, but the average man could definitely fit through it," Ben said, referring to the window only six feet forward and to the right of the corner. "We saw five of them coming around the back and moved here."

"What's the plan?"

"Shoot 'em as they come up!" Mike answered. "You got any other options?"

"Hang on, keep me covered," I replied, feeling my shoulders scream in relief as I set the grenade-laden bag on the ground. Zipping it open revealed my options—several made sense, but unfortunately, I wasn't as tactically inclined as Chip or Jawa.

"Zoe, if you got something, now's the time!" Ben urged, impatience in his voice.

"Hang on, hang on... let them come up!"

"Say again?"

"Drop the first one that comes up. Then, after ensuring the window is open enough, one of us moves forward, tosses a frag out, then comes back. Meanwhile, the other two keep suppressive fire on the window and make sure no bad guys come up!"

"Are you nuts?!? Whoever does that will be in the line of fire!"

"It's the only way we can know for sure that the grenade will land on target!"

"Damn it... just give it here and take my place!" Mike said, stepping away from his position. With no time to argue, I handed him a frag and raised my MP5 to take his place in the high man position. He then proceeded to hook the frag on his place carrier and crawl his way underneath both Ben and I's SMGs and take up a position around three feet from the far side of the window.

"Mike, you dumbass," Ben grumbled.

"Get ready!" Mike replied as he raised his MP5 towards the window. A moment later, a sledgehammer broke through the glass, scattering pieces all over the floor. The cartel member then used the handle to clear a majority of the remaining glass from the frame before finally squeezing his torso through, pistol in hand.

The guman noticed Mike, but not before Ben and I were able to put several rounds in him, making his body slump over the windowsill. Ben and I kept up the suppressive fire for a moment more, buying us some more time.

"Mike, execute!" I shouted, with Ben and I ceasing our fires. Mike pulled the pin, ran up to the window, and—through the small space that wasn't occupied by the gunman's body—threw the grenade towards the enemies outside before making it back to us.

"Mike... where did that land?" Ben asked as the frag exploded.

"I threw it right at 'em," Mike panted, the adrenaline seemingly getting to him. "It landed right in the middle of four."

"Relax, Mike," I soothed the best I could while patting his arm. "Those things have a radius of five-ish meters, so we're good."

"One of 'em had a rocket launcher... oh man..."

"It's okay, Mike. You're keeping us alive right now. You're doing good."

"Guys, go ahead and reload," Ben advised before getting on the radio. "This is Ben. We just took out five bad guys in the back."

Chip POV (flashback)

"Solid copy. Stay on the rear and keep up the fire," I replied as I knelt behind cover, turning towards Jawa. "How many tangos are out there?"

"I saw at least five. One's pinned the Hales with a PK, the other four are shooting us. Didn't the Hales count fifteen? 'Cause it sounds like we've already dropped that many!" he replied as he reloaded his SDM-R and looked back towards me.

"They might've said 'at least.'"

"... dammit!"

"We can handle it, brother!" I replied as I took one of the odder items in the weapons cache: a Beta C-Mag—which contains 100 rounds of 5.56—of which there were a few.

"Uh, you sure that's gonna work?" Jawa asked as I loaded it into the M4A1 I took from the locker. "This isn't the time to experiment!"

"We need suppressive fire!" I argued as I racked a round. "And it's not like we have a SAW or 240 handy, bud!"

"Chip, if we die because of this, I'll kill you!"

"Sure, just get a flashbang ready! You give 'em light, I'll light 'em up!"

"Check!" he acknowledged as he prepared a flashbang—one of the four we had left, given that Zoe, the Hales, and the rest of the adults had all taken the rest. "Three, two, one, execute!"

The M84 lit up the street with a bang, disorienting the tangos on the ground while I moved to a kneeling position with my M4A1. Switching it to the "F" setting, I prayed for a miracle: no jams or malfunctions.

The roar of the unsuppressed carbine easily reached my ears, especially since we were indoors. Rounds were fired in 3-5 round bursts—I wasn't an idiot trying to wear out my barrel or any other parts of the carbine—but I was quite pleased to see the C-Mag work flawlessly as the PK gunner and three more gunmen were quickly rendered EKIA.

"Get off your butt and start shootin'!" I shouted at Jawa as I continued to lay down rounds.

The fifth one was a "nasty little bugger," as the tea-drinkers would put it, but my suppressive fire and the unpinned Hales on the first deck were enough to manipulate him into a more favorable position.

"Move him a little to the left," Jawa requested as he peered through his ACOG. "And... tango down. I'm not seeing any more bad guys in the front."

"Roger that, we're seeing the same thing from here," Alexander replied.

"The back is clear of enemies," Zoe reported over the net.

"Erica and I will check our blind spots, make sure there's nothing left to chance. Everyone check your weapons and stand ready. Out."

Moving away from the shattered window, I reloaded my carbine before taking a quick sip of water from my canteen. Looking over at my best friend, I couldn't help but smirk.

"Y'know, I just realized... if we died, how would you have killed me?" I pondered aloud as I took off my eye pro and wiped it clean of dust and fog.

"Shut the hell up, farmboy," he groaned as he took off his helmet and poured water on his head. "Still, I will grant you a victory. That was good."

We fell into silence once more as I reloaded my carbine and tried to figure out what we were doing next. This couldn't have been some sort of random criminal act—they were far too persistent and too well equipped. The safehouse had been compromised by the cartel, as it seemed.

But there was a problem with that hypothesis. The cartel was good, but I questioned why exactly they came after us. We were definitely a threat to them, but our focus was on the SPYDER personnel and some Frenchie the Brits wanted. Perhaps the cartels valued customer service.

Or... while we were gathering intel, we got made. But if this was the case, why would they send the cartel's attack dogs instead of handling it themselves? Surely they'd want to keep things airtight, right?

I turned towards Jawa as he put his helmet back on, and was about to voice my concerns when an explosion rocked the building.

Mike POV (flashback)

The ceiling collapsed a few yards behind us, sending debris and dust everywhere while knocking us off our feet.

"What the he—AAH!" Zoe screamed before an explosion accompanied by a bright flash went off in the hallway. I wasn't facing it directly, but my head still spun, my eardrums close to bursting.

In my disoriented state, I was able to make out a ladder of some sort coming through the hole. Not even seconds later, figures were already descending down it. Three had come down, wearing black tactical gear: armor, battle belts, gas masks, the works. One faced the other way, one trained his AK on us, and the third actually approached us.

He stepped over Zoe, kicking her MP5 away from her, and stood over Ben, completely ignoring me. He opened the quarterback sleeve on his left arm and shined a light onto Ben's face as he tried to fight back in vain.

He then spoke to his fellow gunmen in some language—it sounded Slavic—before punching Ben in the temple region, knocking him out cold. The gunmen threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and prepared to move back to the ladder.

I tried reaching for a weapon, but still felt as though my muscles stopped working. Zoe, as it seemed, was in the same condition. As it seemed, there was no hope.

Suddenly, the gunman watching the other end of the hallway began shooting at something, and that something was shooting back, drawing the entire team's attention. Even the one carrying Ben returned fire, having pulled out his sidearm and shooting the friendlies on the other end.

A few blinks and a deep breath later, I was able to make out Chip and Jawa, peeking around the corner as they fired at the bad guys. A look to my right revealed Zoe groggily getting to her knees, trying to stand and fight. As I tried to do the same, it felt as if we had a fighting chance.

But then, Jawa dropped to the floor. Chip, acting quickly, continued to fire with his right hand while using his left to drag Jawa back behind the wall. He had fallen back on spraying and praying, making Zoe and I duck to avoid a few occasional stray rounds.

"All stations, we have a man down!" Chip reported over the comm. "I say again, man down!"

"Shit!" Zoe cursed beside me as she noticed a fourth gunman pass down some sort of machine gun—an RPK, like the ones in Call of Duty—through the hole, allowing one of the three in the hall to lay down suppressive fire on Chip. Our older schoolmate was forced to take cover, giving the gunmen an opening. The one carrying Ben moved up while the rifleman and machine gunner kept Chip pinned.

Throughout this, nobody noticed that I had managed to pick up an MP5. When the rifleman made his move to climb the ladder, I had him in my sights.

But, Murphy's Law struck, and the MP5 didn't fire.

"What the crap?!?" I exclaimed. With no time to rectify the problem, Zoe yanked it out of my hands and thrust another MP5 at me. But, in our dazed states, we didn't realize that it didn't have a mag. It was Ben's MP5, which he was reloading right when the bad guys—whoever they were—breached the ceiling.

"Zoe, I need a mag!" I hissed as the rifleman made it through the ceiling. All that remained was the machine gunner, who ceased fire to unhook a grenade from his belt and throw it towards Chip's position. Thankfully, it was a flashbang, but I was willing to bet that Chip and Jawa still weren't pleased. The machine gunner then threw another grenade, which slowly began spewing smoke.

"Mag, here!" Zoe groaned as she shoved one in my face. I grabbed it and shoved it in the magazine well right when the machine gunner turned for the ladder. I stared at the faceless shooter, feeling my adrenaline and rage spike.

"HASTA LA VISTA, MOTHERFUCKER!" I bellowed as I slapped the charging handle, sending it forward. I set the MP5 to "F" and held down the trigger, sending a hail of lead at the machine gunner. By some divine miracle, most of the rounds impacted his face and neck, destroying his gas mask and sending the bad guy to the ground.

My brain suddenly remembered that I had at least one spare mag in the pockets of my plate carrier. Standing, I reloaded my MP5 before beginning another mag dump at the bad guy's body to ensure his demise.

"Mike! Mike!" Zoe shouted as she tood, making me stop halfway in between. "Slow it down, man! Slow it down! Reload and watch that hole, okay?"

I nodded wordlessly as I reloaded and aimed at the hole in the ceiling. Zoe, meanwhile, limped over to Chip's position. My ears picked up concern, worry, and impatience, but my mind registered none of it, having been overtaken by a primal rage—rage fueled by worry for my brother in all but blood and my new friends.

Thankfully, a small part of my brain remembered what Zoe said and tried to calm down the rest of me—I knew that, even if books and movies exaggerated it, getting emotional in a fight was dangerous. Slowly, but surely, I started to get a grip on reality again as I kept my MP5 on the bad guys' entry hole.

Mysteriously, the gunmen in black didn't come back for their fallen comrade. But, they still threw a parting gift down the hole.

"GRENADE!" I yelled as I dove for cover, noticing Zoe follow suit. The subsequent explosion rocked the hallway as I tried to reorient myself and assess the situation. Despite my aching head, I could just make out loud thuds and gunshots from the ceiling.

"Shit!" I exclaimed as I fumbled for my push-to-talk button, noticing that I somehow was spared any sort of shrapnel from the grenade. "Bad guys on the roof in black gear! They have Ben and they're running! Can anyone see 'em?!?"

Erica POV (flashback)

"Yeah, we know!" I replied on the comm as I ducked behind a dumpster. "We've already engaged them!"

"Okay, I'm going onto the roof!" Mike groaned, sounding in pain but determined.

"Negative, negative!" Dad interjected as he took cover beside me. "You'll be in our crossfire! Stay off the roof! Stay off the goddamn roof!"

"Dad! I'll throw a flashbang at 'em, move left, shoot from a different angle! Cover me!" I shouted over the gunfire. When he replied with a thumbs-up, I prepared a flashbang while he kept shooting the bad guys on the rooftop. "Three, two, one, flash out!"

While I underestimated the strength of my throwing arm, I did arc the flashbang enough so that when it did explode, it was at least the bad guys' eye level.

"Go, go, go!" Dad urged as he continued to lay down fire. Staying low, I ran towards the street, searching for some sort of cover before settling for one of the cartel crew's SUVs. I pointed my MP5 at the roof, ready to engage, before realizing that there was nothing to engage. "What the—"

Scuffling drew my attention back down to street level, where three tangos in black tactical gear—with Ben in tow—were running for a black 4x4 fifteen meters east down the street. I leveled my MP5 at them, lining up one of them in my sights, but when I tried to pull the trigger, my finger froze and remained outside the trigger guard.

My mind screamed at me to fire, but my body refused. They were too far away, and Ben was right in the crossfire. I tried to refocus, reminding myself that Ben understood the risks and that—logically—the consequences of him being injured outweighed letting him be taken. But once again, my hands would not obey my head. As it seemed, I really didn't want to risk him being hurt.

... what the hell was wrong with me?

"C'mon, c'mon! We can catch 'em!" Dad called as he ran through the lot, arriving at the street and jarring me back to reality. "Get a flashbang ready!"

I clumsily felt around my plate carrier before realizing that I had already expended everything. Dad, meanwhile, was trading fire with the gunmen in black, having taken cover behind the same SUV as me.

"Erica! Flash, now!"

"I don't have any shit to use!" I yelled in frustration, kicking one of the bodies of the dead cartel shooters.

"Damn! Okay, you move left, I move right! Up the street, fifteen, twenty yards! Use whatever cover you got, okay?"

I didn't respond, feeling myself beginning to hyperventilate. What the absolute hell was wrong with me?!?

"Erica!" Dad shouted as he grabbed my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. "Listen, we're gonna get him! Do not get emotional, okay? Take a breath and work the problem!"

"Yeah..."

"Good to go?!? Good to go?!?"

"YES!"

"Okay! Three, two, one, go!" he barked as we emerged from our cover and charged up the street from opposite sides, shooting our way forward. From the right side, he shot towards the left. From the left, I shot towards the right, helping us stay out of the other's crossfire.

"Reloading!" I warned over the comm when we were each around seven meters from the 4x4. While crouching behind a random civilian vehicle, I couldn't see Ben, but the gunmen in black seemed to be willing to stand their ground.

Suddenly, I got an idea. It wasn't particularly good, but it was what I had. After informing Dad, I kept shooting, but aimed for the tires while he aimed for the three gunmen. The tires didn't explode, but at least it would be harder for them to drive off.

But, of course, things began to go wrong. Upon hearing my MP5 click, I realized that I had expended all of my ammunition, and looking across the street, Dad was down to his sidearm. As for the gunmen in black, they had had enough. A fourth man stepped out of the 4x4, and with him, he had an—

"RPG!" I warned over the comm as I ducked behind a car's engine block. The rocket, rather than going towards us, impacted one of the cartel vehicles. While there was no 80s movie fireball, the vehicle was undoubtedly crippled by the explosion. Peeking underneath the chassis, I could see Dad, still firing on the gunmen with his sidearm, but making no ground.

A glance to my right revealed a dead gangbanger seven feet away—his bloody body marred by the grenades Chip threw—with his AR-15 beside him. I crawled on the rough street, tasting dust, gravel, metal, and even a hint of blood in the air. I grabbed the AR, racked a round, and turned towards the enemy 4x4, preparing to line up one of the AK-toting gunmen in the iron sights.

But it was too late. The gunmen had mounted up and were driving off. I fired a few rounds at the tires out of sheer desperation—silly, I know, but I was pumped up on adrenaline—but the 4x4 disappeared down the Mexican street faster than a hot knife through butter.

... I've been hanging around Chip too much.

"Damn!" Dad cursed as he came out from behind his cover, reloading his sidearm as he came to me. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I groaned as he pulled me up. More words threatened to tumble out of my mouth, but I was silent, because as much as I wanted to, I wasn't sure we could immediately pursue. My body ached, all of the vehicles—including our 4x4 still inside the garage—were unoperational, and we were low on ammo.

"Those bastards had a ladder of their own. Made their way up while the cartel shooters distracted the kids."

"Who the hell were those guys?" I exclaimed. "They had good kit, good tactics—a little too good for a bunch of drug-runners!"

"I don't know, but we gotta handle shit here first. Kids, this is Alex. Give me a status update," Dad sighed as he activated his radio.

"This is Chip. Be advised, Jawa is WIA," Chip replied, his voice eerily calm. "Gunshot wounds, took 'em to the plate. Zibbell and Brezinski are pretty rattled, but no major injuries. None on my end either. Where's Ripley?"

"He... we couldn't save him. He got taken."

"What the hell?!? We have to move!" Mike interjected, his anger evident.

"We got nothing to work with. We need to—" Dad was cut off by an explosion. However, this one was larger than anything else we heard prior, and it was coming from our building.

"Back up, back up, BACK UP!" Dad shouted as he yanked me back, dropping us both behind a car as two more explosions went off and the building collapsed. Dust and smoke went everywhere as we waited it out.

Finally, things seemed to settle down, and we rose from behind our cover. As I wiped the dust off my eye pro, my eyes widened in horror at the heap of steel, concrete, and glass before me.

"Oh, God..." Dad gasped as he sprinted for the rubble. Shaking out of my stupor, I dashed after him. "Chip! Jawa! Mike! Zoe!"

"Here!" a voice groaned towards the back of the mess. Following the voice, we arrived to find Jawa lying limply on the ground as Mike and Zoe struggled to extricate Chip from the rubble.

"He got us out but got trapped in the window frame when the building collapsed," Zoe panted as she and Mike pulled.

"Hang on, hang on... Erica, you help Zoe pull. Mike, help me lift this. Chip, you still with us?" Dad asked.

"Yeah," the southern boy wheezed.

"Erica and Zoe will pull you out while Mike and I lift this... thing. Can you move at all, maybe try to crawl out?"

"I'll try..."

"Okay, on three. One... two... three!" Bending low and grasping Chip's arms, Zoe and I heaved with the little strength we had left. Chip tried moving towards us while Dad and Mike lifted the debris. We repeated this thrice more—with Dad even putting himself deeper in the rubble for better leverage—until we successfully got all of Chip into the open.

"Thanks... everyone okay?"

"We're fine, bro. Just breathe, okay?" Mike replied.

"What happened?"

"Those bastards use the cartel shooters as a distraction. Planted charges, made a dash for the roof. Probably had some prepared beforehand," Dad sighed. "How's Jawa doing?"

"Chip was right. All the rounds... five of them, damn... yeah, they all impacted the plate. He can thank his lucky stars," I reported, having removed his plate carrier and helmet and provided what aid I could. "Alive and breathing, but down for the count. Guess he knocked his head on the way down, or maybe some debris. But no real marks thanks to the helmet."

"Well, your mother is more medically inclined. She'll have to look him over when she gets back."

"Okay, what about equipment?"

"Damn near zero," Zoe replied. "Lost most of it somewhere in that wreck. I'd say we've got nine 9-millimeter mags, two MP5s with full mags in 'em, two smokes, a flash, a frag, and whatever we've got on our persons. Our armor—'cept for Jawa's—is mostly functional. Comms are all busted, though."

"Yeah, I think mine and Erica's comms are down too," Dad sighed as he fiddled with his push-to-talk button and glanced at my badly damaged radio. "Everything plus the scrap did a number on 'em. My carbine's out. Two mags of 9-mil, including the one already in the pistol. One frag, two smokes, a knife, and some miscellaneous crap."

"Oh, man. We're doomed, aren't we?" Mike asked.

"Not yet. We've come back from worse," Zoe said, trying to reassure the new kid. "There's some sort of backup plan... right?"

"I don't know about a plan, but I do know where we can make one," Dad said after a moment of thought. "It's pretty far, though. Alker—the secondary safehouse—is several miles away. Western edge of Juárez. We can't exactly hoof it there."

"Steal a vehicle?" I suggested.

"No, listen." Turning my attention towards the background, I began to hear sirens in the distance. "Sounds like the local PD are on their way. But they ain't the good guys in this case. Cartel's compromised them, and if the cartel knows about us, then so will the French shitbag and SPYDER."

"Then what?" Zoe questioned, her confidence wavering.

"I've got an idea. Gather anything and everything you can that's mission essential: arms, ammo, medical stuff. Ask Erica if you don't know. Stay unnoticed. I'll be back," Dad said as he unslung his MK18, took off his helmet, and began to strip down to his normal clothing.

"Wait, what the—" I began as he dropped his plate carrier to the ground and pulled his pistol out of his holster, stuffing it in his waistband. After concealing it with his untucked shirt and getting the rest of his tactical gear off, he was left with his long, black collared shirt and jeans. Now, despite him reeking of gunpowder, dust, sweat, and blood, he practically looked like some random man out for a walk.

"Erica, you remember where Alker is, right?"

"Yes, but—"

"If I'm not back in ten minutes, get the hell out of here. Do you understand me?"

"... yes."

"Good. Be careful," he warned as he dashed away, moving eastward.

"Any idea what he's doing?" Zoe asked as she helped Chip sit up.

"I dunno... and I'm not sure I want to. C'mon, let's get to work," I sighed.

Mike and Chip scoured the wreckage on the road, searching the ground, bodies, and vehicles for useful materials. Zoe and I scoured the perimeter and kept an eye on Jawa.

"I'm surprised no civilians have come out screaming or something like that," Zoe murmured.

"I guess they're afraid. Maybe they think we're Mexican soldiers or DEA or something like that," I responded distractedly.

"DEA?"

"They've been working down here, too."

"Hm."

We even tried venturing into the rubble, considering that we were the smallest of the group. Over the course of six minutes, we successfully retrieved an M4A1 with three weird drum mags, a satchel of 5.56 mags, a backpack of grenades and miscellaneous items, and several bottles of water. We wanted to go back for more, but it was ultimately too risky.

Chip and Mike, meanwhile, had gathered a smorgasbord of weaponry that wasn't damaged by gunfire or explosions: two AKMs, three AR-15s, a PKM, six pistols, an M870, and a pile of ammunition.

"How are you guys not collapsing from carrying all of that?" Zoe panted as she drank from a bottle of water.

"How are you?" Chip asked as he gestured to the stuff we gathered.

"Touche."

"Okay... sixteen count... wait a goddamn minute, this thing has AN-M14s and M34s... aren't those white phosphorus?" I realized as I opened the bag of grenades.

"The latter is Willie Pete," Chip answered, his military knowledge coming in handy again. "The former, though... that's thermite, I think. More so for demolitions than killin' stuff. Can melt right through an engine block."

"Hang on, I remember that from history class... aren't white phosphorus munitions illegal?" Mike asked as he scratched his head.

"Well, not exactly. Willie Pete is still a crucial part of things such as tracer rounds, illumination rounds, smoke/signaling grenades, and more. But munitions that are purely Willie Pete like the M34, it's somewhat hazy. Sometimes, it just depends on who you ask."

"I have to ask: how the hell do you know all this stuff?"

"We're junior Agency officers in Mexico working with British intel—who have a youth academy like ours—have been in several firefights, just survived a building collapsing onto us, and you're gonna ask me howI know some random knowledge any yahoo could look up on the Interweb?" Chip deadpanned, staring at the Virginian.

"... you got me there, man."

"Hey! Pack up what's necessary. We gotta be ready to move," I interjected, getting them to refocus on the objective while I looked back at the backpack. Along with the aforementioned munitions, it had a compass, a map of Juárez, a notepad, pens, and a multitool. Zipping it back up, I looked over the pile of gear we had gathered.

"Damn it, wait!" I exclaimed as I remembered that Jawa was non-ambulatory. It's not like we could leave him, considering the intel he possessed. "How do we take Jawa?"

"Uh... Erica, you and I can carry him, since we're the least beat up of the bunch," Mike suggested. "Chip and Zoe sub out as needed."

"Okay, what do we not need too—" I began, halting at the sound of a brown, windowless van rolling in from the east. "Crap, get down!"

"Get switched on! We gotta move, now!" a voice shouted from the van.

"What the—Dad?!?"

"Come on, hustle up!" he shouted through the driver's side window. "I'll adjust and get us ready to move!"

"What do we take?" Zoe asked.

"Everything! Help me with Jawa! Mike, Chip—"

"We got it! Go!"

Adrenaline spiking, we hoisted Jawa up and carried him across the lot while Dad completed a three-point turn with the van. By the time we arrived, Dad was out and had opened the door, allowing us to lay Jawa down and help Chip and Mike with the gear.

"Wait, Erica! Are these the phosphorus and thermite grenades?" Dad asked as he noticed the backpack I had.

"Yes, but—"

"We need to burn anything we left behind, anything that could link this place to us. I'll burn the garage and gear cache, you burn the ops center and sleeping quarters."

Dad and I selected two AN-M14s and two M34s, respectively, to burn what we needed to burn. After scanning the rubble and looking for entry points to throw the grenades, we looked at each other, nodding.

"Three, two, one, thermite out!" he warned as he tossed each of his grenades in. Two fires lit up as his targets burned. "Erica! As soon as you throw yours, run like hell!"

"Okay! Three, two, one, phosphorus out!" I shouted as I quickly pulled the pins and threw both in rapid succession. As I ran, I could smell and hear the fires that were coming into fruition thanks to the exploding munitions. By the time I got to the van, a decent section of the rubble was covered in flames—an angry fire that refused to go out.

But there was no time to reflect, so I mounted up with everyone else. I rode shotgun and pulled out the map of the city to help Dad navigate while everyone else crammed together in the back, sitting together on the floor with all of the gear.

"Everyone good? Okay... Erica! Helmet off, but take the MP5 and keep it hidden. We'll have to take a slightly complicated route," Dad ordered as he released the parking brake and got us moving down the road, soon taking a left and moving us north. After doing as he said, I noticed that the sirens were starting to get louder, with local law enforcement speeding past us a minute later.

I had no doubt local firefighters would be showing up soon. A small sense of guilt rose within me, considering that they would have a bit of an issue containing the fires—especially since white phosphorus was involved—but just like any CIA op, this was in the gray area of morality. Nothing we could do about that.

"Hey, Dad? How'd you get this van?" I asked out of curiosity.

"Hmm? Say again?" he replied distractedly.

"The van?"

"Oh... just remembered a trick I learned overseas from a guy in SF. And no, it's not stolen, nor does it seem to be tagged with any sort of anti-theft device. Got a full tank of gas, though. That's why I took so long to get back."

"Gotcha."

We fell into silence after that as Dad drove us through the streets of Juárez while I looked out for threats. Brief glances in the back revealed that Chip had damn near passed out. Mike was nervously tapping his thigh as Zoe looked at him with concern.

"Mike? You okay?" Zoe asked gently.

"You do this shit all the time?" he asked, his breathing heavy.

"Nope. I'd say this is the first time it was this bad."

"They attacked us at 10:30-ish, right?"

"My watch was a little after, but yeah."

"It took eleven minutes to dig ourselves out, for Alexander to get the van and come back, for us to load up, and to leave that place. We've been driving for three minutes and it's 10:54 now, meaning that the firefight was over at 10:40."

"I... guess so?" she replied quizzically, unable to respond to Mike's odd analysis.

"They attacked us, destroyed the safehouse, everything... in less than ten minutes."

"Things tend to feel a lot longer than they actually are. The math does sound right, but don't worry about it, Mike. Math is Ben's thing, not yours," Zoe joked, trying to calm him down.

"Oh God... Zoe?" he gasped after a moment of silence.

"Yeah?"

"I'm... I think I'm gonna throw up."

"No, you're not. Just take deep breaths. Look at me and count with me, okay?"

"H-huh?"

"Don't think about anything else. In, two, three, four... out, two, three, four... in, two three, four... out, two, three, four..."

They did this for another minute, while I tried to pretend as if I wasn't eavesdropping. Call it stupid, but I coudln't help but feel a small sense of jealously. Not like in some rom-com with a love triangle, but the fact that the two of them had some sort of relationship and I didn't.

And that's what was driving me crazy. I made it a principle to be against relationships, especially after Joshua, but why did a part of me still want something like that?!?

There had to be a logical explanation for this. Hormones...? Perhaps it was.

"Zoe?" Mike asked suddenly, his breathing much more controlled than earlier, but his voice was still uneasy.

"Yes?"

"I'm scared."

"Me too. I'd say this is the closest I've been to dying."

"How do you handle it?"

"I'm not sure if I really do. Just remember that you aren't alone."

"... Ben's alone. I couldn't save him."

"We're all guilty, okay?" Zoe said, the strain in her voice just barely masked by the calm front she put on for Mike. "But we don't leave anyone behind. We'll get him."

To my left, Dad exhaled heavily through his nose, not saying a word. But, that exhale and his tightened grip on the steering wheel spoke many.

"Three minutes out," he announced coolly. "How are Chip and Jawa doing?"

"Hm? Someone say m' name?" the muscle-bound boy groggily replied. "M' alive. M' good."

"And... Jawa's still knocked out, but his breathing and pulse seem okay. Can't believe he just got shot," Zoe replied with a mirthless chuckle.

Right on the dot, we arrived at 2258 hours at the Alker safehouse in the western outskirts of the city. The seemingly windowless, one-story brick house was a mile or two from the southeast tip of the mountains. The nearest neighbors were shacks further away, but even those looked deserted.

"Okay, let's move. Erica, on me," Dad ordered as he pulled the key out of the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt. We dismounted together, approaching the door. He knelt, pulling out a key within his boot's laces, and stood, unlocking the door. I stood behind him, my MP5 at the ready.

"Opening," Dad warned as he pushed the door open and drew his sidearm from his waistband. "On me."

Within a minute, we cleared everything in the house—the main room, the bathroom, the basement, the storage closet, and even the roof. It was significantly smaller than the Adobe safehouse, but it fit our needs.

"See if you can find some comms and medical equipment," Dad said before going to the door. "All clear! Bring Jawa!"

I rummaged around the storage closet, finding several boxes. Opening them, I found several innocent items: clothing, MREs, bottled water, batteries, flashlights, inflatable mattresses, blankets, pillows, and medical supplies. However, the finding of a false floor in the closet led to my discovery of some other gear: guns, ammo, tactical comms gear, grenades, and most importantly...

"Dad! Sat phone!" I called, tossing it to him as he walked back to me. "Try that."

"Okay... um, do you remember the number to the burner phone they have in their van?" he asked hesitantly.

"What? You don't know?"

"No! I can't remember everything, Erica!"

"Agh... I don't know either!"

"Shit!"

"Wait, burner phone?" Chip asked as he stepped inside, holding Jawa in a fireman's carry. He then rattled off a sequence of numbers. "I think that was it, at least. I remember hearing it, for some reason."

"You saying it is jogging my memory... it sounds close," Dad said as he dialed it in.

"Guys, what should we—" Zoe began as she walked in with some gear, before she was cut off by my raised hand. We held our breaths and Dad held the phone to his ear, waiting. Finally, I could make out a faint noise from the phone, with Dad sighing in relief.

"Havoc, this is Alpha Hotel..."

Fletcher POV (flashback)

Throughout my time with the SAS and MI6, I have seen several strange things. I've also heard of things even stranger—though those stories came from American troops I worked with in Afghanistan (i.e., Navy SEALs, USAF operators, and Marines, specifically).

But when we arrived at Alker at 2315, I wasn't really sure what to think. It's not as if the situation was that strange, just the fact that it actually happened. We were so confident in our intel and the security of our safehouse, and yet Adobe was compromised.

Worse, the Ripley kid had been taken by some unknown X-rays.

"We're here," Catherine announced as we pulled up beside a brown van. "They must've acquired some alternate transport."

"Could be a trick. You two," Cyrus ordered, pointing at Davies and myself. "On me."

We dismounted from the vehicle, leaving Catherine and Wright to handle our prisoners. Slowly, we approached the door, weapons drawn. Cyrus, being the lead man in the stack, pounded the door. Some scuffling could be heard inside before the door opened.

"Enough of the dramatics. Just come in," Schacter sighed as he opened the door.

"Okay then... let's unload the stuff," Davies suggested after a moment of awkward silence. Over the next couple minutes, we hauled the HVTs, material from SSE, and all of our gear into the safehouse. We tied the HVTs together in the basement and left them there with the things we took from the raid, with Wright on guard duty.

"Good Lord! What happened to him?" Catherine exclaimed as she saw O'Shea unconscious on a mattress.

"Took five rounds to the plate, whacked his head," Zibbell sighed from across the room as she ate from an MRE. "I think you need to check him out."

"Medical supplies?"

"Here," Brezinski said, pulling a large bag from a closet and handing it to Catherine. Stripping off her plate carrier, helmet, and weapons, she took the bag and got to work.

"What in the blue hell happened?" Cyrus suddenly exclaimed. "We leave you and you get attacked—"

"What happened? What happened was that we just escaped with our lives and you're eager to blame us, as per usual!" Alexander thundered as he stomped over to Cyrus.

"Dad, wait!" the Hale kid interrupted before turning to Cyrus. "The Sinaloa Cartel sent a hit crew. But there were also some other guys there in black. They had good gear and good tactics, better than anything we've seen the cartel with!"

"Yeah! Their AKs had the whole works: suppressors, Picatinny rails, red dots. They had flashbangs, gas masks, sidearms, NODs, the whole nine yards. They looked like actual operators! Barely any of the cartel shooters even had optics beyond iron sights!" Schacter said, gesturing to the organized pile of weaponry laid out on the floor beside him—arms they likely captured from the hit crew.

"One of those turds spoke in some language. It sounded Slavic. Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Czech, something along those lines," Zibbell added. "Maybe they're mercenaries, ex-special forces. Wow, as I'm hearing it come out of my mouth, that sounds super cliche..."

"The cartel is out of the question, since they would've just sent their own men, no fancy team necessary. SPYDER or Dubois's crew could've done it," Davies suggested.

"Before the guy grabbed Ben, he looked at something on a quarterback sleeve," Brezinski remembered. "They took him alive, but shot at the rest of us. They wanted him specifically."

"SPYDER," the young Hale realized. "They've had it out for him for a while, considering what he did to them."

"Not just SPYDER, but that turd Hallal in particular... what if he's here in Mexico?" Schacter suggested.

"It makes logical sense."

"Okay, but this still doesn't explain how we were compromised," Cyrus pondered.

"In case you haven't noticed, that doesn't particularly matter!" Alexander seethed, staring his father down. "What matters is that we get Ben back!"

"We could be walking into another trap! Our focus should be on getting the HVTs and SSE material back over the border!"

"Are you even hearing yourself? A kid was just taken hostage! A kid these sons of bitches loathe!"

"And that's unfortunate, but if we charge after him, we risk blowing the entire op! SPYDER could find us again, and we'd lose everything!"

"Unfortunate? Unfortunate?!?" Alexander hissed, clenching his fists. "That's what you think his capture was? Unfortunate?!? We wouldn't even be in this situation if you just listened to me!"

"Am I wrong, Alexander?" Cyrus countered. "Besides, if you actually did your job, then maybe I would have a reason to listen to you. Am I wrong on that, too?"

I had to admit, he really wasn't. Hell, neither of them were. Just like every other op with MI6, we were in the morally gray area. Where heads and hearts were at war, but neither won.

"Are you wrong?" Alexander mirthlessly laughed, turning around rubbing his forehead in disbelief. Suddenly, he swung around, his fist connecting with Cyrus's nose before anyone could react.

"Dad, what the—" his daughter gasped before Cyrus recovered from his own shock and counterattacked, surging forward and punching Alexander on the cheek.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Davies shouted as he and I moved to restrain Cyrus while Alexander was held back by his kid. Alexander almost immediately broke free before being caught again by Schacter, Brezinski, and Zibbell, who had all ran up to help. Catherine, in the meanwhile, tried getting between the two men and pushing them apart.

"Sir, stand down!" Schacter urged as he and the rest of the children struggled to restrain the enraged man.

"Damn it, you two! Stop!" Catherine shouted, but to no avail. Finally, she turned toward me and Davies. "Get him out of here, NOW! Chip, help them!"

"Moving!" Schacter acknowledged, releasing his grip on Alexander and moving to help us. Even with his help—and he was quite tough for his age—we had a damn hard time wrestling Cyrus to and out of the door. And all the while, he and his son were shouting obscenities at each other.

"YOU CRUSTY PIECE OF SHIT!" Alexander roared.

"YOU STUPID BASTARD!" Cyrus yelled.

" SON OF A BITCH!"

"SHITBIRD!"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Davies shouted as he slammed the door, completing our journey outside. I could see his patience diminishing and the old SRR sergeant reemerging from its MI6 officer shell. "Mr. Hale, you'd do best to stop shouting like a whiny little bitch before I unscrew your head and shit down your neck!"

"You wanna try me, Davies?" Cyrus snarled, still in our grasp.

"They say youth and exuberance are no match for old age and treachery... I'm ready to be an exception to that rule, old man. So shut the hell up and calm down!"

"Both of you relax!" I interjected before this could escalate any further. "Cyrus, take a walk. Maybe do something about your bloody nose... go!"

Somehow, he obeyed, shrugging us off and stomping away from the safehouse, swearing. Inside, I could hear Catherine and Alexander arguing, but there seemed to be less noise overall.

"Bloody hell," I sighed before turning to Schacter. "You good, kid?"

"Yeah, I'm good," he replied, not taking his eyes off the old man muttering curses several metres away. "Same shit, different day."

"I hear that," Davies groaned, stretching out his arms. "Hopefully these wankers figure it out."

"Sir? What happens next?"

"Not sure, kid. Alexander's right: we're not gonna leave Ripley behind. But the fact of the matter is that this whole op is bigger than the kid, and we don't really have any clue where to start on getting him back without compromising ourselves."

"... I see."

"Don't worry, mate," I said, trying to be encouraging for the kid's sake. "We've got a shot at this."

"I hope you're right. I'm praying to the Lord that you're right," he murmured.

Ben POV (flashback)

When I finally came to, my head was spinning.

The last thing I remembered seeing was a masked man in black before he punched my lights out. Now, I was in a dark room, gagged and strapped to a chair with duct tape.

'Just like any other spy thriller, really,' the comedian in me sarcastically thought. 'Though this doesn't help me any.'

Suddenly, the lights turned on, blinding me. I could hear someone approaching as my eyes tried to adjust. By the time I was able to, the footsteps had stopped and a blonde woman no more than thirty years old in a lab coat stood over me.

"Alright then," she said, her Valley Girl accent sending a shiver down my spine. Why? Because she sounded a little too sweet, reminding me of Ashley Sparks. "The boss wants you in good condition."

She hummed as she probed me, feeling my neck, face, and arms, like she was a doctor checking me up. Involuntarily, I squirmed, but of course, I went nowhere. It wasn't just uncomfortable, it was downright creepy.

I tried distracting myself by looking around the room, noting the miscellaneous pieces of medical equipment beside me, as well as the emptiness of the room apart from the door on the left wall and some random footlockers by the wall opposite to me. The room was about five yards in width and length, with the door itself being a little over three yards away from me. Unfortunately, running out of places to look just brought me back to the woman I was trapped with.

She looked like a doctor, but she acted nothing like any pediatrician I've ever seen. The ones I met were at least professional, allowing any awkwardness to dissolve when I had to go see them. This woman on the other hand was downright creepy, with some of her hands going a little too close to some... private zones.

"Well, doesn't look like those Czech guys didn't beat you up too badly," she sighed as she trailed her hand up my thigh, almost directly onto the area between my legs. I thrashed in my bounds, trying to fight, but it was hopeless.

Suddenly, I felt a crack across my face as she slapped me, making my head spin worse than it already was.

"Behave!" she admonished before she slapped me again and grabbed my throat, pressing her thumb on my windpipe. "I don't want you to be too damaged. You see, the boss wants you gone, but he promised me a piece while you're still alive... maybe even when you're dead..."

Alarm bells went off in my head. Not only was I sure who the boss was, I had a decent idea of what he was going to let this doctor do to me. Fear and nausea consumed me all at once as I tried to keep still, not wanting to be hurt more.

"Courtney, how is our guest?" a male voice said as a door opened somewhere to my left, only confirming my fears.

'No... no, no, no, no—'

"Nice to see you again, Benjamin. How are things?" said the pirate of my nightmares: Joshua Hallal himself. He had ditched his Harvard outfit for a more practical wardrobe: boots, jeans, a leather jacket. With his battle belt and sidearm in a drop-leg holster, he reminded me of one of those spec ops guys that just threw tactical gear on their normal clothes and just got to work, no camo needed. Furthermore, he had upgraded the prosthetic hook on his left arm, making it... well, a hand that looked like it was made from several hooks.

"He's quite healthy, Mr. Hallal. A little banged up by those Czech guys, but he's functioning," Courtney said, a sickly sweet smile on her face. "Upstairs and downstairs, by the looks of it."

"Very good. You'll get your chance to play eventually, Courtney. But not without my permission, understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent," he chuckled, looking back at me. "Courtney here is from the great state of California. Went to UCLA for undergrad and medical school, but was booted two years into residency because she... had her way with patients. Didn't matter if they were male, female, young, old... she did them all. I liked her style and medical skill, so I decided to extract her from her prisoner transport.

"Too bad for the seven LAPD guys that died... but I enjoyed killing every last one. The best part? The media didn't care that cops were killed, especially since one of the cops was accused a few years ago of sexual misconduct by a female carjacking suspect he brought in! Though the real kicker is that her accusations were found false by internal and external investigations, but the media left it unreported!" he laughed as he finished his story.

I felt my eyes widen with horror at Joshua's monologue. He was insane. The doctor was insane. Hell, it seemed like the sanest people were the "Czech guys" that abducted me earlier. Now, I was stuck in a room with a murderer and a rapist—a pair of psychopaths.

"She may not have the same desire for revenge as me, but she takes pleasure in violating others, and she could patch wounds, so it was a win-win for me!" he laughed, bringing his prosthetic hand a little too close to my face, trying to get in my head. His one green eye burned with power and hate. I tried lessening the effect by thinking of green pond scum, but the eyepatch and evil smile overwhelmed my attempts.

"And... I wanted to see her violate you. You, who destroyed everything I've worked for. You, who marred me. You, the one I hate most on this planet. But, I am merciful... I'll give you one more hour of peace until the real fun begins..." Joshua ominously declared, knocking the side of my head with his hand before striding for the door. "Come, Courtney!"

"You and I will have so much fun," Courtney giggled beathily into my ear, kissing it before walking off and closing the door to the room.

My mind was racing as I tried to think of a plan, but it was in vain. I was outnumbered, outgunned, bound and gagged, and had nothing to work with. As for my friends... they were either dead or scattered.

I probably felt this way at least once before, but this time, it was true beyond a shadow of a doubt:

There was no way out.

Ben POV (nightmare)

"Just as there is no way out for you now, eh Ripley?" Joshua chuckled as we continued to watch the events that took place in the Mexico operation, jumping between different people's perspectives. It felt like some sort of horror movie, only all too immersive.

I tried to speak against him, remind him that he was dead and no longer a threat. But this dream was a nightmare, and no matter how I fought, I had no control as we continued to watch.

Just like when I was captured, I was alone.

Davies POV (flashback... on June 8)

"Hey, you're good. Rest up," Fletcher said as he entered the basement to relieve me from guarding the HVTs and SSE material.

"Thanks, mate. You don't need to worry about watering them, I handled that. Hey, what time is it now?" I asked as I stood from my seat, feeling my joints crack.

"0130."

"Damn. Anything new upstairs?"

"You'll have to ask 'em. I nodded off."

"Lazy bastard."

"Says you," he chuckled, slapping me on the back as I went back upstairs, where almost everyone else was awake. The children—including O'Shea, who was awake and well after some rest and Catherine's medical treatment—were sitting on one end, discussing something. In the corner, Wright was passed out, his kit organized neatly beside him. And finally, the adult Hales formed the last separate group. Each had a Toughbook, with the men talking to someone on their own sat phones.

"Yeah, we're receiving it now. Alright... alright... gotcha. Thanks a heap," Alexander said before hanging up and turning to Catherine. "Can you pull it up?"

"Hang on... yes, I've got it," she replied with a nod.

"All good, mates?" I asked as I sat beside Alexander.

"Well, the gentlemen at Langley are quite excited, so they risked a phone call thirty minutes ago. Cyrus is talking with them now," Catherine explained, motioning towards the old man. "Alex made contact with some personnel that deal in computers... 'Technical Operations Officers?' 'Technical Targeting Analysts?' Something along those lines?"

"Both sound like legitimate career titles," Alexander reasoned. "Anyways, they said something about acquiring a backdoor into some CCTV systems used by the local PD. They set up some connections, and now we can see it from our computers. The trick is gonna be running through the footage and finding that 4x4. It was black and the license plate was... what was it Erica?"

"Um... Chihuahua, Alpha-7-7-November-Uniform-Whiskey-3," she recalled, getting up from the kids' group and coming to sit by Catherine.

"Hold on... it was a Chihuahua plate, but wasn't it November-3-7-Whiskey-Uniform-Alpha-7?" Alexander replied, scratching his head.

"Well, at least you two agree on which numbers and letters are on the plate," Catherine chuckled, making me smirk. "But be warned, the CCTV systems here are not as sophisticated as those elsewhere in the world, so we have to do a little manual searching."

"Dad and I could sift through the footage," Erica suggested.

"That should work. You two will be fine, right?"

"I had a nap. I'm good," Alexander replied, with Erica nodding assent. Catherine then let the father and daughter get to work while motioning for me to come to her.

"Right... understood, sir... right. Out," Cyrus said before he hung up his own sat phone.

"What's the situation, Cyrus?" Catherine asked almost immediately.

"We have been ordered to proceed with the op. SAD's sending a six-man team down to the US Consulate General in Juárez. The team's gonna help us get the HVTs back to the States and provide any medical assistance needed. They'll be on the ground in four hours."

"What, that's it?" Alexander scoffed. "This is a new low, even for them."

"Hold your horses, I wasn't finished. We have also received the green-light to do whatever we need to do to find Ripley, including hacking the CCTV and conducting any sort of raid. However, unless it's something that could be done from Langley, no other assets will be provided.

"The Agency will not send up any more UAVs, and even if we wanted to, we have no satellites—save for comms—over our area for a while. Nothing to reposition easily, either. As for the inbound team, all six men are trained shooters, and have been green-lit to support us. They don't know about Ripley, though, or the Academy. We'd have to brief 'em ourselves and maintain the cover story of a field trip gone wrong, with the kids being abducted from their chaperones and us rescuing them by accident. Until then, we're on our own."

"Fan-effing-tastic. When does the brass want the HVTs?"

"They're giving us twenty-four hours, including the time it'll take for the team to get here."

"... shit."

"Well, we'll need to make do with the time we have," Catherine declared. "Cyrus, if you've got nothing else to do, could you help look through the CCTV footage? Here's what you need to know..."

At that, I stood, moving to check on the junior CIA officers on the other side of the room.

"And that, Mike, is the entire Ben-SPYDER saga. Outsider commentary included," Zibbell said, wrapping up a story of some sort.

"Good God... no wonder they want him dead," Brezinski responded.

"Hey, you four doing alright?" I asked as I knelt to their level.

"Just fine," O'Shea replied with a slight grin. "Good time to be alive, huh?"

"You got that right, mate. Glad you're in one piece."

"Well, I went ahead and organized the weaponry," Schacter said, motioning at the assortment of firearms and ammunition he somehow managed to lay out on a relatively small tarpaulin. "MP5s, Glocks, ARs, AKs, a freaking PK... you got enough stuff for a squad or two!"

"Well, that's good, considering we're running low, kid. Nice work scavenging."

"Hey, I overheard what the adults were saying," Brezinski interjected. "We are going after Ben, right? We're not just gonna leave him behind... right?"

"We are," I assured. "But unfortunately, we don't get much to work with. No extra assets."

"Wha—seriously?!? We can't just call up SEAL Team 6? Delta Force? We have troops kickin' ass in Afghanistan and Iraq, but the CIA can't launch a hostage rescue mission just south of the border?!?"

"I know, I know, but we're in a tight spot. See, it's all about plausible deniability, lad, especially where us MI6 people are concerned. Even if the brass wanted to, the Mexicans would have to be informed about a horde of Americans coming here to rescue a hostage. And keep in mind, the cartels and SPYDER have infiltrated a good bit of it. Not to mention that these sort of ops take a bit of planning and time."

"What about the six guys coming down here in four hours?" O'Shea asked.

"They're green-lit to assist, but like Cyrus said, the HVTs need to be on American soil in twenty-four hours. Assuming it takes the same amount of time to get back, we effectively get those men for sixteen hours... not a great deal of time to find Ben and mount a rescue... assuming he's even in the city."

"Shit," Zibbell grumbled. "Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?"

"Lass, the best thing you can do is rest—"

"We just rested!" Brezinski angrily exclaimed.

"I understand, but I meant a proper sleep. The Hales are a different breed—and I'm sure they all had a bit of sleep while waiting on those phone calls of theirs," I replied, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm going to take a nap myself, and they'll wake us if there's anything new. You can't mount a rescue if the rescuers drop in the middle of it."

The last bit, thankfully, got the kids to stand down. Muttering acknowledgement, they went to set themselves up for a nap, getting the necessary items from the storage closet. As for me, I needed none of it, popping a squat next to Wright and passing out in minutes, the Hales' chatter in the background.

Catherine POV (flashback)

"Oh, damn it!" I cursed as I awoke, realizing that I had nodded off whilst examining the CCTV footage. But my Toughbook was no longer in front of me, with Mike looking through it next to me.

"Oh, hey. Alexander told me not to wake you up," he said distractedly as he focused on the screen.

"Ugh... how long have I been out?"

"It's... 3:40 AM right now."

"Bugger. How are those two still awake?" I asked, gesturing towards my ex-husband and daughter, who were still staring intently at their Toughbooks. Cyrus had stepped away from his computer when I was last awake to use the toilet. Now, he was talking intently with someone on the sat phone. "Come to think of it, how are you awake, Mike?"

"Couldn't sleep. Y'know, I've been shot at before when I was stuck with those guys in Colorado. But this is a whole new ballgame, and my best friend is missing."

"I'm sorry. This must be hard."

"Sure as shit," he groaned, rubbing his eyes. "I mean, I've known him since before I could walk. He's practically the little brother I never had—well, as little as a few weeks of age makes him. I've saved his ass from bullies that picked on him 'cause he was a nerd. Now, not only has he saved my ass, I couldn't do a damn thing to the guys that took him."

"Mike," I began, turning towards him and speaking as gently as I could. "There was nothing you could do. These people are professionals. Hell, I've got good training, but I'm not one to walk into a firefight, especially not without a good amount of backup."

"Doesn't change the facts of the matter."

"Perhaps not, but beating yourself up about it doesn't help Ben. The best thing you can do is to keep doing what you're doing, be proactive. Now, is there anything—"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Mike exclaimed, making Alex and Erica jerk their heads towards him in a flash. "Black 4x4, A-7-7-N-U-W-3, Chihuahua plate?"

"Yes!" Erica exclaimed. "Yes, that's it!"

"CCTV picked it up at 11:35 last night, in the northwest part of the city!"

"Hey, that could be it!"

"Wait, I just found November-3-7-Whiskey-Uniform-Alpha-7," Alex interjected. "2321 hours last night in southern Juárez. Tracking it through the cams now."

"What's going on?" Cyrus asked, having finished his phone call.

"We've located the two possible vehicles the SPYDER team used. We're tracking them through the city's CCTV system," Erica explained. "Okay, so for November-3-etcetera, it looks like it stopped inside the lot of a defunct pottery factory on the south side of town. Looking at current footage of the area... it's still there."

"I'm tracking the Alpha-7 one and... whoa, it straight-up left the city. Last timestamp I've got is 11:45 from a camera on the edge of the city. By the looks of it, they drove towards the mountains somewhere," Mike reported. "Doesn't look like they came back."

"The mountains? Isn't that where we are now?" Alex questioned.

"Not quite, but we're pretty damn close. How far is the factory?" Cyrus asked.

"About... three miles east of here," Erica replied. "As for the mountains, it's a wide area all around the... Cerro Bola peak. Lots of ground to cover. We'd have to split up."

"Maybe Alex and I could take the kids, assault the factory. Cyrus, you and the commandos have more experience in recce. You could work through the mountains," I suggested.

"Catherine, you neglected to mention what the hell we do with the HVTs," Cyrus bluntly replied. "Sure, I can take the commandos and conduct recce, but what exactly are you two and the kids going to do, hm? You have one without a lick of experience and one injured."

"Hey, we held our own without you!" Mike protested.

"Mike, hush!" I admonished before turning to my former father-in-law. "You're correct in that, Cyrus. My answer is to take the HVTs with us in our vehicle. As for the children, they know enough to guard the prisoners and stay on comms, if not carry out the assault. Alex and I have more training in that regard, and I don't think Erica is any slouch."

"We're good to go," Chip said suddenly from the other side of the room, having woken from his nap. Jawa and Zoe, like their southern friend, shared a look of determination. "Whatever needs to be done can get done. I know enough CQB to help assault, but I'm also a decent shot at longer ranges."

"I can run comms and shoot," Zoe offered as she put her hair up in a bun.

"I'm not sure how good I'd be in a firefight, but I can help with comms, tech, guard duty, and overwatch if necessary," Jawa added as he moved to stand..

"Honestly... that could work," Alex said thoughtfully. "Jawa, you think you can handle this?"

"I can handle it, sir. Those rounds went to the plate."

"Attaboy," Chip laughed, patting his buddy on the shoulder.

"What'll you have us do?" Wright asked from his corner, having listened to the whole conversation.

"... fine," Cyrus accepted after a moment of thought. "I'll take the commandos, figure out a way through the mountains. There are some dirt roads we can use. I can try asking for ISR assets again, but don't expect anything. The rest of you, pack up everything you need for an assault and hit that factory."

"You gotta be able to fit four HVTs, seven friendlies, the bags of SSE material, and all your gear in there, mate," Fletcher said.

"Guess it's a good thing I got one of those bigger vans," Alex sniggered, a determined grin on his face. "Okay, let's pack it out in forty-five minutes. Sound good?"

"Good!"

Ben POV (nightmare)

"You see?" I rasped, having managed to push Joshua off of me at the most recent memory we went through. "If I'm such a problem, why are they coming after me? You're full of lies like always."

"Maybe," he replied with a cruel chuckle. "But do you remember how exactly you were doing, Ripley?"

What little confidence I had melted as we fell back into the memories...

[HEAVY CONTENT WARNING BEGINS]

Ben POV (flashback)

Everything hurt as I cried. My wrists, my ankles, my stomach, my head, my neck, my chest, my nether regions. But what hurt more than anything was my dignity.

I couldn't even say what Courtney did to me. She stripped off my clothes and proceeded to... well, the manner in which I was raised taught me that sex was an important thing, not something to be indulged in easily (i.e., hookups) or do willy-nilly. While giving me "The Talk," Dad always said it was another level of bonding, something that should only be done in the name of love.

What she did... let's just say it didn't fall into that category. It was nothing short of horrible.

And Joshua stood to the side, videotaping it all and smiling. I couldn't even believe he was this evil. This was the kind of thing you saw on TV or in books.

I grew up with 9/11, and I had seen what groups like al-Qaeda and the Taliban had done on the news. But still, such evil seemed incomprehensible. And yet, here it was, right before me. I almost wished I was one of those poor souls in Afghanistan that got beheaded by terrorists for dissident.

No, not almost. I wished I was beheaded. There was some mercy in that, at least.

"Oh, Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin! That's not any way for the CIA's hero to act!" he mocked, gently dragging the tip of his knife across my face. "Especially not the one that left me like this!"

I had nothing. No witty comeback, no plan, no nothing. I wanted to go home, to die.

"Oh, well. Guess I should have expected this from a goddamn fourteen-year-old. Courtney had her fun with you, but I'm telling you, she's not worn out yet! She's a real crazy bitch, I know. But her perversions sure are fun to watch! I'm sure there are a lot of people that would love this! But that aside, it's my turn to play!" he cackled menacingly as he brought his knife down to my arms and started making little cuts, drawing blood.

Bound, gagged, and hopeless, I could only sob as fear and pain consumed me once more.

[HEAVY CONTENT WARNING ENDS]

Jawa POV (flashback... at 0445 hours)

The plan was simple.

The small factory was in a fenced-off lot, with a two-story abandoned storage building approximately a hundred meters north outside the lot. I was on the roof to establish armed overwatch, covering the yard outside and the front and side entrances. On the ground, the Hales and Chip were assaulting the building. Alexander and Erica were hitting the north entrance while Catherine and Chip hit the east. And lastly, Mike and Zoe were in the van close by the building that was my sniper hide, staying in contact with the other group and guarding the HVTs.

"Everyone, this is Zulu. Radio check, over," Zoe said, her voice coming in perfectly through the comms gear we acquired at Alker.

"Hotel, set," Catherine replied.

"Echo, set," Erica responded.

"Charlie, set," Chip sounded off.

"Alpha, set," Alexander said. "Assault team in positions."

"Oscar, set," I replied, preparing the MK14 EBR I took from the safehouse, kneeling and setting it up on its bipod. "Overwatch established at this time."

... there's a lot of different weapons, I know. Just note that when things go sideways, everything is jumbled. Hell, stuff like this is often too much information to process.

Sorry, back to the matter at hand. Now, I had just made it to the top of the building and had gotten eyes on the target. While the rifle seemed to be in working condition, save for a little dust, I worried that my fires would be inaccurate since I didn't zero the scope.

"It'll be fine, it'll be fine. Just engage stuff that isn't close to any friendlies," I murmured to myself as I scanned the lot. I saw only two 4x4s—including the one we tracked—random garbage, and two men under a light towards the left, smoking.

"Assault team, this is Oscar. I have eyes on two two tangos having a smoke break under a light, towards the eastern end of the building. One has an AK, the other a shotgun. Do you have visual?"

"Roger, Charlie has the shot," Catherine reported. "Oscar, drop the one with the AK. We go loud on you."

Steadying my breathing, I lined up the AK-toting gunman in my sight. For a moment, I considered his attire: normal clothing, no tactical gear of any kind, nothing to indicate he was one of the professional shooters that snatched Ben. He could be one of the cartel's hired guns.

But honestly, that sounded exactly the kind of trick SPYDER would pull. So, I took the shot. Unfortunately, I faced the consequences of not zeroing my scope when my shot landed down and to the right of my target, startling him. Adjusting for this error, I quickly fired a follow-up shot, which hit the tango somewhere center mass. But on the ground, Chip had already fired through the chain-link fence, and both tangos dropped dead within seconds.

"Two tangos down. Assault team, you're cleared to breach," I reported.

"Roger that. Moving to the gate," Alexander replied. Moments later, I could see the team below me, with Alexander as the point man, Chip and Catherine right behind him, and Erica holding rear security as the four stacked up on the gate. After appearing to receive the go-ahead, Chip pulled bolt cutters out of a pocket on Alexander's assault pack. He began to start cutting at the fence.

"Oscar, is there anything else in the yard?" Alexander asked. I felt myself wince at the fact that I could hear the cutting of the fence through his brief comm—cutting chain-link fences is not a quiet ordeal—but knew that it was ultimately necessary for a fast entry.

"Negative, Alpha. No tangos visible."

"Roger... moving to entrances," he said after Chip finished breaching the fence, cutting a hole large enough for him to reach in and unlatch the gate with the handle inside. He pushed the gate open, put the cutters back in Alexander's pack, and the team advanced inside. As planned, Catherine and Chip broke off and moved towards the east entrance while Alexander and Erica made their way to the north entrance.

"Hotel in position... door is unlocked."

"Alpha in position... door is also unlocked. Could be a trap."

"Assault team, be advised, once you're inside, I cannot provide fire support, over," I warned.

"Good copy, Oscar. We'll be careful. Watch your fires, package may be inside. Stand by to breach," Alexander warned. "Three, two, one, execute!"

On his command, each entrance was shoved open and the pairs stormed inside, leaving my view. Not even fifteen second later, I heard gunshots coming from the building—the SPYDER shooters fighting back—as well as the assaulters jabbering on the comms.

...

"Echo just cleared some sort of lab, only unarmed unknowns!"

...

"Hotel is taking fire from something on the catwalk! Does anyone have eyes on?"

...

I took the time to readjust my position, so as to avoid wearing myself out, and check my surroundings for anyone assaulting my sniper hide. Then, I focused back on the factory, where the gunshots were still occurring, but sporadically. After another seven minutes, the gunfire in the small factory ceased.

"All stations, assault team has cleared the factory. We have prisoners. Stand by."

Alexander POV (flashback)

In our assault on the factory, we shot a total of seven gunmen, including the two outside. But what was strange was that we practically mowed them down—despite our team's small size and overall lack of CQB skill compared to more experienced shooters (i.e., the commandos)—and all were Mexican, with no Slavs or Joshua Hallal to be seen.

There were also a dozen other Mexicans, men and women alike. All were wearing aprons, masks, goggles, gloves—stuff you'd see in a chemical lab.

"Damn it! It's just a drug factory!" Erica exclaimed as moved back to the center of the factory, where Chip and Catherine held the captured chemists and gunpoint.

"Yep," I groaned, looking around. "Lotta cocaine, no SPYDER, no Ben."

"Hey, shut it!" Chip shouted, aiming his carbine at a man talking a little too much. "Hey, you guys got anything? Just looks like a bunch of drugs!"

"Nope. This is a goddamn goose chase, unless they know anything," I said, gesturing towards the fearful-looking crowd. "I'll ask... photo?"

"Hang on," Catherine said, lowering her carbine and pulling out her phone. She opened a picture of Ben and showed it to the crowd.

"¿Lo han visto?" I asked, pointing at the photo. After receiving no affirmative response, I asked them again, showing the file photos we had on Joshua Hallal and all of the people the Brits killed during their raid. "¿Para quién trabajan?"

"Answer his question, now!" Chip barked, raising his carbine when the entire crew was silent.

"El Toro! El Toro!" several in the group cried out.

"Shit! They're just low-level workers for the cartel!" I realized, confirming my fears. "This is a goddamn wild goose chase! Get 'em outta here and get back to the van!"

"Múdense!" Erica commanded, corralling the workers out of the factory with Chip backing her up. Moments later, I could hear the doors slam open as the workers ran away. "Oscar, we're coming out the north entrance with a dozen others. They are not a threat, so don't engage!"

"Roger, don't engage the dozen people egressing," Jawa replied.

"Alpha, this is Charlie. The workers are rabbiting. Echo and I are collapsing back to the van at this time," Chip reported.

"Good copy, Charlie."

"Zulu, this is Hotel. There is no sign of the package. I say again, no package. Just a cartel lab," Catherine sighed disappointedly.

"Understood. Relaying information to Havoc now," Zoe replied.

"This isn't good, Cath," I muttered. "What if Dad doesn't find him either?"

"It'll be fine, dear," she replied, her voice soothing as always. "The CIA team is arriving in... half an hour. I'm sure we can make this work."

"I know, it's just that... I failed in so many different aspects. I can't let this kid down too."

"We'll get it done, Alex. We just—"

"Alpha, Havoc has made contact with our targets!" Zoe suddenly said over the net. "The targets with our package, they've made contact with them!"

"Shit! All stations collapse back to the van, now!" I shouted before running, Catherine on my heels. "Zulu, can you patch me through to the team?"

"I'm trying, I'm trying... okay, talk!"

"Havoc, this is Alpha Hotel! Gimme a SITREP!"

"Havoc is in contact with a large, well-equipped enemy force!" Dad replied, gunfire loud and clear in the background. "We believe the package is being held in the compound!"

"Roger that, we're coming to you. What is your position?" I asked as we exited the factory, dashing for the van.

"Negative, Alpha! Move the HVTs to the consulate!"

"What?!? No, we're coming to you, Havoc. What is your position?"

"God damn it, Alpha! You are going to get those HVTs to the consulate and complete the mission! That is an order! Havoc out!" Dad barked before the radio went silent.

"What now, sir?" Jawa panted as he exited the building and ran up to us.

As I stood by the van, I considered our options. Logic said that Dad was right, and that we needed to get the HVTs to the consulate and complete the mission. Besides, we all knew how to get waved through security, considering that Langley had been communicating with the Diplomatic Security Service team at the consulate.

But by the sounds of it, Dad and the commandos were outnumbered and outgunned. Plus, if they were assaulting SPYDER's compound, there was a good chance that Hallal was there—he had it out for Ben, after all—and he'd sooner kill Ben than let him get rescued.

"Erica, you remember how to track the phones?" I asked. "See if you can ping Havoc's position. They have one of the sat phones with them."

"I think I remember how to do that... what if it's turned off, though?" Erica asked, working with the Toughbook.

"Dad probably can't find the 'off' button, so it's worth a try."

"Okay, stand by."

"Alex, what are you thinking?" Catherine asked, sounding concerned.

"Mike, pass me the speedball with AR mags!" I ordered. While at Alker, we divided up the supplies salvaged into three separate backpacks called "speedballs" for increased mobility and easier distribution.

"Okay, here! Got it!" he said, grabbing the speedball that contained a dozen mags of 5.56, three flashbangs, three white phosphorus grenades, two thermite grenades, and a few other items.

"All of you, stay here!" I ordered as I hefted the bag over my shoulder and ran back towards the factory, looking around for the gunmen Chip and Jawa dispatched outside. I ran up and began searching their bodies until I found two key rings, then ran for cartel 4x4s by the building.

"Alex, don't be brash!" Catherine shouted, having run after me.

"The van ain't fast enough, Cath! And they're pinned!"

"So what, you're just going to charge in like Rambo? They could be fighting a small army!"

"I can shoot straight, Cath. I'll be fine," I argued as I tried starting the gray 4x4, only for it to fail.

"Alpha, this is Echo. I've triangulated Havoc's position," Erica reported.

"Roger that, Echo. Transmit that to my phone," I ordered.

"But—"

"Echo, now."

"... on it."

"Alex, one extra man in the fight will not be enough!" Catherine argued angrily, grabbing my arm before I could enter the black 4x4. "You're going to get yourself killed!"

"One man's better than nothing, Cath," I shot back as I opened my phone, activating the navigation.

"The CIA team is less than half an hour away! I'm sure Cyrus can—mmph!" she gasped as I shut her up with a kiss. Because despite everything that happened in the past, I still loved her.

I left her breathless as she wordlessly tried to process what just happened. Using the distraction, I mounted up, testing out the second car key from the dead gunmen. Miraculously, it worked, and the engine roared to life.

"Get it done, Cath! I love you!" I said before disengaging the handbrake and putting it in drive. Leaving my stunned ex-wife, I crashed through the gate and hit the gas, speeding through the streets towards the location in the mountains. Within seven minutes, I was out of the city and off the main highway, driving down a dirt road.

"Alexander Nathaniel Hale, you are an overdramatic dumbass," I muttered to myself as I made a right turn. Suddenly, I had the realization that driving towards a well-trained and well-armed enemy force with lights on may not have been the best idea. So, in what might have been an even stupider move, I pulled over—with no cover or concealment—to flip down the NODs on my helmet and shut off my headlights.

Now, this sounds like a good idea, right?

Wrong. See, I have a decent amount of experience operating with NODs. I have some experience in driving. I have very little in both. While it's certainly possible to do so, considering the numerous times I saw troops do it in Afghanistan, it can be tricky, especially since the NODs screw with your depth perception, and you have to turn your head a lot more (okay, the last bit doesn't apply as much to the Tier 1 GPNVG-wearing operators, but still).

But, despite my dumbassery, I managed to find a road into the mountains and towards my destination. Of course, the terrain was anything but smooth, only worsening my ability to drive and thus forcing me to slow down significantly.

By the time I had been driving for twenty-three minutes, I still hadn't reached my destination. However, had I driven a hundred yards further, I would've been caught in the middle of a firefight. I could just make out a vehicle of some sort at the base of a slope, firing upwards. A couple hundred yards further, I could make out some sort of compound—not Bond villain-esque, but definitely permanent, with some buildings, a chain-link fence, even a tower of some sort that could serve as a sniper hide.

"Okay... you got this... slow is smooth, smooth is fast," I muttered to myself as I dismounted from the 4x4, shrugging the speedball over my shoulders and picking up my MK18. Falling back on my training muscle memory, I stayed low and slow, effectively duck-walking towards the source of the vehicle.

It looked like one of those Polaris UTVs (Utility Task Vehicles) I'd seen troops use in Afghanistan, particularly SOF teams. Hell, with the desert environment, mountains, and the distinct sound of the M2 .50-cal being fired from the UTV's turret, I almost felt like I was back there, just having more of an active role in the fight than jabbering on the radio.

As I got around fifty yards away, I was fairly certain the vehicle was manned by SPYDER, considering that there were six of them. One was manning the gun, one was handling ammo, and one was a rifleman. Three more were moving up the slope, out of the gunner's line of fire. I managed to pinpoint where the SPYDER team was shooting, though I couldn't see who they were shooting.

But, a closer inspection revealed IR lasers from the .50-cal and some of the shooters—something I probably should have noticed earlier, but I didn't—making me realize that they had NODs and I had to practice laser discipline.

"This'll be a challenge," I muttered as I continued to move up, utilizing the distraction provided by whoever they were shooting at. My plan was to take out the gun team first, then the ones on the hill. The trick would not only be working fast, but shooting at the right time.

But, of course, my adrenaline was pumping and the second consideration blew past me. When I was twenty yards out, I shot at the ammo bearer first, but hit the gunner because I stumbled on a rock. He shouted in shock while the rifleman turned around, looking for me. By the time he saw me, I had successfully put three rounds in him. The ammo bearer saw me and began firing with his pistol, but I managed to drop him after several shots towards the vehicle.

Compounding my bad luck, it appeared that the rest of the SPYDER team had noticed that something was wrong, and were shooting at my position. Realizing I had no chance of hitting them that far away, I dashed for the UTV, improvising. Jumping up and pushing the dead gunner's body out of the way, I prayed that there were enough rounds in the belt as I trained the M2 on the general vicinity of the three gunmen.

I depressed the butterfly trigger, unleashing .50 BMG on the shooters, who scattered upon the rounds impacting some yards away from their position. Ensuring to fire in 5-7 round bursts like I saw the Rangers do, I adjusted the gun to take down the individual shooters. Twp went up in pink mist—at least, it would have been pink in daylight—and the other one dropped dead, despite my rounds not impacting him.

It was then that I remembered that the SPYDER team was shooting someone earlier, and it looks like that someone shot back.

"Havoc, this is Alpha Hotel. I've commandeered an enemy .50-cal at the bottom of a hill. Does anyone have eyes on my position?" I asked on the comm after switching it to their frequency.

"Alpha, this is Havoc-4. Damn, it's good to see you," Wright sighed. "Thanks for saving my arse."

"No problem, Havoc-4. Gimme a SITREP."

"Well, around the time you lot left Alker, we'd completed our drive through the mountain to begin our recce. I established overwatch while the rest kept moving. They came into contact with X-rays more than twenty mikes ago, and made damn good progress. But they got pinned inside the compound around five mikes back, which is when the bastards you just shot found me," he explained.

"Roger that. Havoc-1, this is Alpha Hotel. What is your location, over?"

"Alpha, I lost contact with Havoc-1 a few minutes back. Nothing from 2 or 3 either. Their comms are jammed or busted."

"What are you doing now?"

"Well, one of those bastards hit me in the leg when I was moving along the top of the mountain, but I'm okay. Just scanning the compound... hang on, I think I see them. Or at least, I can see a lot of fire around the southeast section of the compound. Good place to start anyways."

"Good copy, 4. Keep me covered. I'm gonna move in to—"

"Wait, wait! Enemy sniper!" Wright interrupted. "Get down, Alpha! Don't move until I tell you to!"

"Roger, 4. Watch yourself," I replied before focusing back on the UTV. Obviously, I wouldn't be of any help in a gunfight between two snipers, so I went ahead and shoved the dead bodies into the dirt and tried to figure out how to reload the M2. I tried remembering what the Rangers did in Afghanistan—bolt forward, cover opened, old stuff cleared, new belt in position, cover closed, bolt retracted, or something along those lines.

"Havoc-4, be advised, I am test-firing the .50. Where exactly are you receiving fire from?"

"Alpha, do you have eyes on a tower-like structure in the compound? Approximately... one thousand meters north of your pos?" Wright asked.

"Hang on... I see the structure, but not the sniper."

"Don't worry, I have eyes on the bastard. Pop off a few rounds at the tower."

"Roger that... firing," I warned as I depressed the trigger, discharging five rounds in the direction of the tower.

"Well... you didn't kill him, but you definitely wrecked the bloke's hiding spot. And... X-ray down," Wright reported with a chuckle as he shot the enemy sniper. "Alpha, be advised, enemy overwatch presence eliminated. You're clear to the compound."

"Roger, Havoc-4. Alpha moving. Be my eyes," I replied as I hit the gas, driving towards the firefight in the compound.

"Okay, mate... turn right, right! Now, left in 100 meters... left, left! Good, you should be able to see it right about now!"

"Oh, yeah. I have visual. Cover me," I ordered as I drove towards the gate on the southern side of the compound.

"Roger, Alpha. Good hunting."

Flooring it, I barreled towards the compound, praying that my stupid idea was dumb enough to actually work. I crashed through the gate, but met no enemies apart from a single guard that tried shooting me, only to get run over. Frankly, I was glad the UTV was tough, given the bullets and human speed bump.

My morbid humor aside, I was relatively surprised at the lack of SPYDER gunmen before realizing they likely were too busy with the rest of Havoc. The compound, while being small, mercifully had paths large enough for the UTV to drive through, allowing me to bring the hate of the .50 with me. There were also plenty of lights, like the ones at construction sites, allowing me to flip up my NODs and regain depth perception.

After letting my eyes adjust to the light, I drove through carefully towards the southeast corner, encountering some SPYDER personnel. Some were armed running the same way I was driving, and some were running the other direction. None noticed me, believing I was one of them.

Finally, I arrived at the scene of the firefight, where around half a dozen SPYDER gunmen were shooting at a small storage building, with another half dozen dead on the ground. Between the gunfire, I could just make out the sound of the M249, which was practically ingrained in my head after my time in Afghanistan.

It was Havoc. I could just make out movement from a window, the doorway, and the rooftop. The SPYDER shooters were spread out and in good positions, but it seemed like they had tried and failed to assault the building. Suddenly, one of them turned around to reload, noticing my arrival.

"Shoot them!" he commanded, his Slavic accent almost completely overpowering his English. I gave him a thumbs-up and moved from my seat to the turret. Thankfully, he turned around, continuing to fire on the building with his AK.

When a few bullets came a little too close, I realized that I probably looked like a SPYDER machine gunner to my Dad and the Brits. Staying low, I trained Ma Deuce on the nearest tango and depressed the trigger. Given the close range, I was able to make quick adjustments to engage all six tangos at lightning speed. By the time they figured it out, they were pink mist.

"Thank you, Mr. Browning," I murmured to the heavens before looking towards the building. "Blue, blue! I'm a friendly!"

"What the—Hale?!?" Davies shouted from the roof, kneeling with his M249. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Saving your asses! Now c'mon!"

"Alex, are you out of your damn mind?!?" Dad yelled as he exited the building.

"Oh, will you shut up and get over here?" I groaned as I swung the turret around, watching for enemies.

"You little—"

"Gents, this is not the time for one of your little pissing matches!" Fletcher admonished as he jogged towards the UTV, with Davies close behind as he climbed down. "We need to go, now!"

"Where's Ben?" I asked, my concern shifting to my other objective.

"We're not entirely sure. It's a small compound, but there are one too many buildings. Plus, we've already killed more than a dozen X-rays. The alarm's been raised, and there are likely more approaching our position. Plus, all our comms are down. Shot out or malfunctioned because of the elements."

"So, we ask 'em!" Davies suggested matter of factly before walking towards a SPYDER shooter laid up against a truck. He wasn't one of the ones I shot, but apparently, he hadn't been killed earlier by Havoc's defensive fires. "Oi, wanker! Where's the kid?"

The gunman replied something in that same Slavic language again, making Davies sigh and turn back towards us.

"Could I get a photo of Ripley? ... thanks, Fletch," he said as Fletcher walked up, pulling up an image of Ben on his phone. Suddenly, he hit the wounded gunman in the shoulder with his M249's buttstock, making the man scream in pain. "Once again, where is this kid? Say it in English, arsehole! We know you speak it!"

"Okay, okay! Northwest sector, white building! Labeled K-2 on the side in paint!" the SPYDER employee gasped hurriedly.

"Who else is there?"

"Šéf! The boss! He lacks an eye! A-and the lady doctor!"

"How many fighters are on this base? How many?"

"Y-you killed my team! There are three others!"

"Wait a sec... twelve-man team?" I called from the turret, with Davies repeating my question and receiving an affirmative. "Hey, I met six of 'em on the way here! How many have you dropped?"

"Six outside the compound, eleven inside. Two teams down, so we're looking at twenty-four men or more," Dad reasoned.

"Make that twelve inside," Davies said as he put a round in the gunman's head, killing him instantly. "His wounds were mortal. It was mercy."

"We aren't saying a thing," Fletcher replied grimly, patting him on his back as he put his phone away. "C'mon, let's go! Cyrus, take the wheel!"

"Oh, and by the way, there's a speedball by the front seat," I said. "All the 5.56 you want."

"That a boy, Hale!" Davies laughed as he slapped me on the back before taking a seat and passing out the mags. "We were about to run dry. Hell, I'm on my last belt for the SAW—finished off the belts these two were carrying as well!"

"That's great, guys!" I replied as I noticed another UTV pull around the corner. "But now's the time to burn rubber!"

"Alright, lads! Who's ready for some James Bond shite?"

"Havoc-4, this is Alpha. We're rolling to the northwest sector of the compound. Requesting armed overwatch," I said over the comm.

"Copy your last. Go get 'em," Wright replied.

As Dad hit the gas, I engaged the UTV, shredding it with a few well-placed rounds. He swung us around, driving us past the wreckage and towards the building. Though, as it seemed, the SPYDER teams caught on, setting up a makeshift blockade ahead of us.

"Oh, hell! Right, right, right!" Fletcher shouted as he opened fire on the blockade, with Dad making a sharp left. "Okay, left, left!"

"Shit, contact rear!" I warned as I swung the M2 around, trying to aim at the UTVs pursuing us without falling in the process due to Dad's fancy driving. Honestly, it wasn't necessary considering that it was a little dirt path in a small compound, not an open road.

Erica will deny it all she wants, but as it seems, dramatics are a Hale family trait.

Finally, after several failed attempts and close calls with rounds that whizzed by me (contrary to popular belief, the .50 BMG shockwave will not kill you), I took down both vehicles in rapid succession, ending the threat.

"Cyrus, left, left!" Fletcher shouted, directing my dad. "Alex, right roof!"

"Hang on!" I groaned as I swung Ma Deuce forward and tilted upwards, engaging the shooter on one of the rooftops as we drove by. I wasn't sure if I got him, but it definitely looked like the roof collapsed and brought him down. "We're clear!"

"Good! Stay on rear security!"

"Check!"

"Wait, shite! Contact front!" Davies barked as we turned right into an enemy ambush. The SPYDER shooters had two UTVs with .50-cals of their own, plus a bunch of small arms. "Back up, back up, back up!"

Davies, Fletcher, and I gave it everything we had with our weapons systems while Dad put us in reverse, but we didn't get too far before several rounds hit our engine block, disabling our UTV.

"DISMOUNT, DISMOUNT!" Dad bellowed, with him and the Brits quickly jumping off and running for the sides of the road for cover. Like an idiot, I stood my ground, focusing my fires on the UTVs and destroying them before I ran out of ammo.

"Winchester! Winchester!" I shouted as I jumped down, running for the right side of the road. I slid beside Davies, who stood alone with his SAW. Breathing heavily, I realized that I had forgotten my carbine, and was down to my P228.

"Ah, shite! Reloading!" Davies warned as he took cover and pulled out a mag, shoving it into the magwell (because apparently, the M249 can use regular mags, but it's so unreliable, it's only used in emergencies... like now). "C'mon, you got high, I got low!"

"Roger!" I shouted as I took my position as the high man, firing around the corner with my pistol, while Davies was in the low man position, laying down rounds towards the enemies on the left. Across the street, Dad and Fletcher were shooting at the bad guys on the right.

I wasn't sure how much I was actually doing, considering I was using a pistol—the firearm I was least qualified to handle—at a range of at least twenty yards. But I kept up the fire, and maybe even dropped a tango in the process. But still, it was just a pistol at a relatively far range, and I had no carbine, and any throwables were still in the speedball.

"Wait, shit!" I realized as I took cover, realizing I did have a throwable hooked to my plate carrier: a single M34. I unhooked the white phosphorus grenade and prepared to throw it, warning the rest of the team. "Willie Pete out! Willie Pete out!"

Thankfully, despite the gunfire, the other three were able to hear me and took cover as I pulled the pin and threw the grenade at the enemy. A moment later, the grenade split open, unleashing smoke and fire on the enemy position. Those that weren't burned by the white phosphorus were quickly cut down by our rounds.

Soon, it grew quiet, with Fletcher calling for a ceasefire. Canting my pistol around the corner, I could make out a building thirty yards beyond the dead enemy fighters, with "K-2" on its side.

"Guys, I got Kilo-2! It's on your side... er, forty-something meters dead ahead! It's the building right by the fence!" I shouted across the road, remembering that their comms were down.

"Check! Everyone arm up!" Dad replied, with the rest of us reloading our weapons and getting ready to move. "Ready?"

"Gotta get my carbine!"

"Okay, you two come to us. Alex, you first!"

"Moving!" I warned, dashing for our disabled UTV, grabbing my MK18 and speedball before running to Dad and Fletcher. "Okay, Davies!"

"Moving!"

"Alright, everyone good?" Dad asked as Davies came across. "Okay, on me."

Hugging the side of the road, we advanced. Dad was on point, Fletcher and I watched the side, and Davies brought up the rear to maintain security. After skirmishing with at least two dozen SPYDER gunmen, the silence in the camp was deafening. I almost expected an ambush, Bond-villain-henchman-horde style, but nothing came as we maneuvered around the burning blockade and arrived at building K-2.

"Havoc-4, this is Alpha. Do you have eyes on our position in the northwest sector?" I asked on the comm.

"Uh, hang on, Alpha... affirmative. You're just beyond that fire, right?"

"Roger that. About thirty yards east of it."

"Yep, I've got you. I'm not seeing any movement apart from you. There doesn't seem to be anything happening anywhere else in the camp. X-rays seem to have bugged out," Wright replied.

"Roger. Be advised, we are about to make entry into a building. It's right by the fence."

"Good copy, I have visual on the building."

'Okay... remember the drills. Remember the drills,' I chanted in my head, steadying my breathing and hands. 'Dynamic entry. Watch your shots.'

Dad thumped his left fist against his helmet, motioning for the breacher. Stepping around him, Fletcher pulled out a shortened M870 and aimed it at the locking mechanism of the door. Holding the muzzle almost on top of the door, he fired two rounds before flattening himself against the wall and donkey-kicking the door in, allowing us to make entry.

Dad went left, I went right, and Davies went up the middle. As I brought my carbine down from the high ready position and turned on my flashlight, I made out a chair in the dark room. Sitting in it was the very person we'd been looking for: Ben Ripley.

Seeing him, I had tunnel vision, forgetting about the rest of my slice and the other person that stood up from behind the chair with a pistol: the boss with one eye gone himself, Joshua Hallal.

Hallal fired his pistol twice, hitting Davies, then turned towards me. Time seemed to slow down as the adrenaline surged through my body. Not only was Ben in the way, but Joshua was moving to point the pistol at him.

In that moment, I remembered something a Ranger once told me on deployment: 'Standoffs ain't gonna happen. It's not like the movies. You have to take the shot or you lose your buddy forever.'

So I fired, putting several rounds in Hallal's center mass, making him crumple to the floor and firing a shot at the ceiling. Maneuvering around the chair, I continued shooting his body before the carbine clicked, making me realize I had expended an entire magazine.

If thirty rounds—plus one in the chamber—center mass wouldn't do it, I wasn't sure what would.

"Not this time, you son of a bitch," I muttered as I reloaded my MK18. "Clear! Davies?"

"Clear! And I'm good! Took it to the plate," he responded as Fletcher entered the room. "I'm good."

"Got one here," Dad called, pulling a blonde woman in a lab coat to her feet from behind some footlockers—the lady doctor.

"Please don't hurt me!" the woman said as Dad restrained her with the zip-cuffs and forced her to her knees, keeping her under his control. "He kidnapped me, forced me to be a doctor for his men! I-I had no choice!"

"Alright, calm down," Fletcher said. "What's your name?"

"K-Kimberly Shell! Please, just let me go!"

"Miss Shell, I need to ask you a few questions..."

[HEAVY CONTENT WARNING BEGINS]

"Oh, shit! Ben!" I exclaimed as I moved back in front of him, pulling out my knife to cut the duct tape that bound him. Closer examination revealed that he was completely naked, his ripped clothes in a pile by the chair. He was bloodied, bruised, sweaty, and barely breathing while I carefully removed the tape from his face. "Ben? Talk to me, buddy."

I could see more blood and tear trails on his face as he partially opened his eyes, focusing on me.

"P-please... no... m-more..." he croaked, his voice hoarse from dehydration and whatever else that bastard Hallal did to him.

"It's okay, son. You're safe. You're coming home," I soothed before looking around for something I could use to cover him up. On a table next to Hallal's dead body, I found a large towel, and wrapped it around him. "Just hang on, kiddo."

"I got water if he needs it," Davies said, pulling out a canteen from his pack. Nodding, I took the canteen and slowly let Ben sip the water.

"Alright, buddy. Slow sips, okay? Slow sips."

Meanwhile, Dad was taking pictures of Hallal's dead body for intel to process, Fletcher was still interrogating Shell, and Davies was looking outside for enemies.

"Okay, Hallal," Dad muttered as he stepped away from the body and looked at the video camera on a tripod facing Ben—as if Hallal wasn't sick enough. "Yes... yes... stupid thing. Uh... Alex?"

"Dad, I'm busy," I muttered as I had gone from watering Ben to applying bandages to his open wounds.

"Alex, you need to see this," he said, his tone serious.

"Davies, can you patch up Ben?"

"On it," he replied, stepping forward and taking over, surprisingly gentle compared to his normal, tough visage. "Alright, lad. You're doing fine. We gotcha..."

"Dad, what the hell—" I began before he showed me the camera.

"Alex, I don't keep up with the news much, but haven't you seen her before?" he asked, showing the image of Shell.

"Dad, there are a lot of blondes—wait, actually... play the tape."

"I don't think you want to do that," he replied, adopting a countenance of... nervousness?

"Dad, play the damn tape."

"Alex—"

"Dad!"

"Okay, you asked for it!" he thundered before playing the video. As it seemed, Hallal was recording it. But the first thing we saw was not his torture of Ben, but... the Shell stripping off Ben's clothing? She then proceeded to... I can't even say it.

And then, it hit me. I'm not exactly the most informed person in the world, but I still watched the news. I remembered one story that shook me in particular. There was a Californian resident doctor involved in a wide number of rape cases, but as the perpetrator, not the victim. She had more than a dozen charges under her belt, with her victims including males and females as young as seven and as old as eighty-three. Adding to the tragedy, some time after her sentencing, someone attacked her transport, killed several cops, and she disappeared.

There are a bunch of newscasts that will forever stay with me, but this was one of the worst. The woman was Courtney Lemon, AKA Kimberly Shell, the "innocent" Valley Girl Fletcher was interrogating right now.

I felt a new kind of rage course through me, my fists clenching. It was a fury that I hadn't felt in a long time, a hate reserved for the truly despicable. The last time I was this angry, I was watching 9/11 go down on live TV.

And now, it was directed at the woman kneeling on the ground before me. My vision turned red as I walked up and knelt down to her level, gently pushing Fletcher to the side. I could hear him calling my name, but I paid no attention.

"Just one more question, Miss Shell," I said, a small smile on my face.

"Yes, anything!"

"Well," I began, trailing off. In a swift movement, I had unsheathed my Ka-Bar and buried it in her stomach, making her scream out in pain, with the Brits shouting, startled. I twisted the knife, making her cries intensify, before punching her in the face.

"What the hell are you doing?" Fletcher shouted, but I didn't acknowledge him, focusing on Lemon. I proceeded to pull out the knife and stab her in the... well, long story short, I infibulated her.

"This is what you like doing, huh Doctor Lemon?" I growled as I twisted the knife, only making her scream more. "You like having your way with innocent men, women, children?"

"S-stop! P-please!" she cried, but I paid no heed to her begs. I just wanted her to feel what Ben felt. I grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look towards her victim, where Davies shielded Ben's eyes and ears.

"You prey on kids like him? Did you enjoy what you did, you sick bitch?!?"

She replied with nothing more than pained screams and coughs and I left my knife in her nether regions and began beating her senseless. Because of her, more than a dozen innocent people—including children—had been defiled. Because of her, seven LAPD cops—men that were husbands, fathers, brothers, sons—were dead. Because of her, Ben would never be the same. Because of her—

"ALEX!" Dad shouted behind me, making me stop. Slowly turning around, I saw the looks of horror on every man's face, with Lemon's screams fading into the background as my rage began to dissipate. I realized what I was doing. It felt so right, and yet...

I shook my head, believing that I was still in the right, but ceased my brutality nonetheless. We were running out of time, anyway.

"See you in hell, bitch," I growled venomously as I pulled out the knife and cut her throat. I was fairly certain that a few more slashes would allow me to actually behead her, but I abandoned her bloody, writhing body.

"What... the... bloody... hell?" Fletcher asked, grabbing me by my plate carrier.

"Look up 'Courtney Lemon' when you have access to the Internet," I replied coolly as I pushed his arm away and stomped away from the now-dead rapist.

"Hale," Davies said warningly as I approached him and Ben. "What are you doing, man?"

"Davies, relax. I'm good. I'm good," I sighed as I wiped the blade on my sleeve before sheathing it. "I'll carry him out."

"You better be good. C'mon, give me a hand with the rest of the dressings," he ordered, and we fell silent as we continued patching up the now-unconscious Ben. Soon we had finished what we could and rewrapped him in the towel.

"Listen, all of you. What happened just now... it didn't happen," Dad said grimly as he cut Lemon's zip-cuffs and rearranged her hands, placing a pistol in one of them. "She got a little too close, and knives were used as it was faster than switching to a sidearm. Understood?"

"Yeah," the Brits muttered. Frankly, I was surprised that Dad was willing to cover what I just did—it was a war crime, after all—but there was no time to dwell on it.

[HEAVY CONTENT WARNING ENDS]

"Havoc-4, this is Alpha. Jackpot, I say again, Jackpot. Bravo Romeo has been secured. Eyepatch is EKIA," I reported.

"Alpha, what do you mean Eyepa—oh... belay my last," Wright replied.

"Be advised, we're preparing to move from the building we just breached. Any enemy movement?"

"Uh... wait, I'm picking up movement. X-rays moving from the southwest area towards your position. Can't tell how many."

"Dammit, they must be from the first roadblock!" I realized. "Guys, we got tangos inbound. We have to move."

"How? Our vehicles are down!" Davies exclaimed.

"Uh, lads? We've got company!" Fletcher hissed as we heard noises of approaching vehicles outside. I pulled Ben out of the chair and laid him on the ground, keeping him as low as possible, before putting myself between him and the doorway.

"What do we have, Fletch?" Davies asked.

"Bugger... twelve or so X-rays. .50-cals, PKs, everything. There's no way out."

As if to prove his point, the team of SPYDER gunmen began firing upon us, forcing us to duck low as the rounds impacted the building. Some rounds even penetrated the walls. And worst of all, there was no way for any of us to shoot back.

"Havoc-4, we are pinned down! Requesting fire support!"

"Already on it! But I'm having trouble! Those bastards have their .50s trained on me!" Wright responded, his reply ultimately explaining why we weren't dead yet. "They aren't too accurate, but it's too close for comfort!"

"Shit, RPG!" Fletcher warned as an explosion rocked the building, taking down a good bit of the wall by him. We tried returning fire, but to no avail. I even tried pulling out one of the grenades from the speedball, but there were no times when they let up their fire.

'Well, Alexander Hale, you wanted to die... here it is,' a voice said in my head. And ultimately, it was right. We were all gonna die.

But suddenly, the gunfire seemed to lessen, and I began to hear some from further away. A quick peek revealed that some of the gunmen were actually firing at... the fence? Suddenly, a "thunk" could be heard in the distance, with an explosion consuming some of the SPYDER shooters. This was followed by another explosion and what sounded like a machine gun. Before we knew it, the entire SPYDER crew was eliminated by the hail of lead from beyond the fence.

"Alpha? This is Hotel. Are you receiving me?" a female voice said over the comm. "Alpha? Havoc? Anyone?"

"Catherine?" I gasped before fumbling for my push-to-talk button. "Hotel, this is Alpha. Do you read me?"

"Oh, thank God," she sighed, relief in her voice. "It's good to hear your voice, love. What's your status, and Havoc's?"

"Yeah, we're all okay here. Havoc-4 is up on a mountain to the south, and the rest are with me in the building labeled 'Kilo-2.' We have the package, and Eyepatch is EKIA."

"Say again your last. 'Eyepatch?'"

"Juliett Hotel. Bastard's done in," Wright answered. "I'm okay too, by the way. Alpha, I can just make out the van. It's some thirty meters west of your position, beyond the fence.

"Roger that, we're coming out of the building now. Cover us," I said as I moved to pick up Ben. "Let's go, guys!"

"Rog!"

We exited the building and were met by the carnage Catherine caused: bodies, destroyed UTVs, everything. But there was no time to dwell on it.

"Alpha, the fence might be electrified. You'll have to find another way around," she warned.

"Not necessarily. Fletcher, if you open up my backpack, you'll find a bunch of grenades. Pull out the AN-M14s," I instructed.

"Yeah, hang on... now, hold on, aren't these thermite?" he asked.

"Yeah. Hopefully they'll burn right through."

"Roger that. Take cover, gents," he said as we took cover and he tossed the grenades in rapid succession at the fence. "Thermite out!"

The thermite burned, of course, at lit up our view. For a moment, it seemed like it was going to work... until it didn't. The damage done wasn't enough to completely fry the fence.

"Oh, screw this!" Fletcher shouted in frustration as he ran from his cover and picked up an RPG, reloading the tube and backing away from the fence to ensure that it armed. "Rocket out, rocket out, rocket out!"

The rocket hit one of the fence poles, blowing it open. Shaking my head, I gave the call to move, with us jogging out of the compound on the little energy we had left. I held Ben in a cradle-carry as we ran up the slope. Soon, we found the source of our live-saving fire support: Catherine and the children, all spread out with weapons at the ready. Erica held an M320 we took from the safe house—the source of the "thunk"—Chip was laying down with a PKM, Jawa had the EBR, and the rest had ARs, with AKs laying beside them, presumably out of ammo.

"Dad!" Erica shouted as she stood from her position, dropping the 40-mm grenade launcher and running up towards me. "Oh, shit. Ben?"

"We gotta get Ben outta here,," I said. "What are you doing here? What about the HVTs?"

"The CIA team arrived early at the consulate," Catherine explained. "I... well, shoved those bastards and the intel bags out of the van and came here. Don't worry, Cyrus, they didn't see the kids, so the cover story can be maintained."

"So... is Hallal... dead?" Jawa asked, with the rest of the kids sharing expectant looks.

"Yeah. Thirty-one rounds, center mass. He's done," I replied firmly. "We need to get to the consulate, now."

"Everyone, load up. Kids, leave the weapons behind. We need to maintain the cover story," Catherine ordered. "Havoc-4, what's your pos?"

"I'm coming down the mountain now! Have acquired a 4x4 that someone left the keys in! Should be enough petrol!" Wright replied. I almost mentally facepalmed before realizing that my goof in the heat of the moment was actually helpful.

"Wait a second... Everyone, pile up the weapons away from the van! I've got an idea!" Chip said as he dashed back to the van. After a moment of rummaging, he came back with a grenade in his hand. "Thermite will burn this stuff, right?"

"Good idea, Chip. Actually... can you get me the rest of the grenades? Alex, Cyrus, the two of you should get moving with the kids. We'll handle cleanup," Catherine said. "Like you said, you need to get to the consulate, and lighter is better. Wright's got a vehicle, so we'll be fine."

"... good on you, Catherine," Dad replied, patting her on the shoulder before calling for the kids to load up. "Alex, let's move!"

"See you there, love."

"You too, sweetheart," I replied almost absent-mindedly as Fletcher pulled some stuff out of the speedball. Then, I loaded up in the back with Ben. Once everyone was secure, Dad hit the gas and began driving, with Erica on navigation.

It was quiet the whole drive there. Ben was still breathing, and his pulse, while weak, was consistent. I wished Catherine was here, but she was right: we had to move fast. Erica was navigating, but occasionally looked back towards me and Ben. Zoe and Mike simply stared in silence at their wounded friend. Chip and Jawa, meanwhile, focused on stripping off everyone's tactical gear and covering it with a tarp to maintain the cover story—my guess was that they were trying to distract themselves from the current situation.

Finally, thirty-five minutes later, we arrived at the Consulate General of the United States, driving in the back way and getting subsequently stopped by some DSS agents. One of them walked up to the driver's side window.

"Identify yourself," the agent asked.

"Hale, Fox Hunt," Dad murmured, referencing the name of the operation.

"Roger that, Mr. Hale," he said with a nod before turning back to his friends. "Okay, guys! Let 'em through!"

I felt the van moving again as we got past security before stopping in a garage. The rear door opened, and we were met by the same DSS agent and a few other men in tactical gear.

"Sorry for the deception, Mr. Hale—wait, what's with all the kids?" he asked.

"We were on a field trip with our school! We got abducted by the cartel and Mr. Alex and Mr. Cyrus rescued us!" Jawa said quickly, putting on the best scared teenager impression he could.

"Our friend was hurt!" Chip added, acting similarly to Jawa as he pointed towards Ben.

"Relax kids, you'll be fine. So will your friend," the agent soothed. "C'mon, sir, we'll take him. Trust me, we'll take good care of him."

"Okay, comin' to you."

An hour later, we were inside one of the less crowded areas of the consulate. The kids were kept in a lounge with food and water while I sat outside an operating room. As we had found out, the DSS agent that waved us through was actually one of the CIA officers sent to retrieve us, but in disguise to ensure the DSS agents on-site knew nothing about the CIA op. Hell, only a few agents in the detachment's chain of command actually knew they were here, and all they knew was that the CIA was transporting some prisoners back to the US, Con Air-style.

Speaking of the prisoners, they were being kept in a holding cell in the facility, under the watch of DSS agents. I voiced some concerns, but one of the officers told me that—by sheer coincidence—one of the agents was an old friend of his from the Air Force, and he trusted him.

Oh yeah, the six-man team? They were all prior Air Force, having served on the same Special Operations Surgical Team together for eight years before being recruited into the Agency.

As for our friends from MI6, they arrived ten minutes ago and ended up crashing inside an office next to the lounge. Well, except for Catherine, who stripped off her gear and came to sit with me, informing me that the camp was clean. After several minutes of waiting, Baker—the team's emergency physician and the officer disguised as a DSS agent—stepped outside of the OR.

"Is he—?" Catherine began.

"He's fine, ma'am. The kid took a beating, but he'll be okay," Baker reassured. "He's stable now, and can fly out with us."

"Thank you."

"Yeah... poor kid. Got caught up with a damn cartel. You'd think those bastards would draw a line, right? Why the hell would you attack a school field trip?"

"No idea, man," I sighed, going along with the story. "No idea."

"Yeah... I'll get back to it."

It seemed that the worst was over. But then Dad came back, holding the video camera we found at the SPYDER compound.

"Dad, what's wrong?" I asked, standing from my seat.

"Take a look," he said, playing back the footage on the camera. Catherine shared my grimace at what we saw, but that grimace turned to horror at one specific section towards the end of the tape.

"Okay, Ripley. Sounds like your friends are here to save you," he said as he held Ben's throat. "Such a shame... I was hoping that we could have a little more time together. Well, guess what? Even if I die and they win, you will still lose. Remember your precious family? Your mama, your papa, your brother, your sister? What are their names... Jane, Ronald, Charles, Jill?"

I found my eyes widening. He wouldn't... would he? Yes, I knew he tortured Ben and set a rapist on him, but was he seriously going to go this far?

"Yeah, I've got some of my people watching them right now. If I don't call them by 9:11 AM... yeah, your family's going to die. It's poetic, isn't it? You now consider me a terrorist, so it only make sense I kill your family by 9:11 Eastern. Like the terrorists that destroyed so many families in 2001 on 9/11. What a fun sequence of numbers, huh? I honestly love it!"

And at that chilling remark, the tape stopped.

I moved to check my watch, before forgetting that I traded it with a civilian for his van and a tank of gas. Dad showed his own timepiece: it was 0700 local, meaning that it was 0900 Eastern.

"Oh, shit... we have to—"

"Take it easy, Alex. I already relayed it up the chain. FBI and Marshals are inbound to the Ripley residence," Dad interrupted.

"Oh, God..." Catherine breathed. "How do we...?"

"I... don't know."

Third Person POV (flashback)

As the Hales tried to figure out their next move, an FBI SWAT team was inbound to the Ripley residence from the Bureau's DC field office. Their briefing had been... well, brief. All they knew was that a family of "witnesses," apparently, were in danger of being murdered by a terrorist hit crew. The operators wondered how exactly a random suburban family got involved with terrorists, but had no time to think, only to act.

They were moving in three unmarked SUVs, each with five operators. Their plan was for six men to breach through the front, three through the back, and keep the last six at their vehicles and maintain a perimeter.

They passed by several cars on the way to the residence—people going to work or taking their kids out to enjoy the summer day—and by the time they arrived, the street was practically deserted. Following the plan, the SWAT team leader brought his men up to the front entrance, stacking on the door.

"Ronald Ripley! Federal agents, open the door!" the point man shouted as he pounded on the door. "Jane, Charles, Jill! Federal agents!"

"Shit. Stand by to breach," the team leader ordered on the radio after hearing no movement inside. Nodding, the point man motioned for the breacher to come up with a battering ram. "Front entry, set."

"Rear entry, set," an operator at the back door said.

"Three, two, one, execute." At his command, the operators bashed through the door and rushed in, shouting that they were federal agents.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"West downstair, clear!"

"Boss, one female KIA!" one operator reported from the kitchen. "I think it's Jane Ripley!"

"Male KIA in the living room!" another said as the team leader walked in, seeing Ronald Ripley dead in his chair, his newspaper lying on the ground covered in blood. There were gunshot wounds in his chest.

"Hey, downstairs is all clear," another reported.

"Yeah, I know. Oh, shit," he cursed. "All stations, parents are KIA. Anyone have eyes on the kids?"

"Sir? I've... I've got two bodies in the upstairs bathroom," an operator hesitantly reported, his voice shaky. "It's the kids. They're... they're dead. Gunshot wounds. But otherwise, the house is all clear, sir."

"Oh, God..." the team leader muttered, his heart heavy as he went upstairs to check on the rest of his operators. By the sounds of it, the one that reported the dead kids was the new guy on his team. He made his way to the bathroom to find him just standing there, staring at the dead bodies in the bathtub. A boy—Charles—had curled around a girl—Jill—in an effort to protect her.

"Hey, kid?" the team leader asked, tapping the younger man on the shoulder and snapping him out of his trance.

"S-sir?" he gasped, noticing the agent he reported to. "I-I'm sorry, sir. I just—"

"It's okay,," the team leader soothed, clasping his subordinate's shoulder. The young man had been in the FBI for three years, and was in his probationary period on the team. He was one of the best candidates in the Tactical Recruitment Program—superb marksmanship, fitness, critical-thinking, and command of procedure—but this was ultimately his first run with the team.

"Kids, sir?" the young operator whispered, still in shock. "Why?"

"There's a lot of evil in this world, son," the older man answered calmly, recalling his twenty-one years in the FBI, seventeen of which were in SWAT. "And we can't save everyone."

"Boss, local PD are arriving," one of the operators on the perimeter, sirens audible outside. The team leader patted the younger man's shoulder once more before having him come downstairs with him.

A few minutes later, three squad cars showed up. The police officers were extremely surprised to run into federal agents, and informed them that a 911 call came in about gunshots from the residence. The team leader would explain what happened, and soon, the neighborhood was swarmed with law enforcement. FBI agents, US Marshals, and local cops worked together to try and catch the murderers.

They wouldn't, despite their best efforts.

While this was going on, the CIA teams, the MI6 team, and the HVTs would arrive at Langley, and debriefing would commence. The SPYDER prisoners would be sent to Guantanamo Bay, Adrien Dubois would be transported to Europe to face trial, and all intel gathered was dissected by a horde of analysts.

The intel would prove to be a gold mine. Mexican Marines of the Naval Infantry Corps—one of the few Mexican military/law enforcement entities to not get compromised by the cartels—would use the Mexican intel to great effect alongside American forces to take down elements of the Sinaloa Cartel.

The European intel would be passed on to Europol and Interpol, who would go on to use it to begin their takedown of Dubois's network. Within a few months, all major players—from suppliers to fences to clients to enforcers—were either dead or in custody of whatever country had first dibs.

As for SPYDER, with the death of Joshua Hallal and the intel extracted from captured personnel, the CIA was able to launch several operations through JSOC and federal law enforcement to take down the remnants of the criminal organization. Stations in the US and abroad would be raided, and moles within the CIA, FBI, MI6, and other agencies would be caught. And while nobody knew it, the Ripleys' murderers would end up being killed by DEVGRU and HRT operators during a mission to capture a SPYDER asset in the Horn of Africa.

It was a major intelligence victory... but like any victory, there was a cost. Ben would go home to find that his entire family—his parents and siblings, the four most important people in his life—were dead at the hands of Hallal's assassins.

Over the next year-and-a-half, he would slowly lose his sanity. He would find solace in the gym, library, and shooting range, and improve himself as a junior officer. But he would never come to terms with what happened, and nightmares would continue to plague him. He kept up a cheerful appearance, and his friends would regret not being able to see through it. Had it not been for Alexander and Catherine—the two adults most prominent in the boy's life after his parents' passing—well, you know the rest.

Ben POV (nightmare)

"So, as you see, Ben," Joshua said as we completed the forced tour of the memories, bringing us back to a room of darkness and shadows. "Despite what you may think, you are the loser, and the one to blame for all that has happened."

"No... no, this was your doing. You did this!" I shot back, shaking my head in denial. But then, the images of their bodies in the city morgue surrounded me when I went to identify them. It was cold, dark, and smelled of formaldehyde. It was nightmarish.

"No, you did. You had no place in Mexico, Ben. You didn't belong there, just as you didn't belong in the CIA's child soldier program. All you are is a tool, someone that believes he's doing the right thing, but all you have done is launch more American missions across the world. And let's be frank, there's always collateral damage: innocents are either hit instead of the target or hit in addition to it. And let's not forget the soldiers we send in! You have enabled death, Ripley. And for your sins... someone had to pay. But like a coward, you didn't die, and the ones paying your debts were your family."

I tried to push him out of my head. They were just the words of a dead man... right?

"No, no, dear Benjamin," he chuckled as shoved me back, making me stumble. Everything else in this nightmare felt like a virtual reality experience, or a really authentic museum. This? It felt real. Too real.

"Well? Looks like those reports of my 'death' were greatly exaggerated."

"This... this isn't possible," I gasped, my breathing growing heavy as I tried backing away from him.

"Oh, I assure you. It is possible."

"Wha—how?"

"Not 'how,' but why! Like I said, you weren't meant to come to Mexico, or even the CIA. None of this would've happened if you said 'no.' But join you did. And for what? Honor? Patriotism? To save the world? No, you're no savior. Hell, as we can see from these lovely images," Joshua taunted, gesturing towards the pictures of my dead family. "Your talents lie elsewhere. The truth, Ripley, is that you're here because you want to feel like something you're not: a hero."

I had no response to his taunts, for he wasn't wrong. I was in a world of delusion and boredom, and wanted something more. I thought that when Alexander showed up at my house to recruit me into the Academy, it was opportunity knocking, and a chance to help... or was it a chance for greatness?

"As for me, I'm here as your last punishment. Because you and I are far from different."

"No," I muttered, trying to fight back against his words. "No. You're a psychopath. I don't go around killing people on a whim?"

"No? The CIA and MI6 teams had to risk their lives to save your worthless hide. And the intel that they gathered, that you gathered, has only unleashed American forces more around the world. What if the intel's bad? What if the plans and executions are bad? What if the people carrying out the ops are bad? The blood of innocents are on your hands, but you refuse to die and accept your fate. The fact is that we're both killers, we're both the same person. You will always be my puppet."

"It's not true!" I shouted, but it came out more hoarse than bold. "You're wrong about all of it, you bastard!"

"Well, I didn't think it'd come to this!" Joshua cackled, amused by the whole thing. "Fine, then! I'll make you a deal!"

Suddenly, the images of my family were gone, and all that remained was a giant mirror beside us and black smoke everywhere else. He and I each held a pistol—the same pistol he wielded in Mexico.

"We're not going to live your lie forever. I'm going to count to five, then I'm going to pull the trigger," he declared.

"You can't do anything," I argued weakly. "This is all in my head."

"Are you sure? Maybe it's in mine," he taunted, further unbalancing me. "One."

"No... this was all your fault! Yours!"

"If that's what you believe, then shoot me! Two!"

"I... I didn't want anyone to get hurt," I whispered as my resistance crumbled and his words took over. All my progress that I had made getting over it was for naught. I was alone, and I had blood on my hands.

"That's what all sinners say on trial. Three!"

I raised my pistol in fear, my arms shaking as I pointed it at Joshua out of desperation. I wanted to pull the trigger. I needed to. But I couldn't.

"Four!"

I looked towards the mirror, searching for some sort of clue, some sort of way out. But all I saw was me: my reflection and Joshua's were both me. He was right, and yet he was here in front of me. If I shot him, I'd just shoot myself. Confusion and terror swirled around in my head.

"Just as I thought," he chuckled cruelly. "Poor Ben Ripley. No mother, no father, no brother, no sister. All alone. FIVE!"

I squeezed my eyes shut and raised my pistol.

BANG.

After that, there was nothing but silence. Slowly, I opened my eyes to see Joshua, aiming a pistol at me. And yet, no smoke came from either of our guns' muzzles, despite the very loud, very obvious gunshot.

"Wh... what?" Joshua gasped as he began to fracture like cracked glass. Blinking in confusion, I looked towards the mirror, which was cracking in a similar manner, but Joshua's reflection was his, rather than my own.

"He's not alone," a voice boomed from the shadows to my right. It was a male voice, sounding like a giant and radiating strength like a god.

"No... no. No! NO!" Joshua screamed in rage as he turned towards the shadow, shooting rapidly towards whatever was in there. After twelve shots, he turned back towards me, a crazy look on his face, before firing thrice. But no bullets came flying, only smoke, with both our pistols dissolving right after.

"Not this time, you don't," the voice thundered. Joshua continued to fracture, roaring in anger, before his body and the mirror collapsed into a pile of broken glass. The pile then quickly dissolved into black smoke, leaving me alone in the dark room.

Slowly, a figure began to walk from the smoke, the thumping of his footsteps sounding like heavy boots. I should've been scared, and yet... I felt calm, lighter, as if a big weight dropped from my shoulders.

Finally, the source of the voice—at least, that who I assumed he was—came into view with a smile on his face. He was younger than I thought, looking somewhere between eighteen and twenty years old. He was clean-shaven and thin, but I had a feeling he could kick some serious ass. He was dressed like a soldier, but not like any shoulder I'd ever seen. His gear was considerably simpler, his rifle was made of iron and wood, and looked more like something you'd see in a museum.

"Wait a minute," I muttered as I saw his left sleeve: three chevrons and a rocker, indicating the rank of staff sergeant, and above that, an eagle with the word, "Airborne." It was the insignia of the 101st Airborne Division, the "Screaming Eagles."

Furthermore, his face looked startlingly similar to photos of my dad when he was in high school. And at that, the alarm bells went off it my head as I remembered one specific name from my family tree—the name of a man that fought in World War II and Korea, the one Ripley that was a warrior:

"Clyde Ripley?"

"In the flesh," he replied, his grin growing wider as he stepped forward and held out his right hand. "Nice to finally meet you, Benjamin."

"Y-you too, sir," I stammered as I shook his hand. What was my great-grandfather doing here?

"Ah, relax! It's me, your great-grandpa... apparently. Honestly, I still can't believe I have a great-grandson, but it feels—well, great!" he laughed. "Ah, that was a knee-slapper, huh?"

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Eh, Thelma—your great-grandma—wasn't fond of my humor either. It's fine," Clyde replied, waving off my confusion before returning his hand to his rifle—an M1 Garand, if I remembered correctly.

"Hang on, so that gunshot... that was you?"

"Of course! Nothing a little .30-06 can't fix! Besides, I said you're not alone, didn't I?"

"How are you here right now? Aren't you... y'know, dead?"

"Ah," Clyde sighed, his cheerful grin fading into one more somber. "Well, you're correct in thinking that I'm dead. As for how I'm here... just follow me."

With that, he turned back around, walking into the smoke. I stayed behind, both unsure of what to do and scared of the darkness.

"You comin' or ain'tcha?"

"Coming, coming!" I said, choosing to take a chance and run into the smoke. After a moment of darkness, I found myself crashing through a door and into a well-lit tunnel, where Clyde stood before me, a smirk on his face.

"Nice to see you, Ben. Now don't fall," he teased as I steadied myself and began to follow him. "Now, c'mon."

"What the hell..." I muttered, looking around me. Rather than feel claustrophobic, I felt comfortable and oddly safe. "What is this place?"

"A world between worlds, so to speak. It's above my pay grade."

"Are you... some sort of spirit?"

"Let me put it this way: when you die, you meet Saint Peter at the pearly gates of Heaven, right?" Clyde explained. "Well, sometimes, a little help is needed to get them there. Saint Michael—the patron saint of warriors, the sick, and the suffering—suggested that some fallen souls in Heaven could give a hand. He formed a group of warriors to provide assistance in getting some souls to Heaven."

"Wait, so you're all under the command of St. Michael? Or is it... God?"

"Let me put it this way: St. Michael is our battalion sergeant major, while our battalion commander is the Lord Himself. The latter issues our orders, and the former makes sure they get done."

"Okay, before I get more confused... you're dead, and I can see you... am I dead too?"

"No. But you came a little too close, 'specially with that Hallal fellow about. He's dead, but you ain't," he replied firmly.

"So what does that mean now? If he's gone, then what am I doing here?"

"You're doin' the same thing I did when I lost men in combat: you beat yourself up about it and destroyed yourself in the head. At least you didn't drink, and focused that hot blood elsewhere. I made bad choices."

"I'm... I'm sorry," I offered, unsure of how to react.

"Don't worry. You didn't kill 'em," Clyde sighed before stopping and turning towards me. "Son, no matter what anyone tells you, you're a warrior. Men like us don't get a happy ending, not always. We complete the mission, protect our brothers, and hopefully come home. But there will always be losses, whether it be friends, families, or even our own sanities. I lost plenty of good men, but oftentimes, the best we can do is carry on in their name.

"With your brother, your sister, your mom, your pop, you gotta do the same thing. Sure, figure out some way to cope, but they don't want you to die too. You've got a life, son. But most importantly, remember this: every man has to take responsibility for his own actions. What Hallal did, he did. What you did, you did. And that's all there is to it. Understand?"

"Yeah... I think so," I quietly replied. "So... is that why you're here? To get me to screw my head back on straight?"

"No. I'm here to bring you to the Waiting Room," he said, opening a door that suddenly appeared on the side of the tunnel. "Here, in the world between worlds, there are some people with unfinished business. It's not your time to die, but you need to handle this."

"Are... are you coming with me?" I asked hesitantly.

"I can't. It's your business, not mine. But don't worry, son," Clyde said with a smile as he patted my shoulder. "I've got your back. Godspeed."

Nodding, I stepped through the threshold into a dark hallway, with the door closing behind me. Walking slowly, I noticed there was something familiar about the place: the hardwood floor, the Black Sabbath playing in the background—my dad played it all the time—the smell of hot chocolate with just a hint of cinnamon. At the end of it, I arrived in a living room. Or, as confirmed by the photos on the mantle, my living room.

"Gotta say, Ben, I didn't think it'd take death for you to actually show up last. As Mom loves to point out, being late is my thing."

I felt my heart stop as I saw the four people I loved and cared about more than anyone else in the world: my family. Mom and Dad sat together on the loveseat, holding each other close like they always did whenever we all had a sit-down. Charles and Jill sat on the floor and appeared to be arguing over a card game, something I constantly remember getting involved in when we hung out together. Now, all four looked at me, small smiles on their faces.

My body stilled as I stared, trying to comprehend what was before me. For the past year-and-a-half, I only saw them in my nightmares or on the picture I kept by my bedside. I braced myself for some sort of nightmarish scene or anger towards me, but they looked positively serene.

"Ben? You good, bro?" Charles asked as he stood, waving his hand in front of my face. "Don't give me that thousand-yard stare of yours now."

"Ch-Charles?"

"Well, I'm not sure who else I'd b—oomph!" he grunted as I grasped him in a hug. Nothing else was on my mind except that my brother stood before me. Chuckling, he hugged me back. "Well, glad to see you too, bud."

"Hey! What about your favorite sister?" Jill interjected, making me release Charles and embrace her. "See? I always told you he likes me better than you."

"Aw, shaddap, sis."

"Charles, be nice to your sister," Mom scolded, making Charles sigh dramatically as he nodded. Soon, Mom joined the hug. "I'm glad to see you, dear."

"Mom..." I gasped, feeling myself on the verge of sobbing like a baby.

"Shh. It's okay. You're fine."

"And believe me, son," Dad said as Mom released me, allowing him to hug me. "When your mother says it's safe, it's definitely safe. Remember that time we—"

"Ron, I love you, but we swore never to talk about that again."

"Aw, Jane—"

"Honey, they don't need to know about the Noodle Incident."

"Wait, wait, wait," I coughed as I stepped back, composing myself. "What, now?"

"Eh, we'll tell you when we're older."

"... I am older."

"Yes, and you've grown!" Mom exclaimed. "I bet you're shaving and driving and seeing girls—"

"Mom!" I groaned, my embarrassment increasing as my siblings snickered behind me. It's amazing how seeing your parents can take you from tears of joy to humiliation in seconds. "Please, no. Literally none of that is happening."

"Well, you can't blame me for being curious!"

"Just let your mother do her thing," Dad stage-whispered. "She loves being nosy."

"Okay, mister. Hush."

"Yes, dear."

"Guys!" Charles interrupted our parents' bickering. "Remember, we gotta take care of this!"

"Right, right, right," Dad sighed as he turned towards me. "I'm sure you have some questions."

"Yeah, what's going on?!?" I exclaimed, confusion seeping in.

"Well, to start off, we are all dead, but you're alive—"

"Ron, there has to have been a better way to put that," Mom scolded as Jill shivered in fear.

"Sorry, Jane. Anyways, generally speaking, those in the Waiting Room are souls with unfinished business. And ours... well, it's with you."

"Me?"

"Long story short, bro," Charles threw in. "We can't move on. That turd, What's-His-Face, got in your head, and you kept clinging to us. You need to let us go, or you're ultimately going to break yourself."

"I think I might be too late in that regard," I muttered, looking shamefully at my feet as I remembered my suicide attempt in Alexander's office. "Nearly took the coward's way out."

"Ben," Mom sighed, gently holding my face and making me look at her. "We don't see you as less of a person. I just wish you wouldn't blame yourself for what happened to us."

"Damn right," Dad added. "Like I'm sure as Grandpa Clyde told you, you've got a life to live, son. You're gonna have a job, make friends, love a woman, raise a kid—but you need to let us go."

"I... I don't want to be alone. I don't want to forget you."

"We had fun together, right?" Jill suddenly said, making me look down towards my little sister as she pointed towards my heart. "Memories. Love. In here."

"As corny and Disney-esque as that is, your sister's right," Mom chuckled. "We're always going to be with you, even when you're old and gray. Seriously, I hope you get to that point."

"Just promise us that you'll move on. It hurts, it always will. But there is always something worth living for. Something worth fighting for," Dad said, a reassuring smile on his face. "Can you do this? Not just for us, but for yourself."

I stared at my family, my mind jumbled in confusion, hurt, and finally, acceptance as I realized what they meant.

"I... I will," I whispered, with Dad grasping me in a hug. "I promise."

"Good."

"I'm sorry... for everything."

"Nothing to apologize for. Just promise me you'll heal okay?"

"Okay..." I murmured, with the rest of my family joining the group hug. I felt something dissolve within my chest at the warmth of my family, but there was no pain. Just... calm.

"Well, your mind must work fast," Charles said with his same sarcastic grin. "This is where we say goodbye, bro."

"But not forever," I replied, a hint of desperation in my voice.

"Nope. Not forever." And with that, we did the same secret handshake we always did before ending it in a solid bro-hug. "I love you. Remember, don't be stupid."

"How can 1? You're taking all the stupid with you," I scoffed back, earning a smile and playful punch in the shoulder.

"I'll miss you, Ben," Jill said as I picked her up in an embrace, with her kissing me on the cheek. "I love you, big bro."

"I love you too, kiddo."

"Kids, could you give us a minute with your brother?" Mom asked. "Tell your great-grandpa we're coming soon."

"Sure, Mom. Race ya!" Jill taunted, lightly shoving Charles before bolting down the hallway.

"Hey, get back here!" Charles laughed as he too disappeared into the shadows.

"So, that girl... Erica, right?" Mom teased when she heard a door slam.

"I... I'm honestly not sure, Mom," I replied. "It's a whole will-we-won't-we right now."

"She's a bit odd, but I could see it happen. Remember, if she's a bitch, stay the hell away. You don't need that toxicity in your life."

"Whoa, language!" Dad admonished, mocking Mom with a falsetto. Generally speaking, Dad drops more curses because of the number of times he's accidentally hurt himself fixing something in the house. "Practice what you preach, missy!"

"Sorry, sorry. But be good, Ben, I love you so much," she sighed as she hugged me, a few tears leaking from my eyes.

"I love you too," I responded, trying to engrave the warmth of her embrace in my memory before we finally broke apart. And with that, she kissed me on the cheek, nodded to Dad, and walked down the hallway without another word.

"Well, this is it," Dad said after a moment of silence. "I'm sorry I can't be there for you anymore, son. I was really looking forward to teaching you how to drive and having a drink with you someday. And I'm sorry I wasn't there for you after what you went through in Mexico."

"You... you know?" I whispered as memories of Courtney and Joshua began to flash in my head. But Dad suddenly grasped my shoulders, and they disappeared as quickly as they came.

"I do, and so does your mother. We're not telling your brother and sister. But make sure that you don't let what those maniacs did define you. You're more than that. You're a warrior, and I'm so damn proud of what you've accomplished."

With that, he crushed me with one of his back-breaking hugs, which I eagerly reciprocated. It hurt to lose them all, but Dad and I had a bond that was particularly special. He parented me and my siblings differently than Mom—he had more emphasis on discipline and self-reliance—but he didn't love us any less than her.

"Dad... I'm scared," I murmured, feeling once again like a small child.

"I understand. Remember, even the greatest warriors feel fear. But you can still keep going, break that fear. I know you can," he replied as we slowly broke our hug. "You're becoming a man, Ben. However daunting you think it is, you shouldn't worry. Some battles, you'll have to fight yourself. But you'll always have us and your friends. And that couple... Alexander and Catherine, I think? I'd say they're good people to ask for advice."

"What are you saying, Dad?"

"Some battles, you'll have to fight yourself," Dad repeated with a grin. "Keep up your good effort and remember your responsibilities. I believe in you, son."

"... thanks, Dad."

"No problem," he replied as he held out his hand, clasping mine in a firm handshake.

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Ben. Good hunting." And with that, he walked into the darkness, patting my back on the way out and leaving me alone in the room. And yet, I didn't feel alone, remembering the words of my great-grandfather, parents, and siblings. Instead, I felt warm, and at peace.

Suddenly, there was a knock beyond the living room, coming from where the front door would be. I walked out of the room and faced the door, the foyer lit up, rather than dark. Nervously, I opened the door, and was met with a view of my street. It was covered in snow, the sky was gray, but I could hear children laughing and Christmas music playing in the distance.

But directly in front of me on the doorstep was a man that looked like the stereotypical spy: trench coat, sunglasses, the works.

"Mr. Ripley?" he asked.

"... yes?"

"It's time to go, sir."

"I'm sorry?"

He then pointed towards the road, where a black SUV was idling. Where did that come from?

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm taking you where you need to go, sir."

"... okay," I replied hesitantly as I stepped down, moving across the snow-covered yard to the SUV. The man in the trenchcoat opened the back door, allowing me to enter the vehicle. Inside, there was another man in an identical outfit in the driver's seat, and his companion soon entered the shotgun seat.

"Seatbelt," the driver said without looking back. After obeying, he put the car in drive and we slowly began moving out of my neighborhood.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Your file is the suitcase beside you, sir. Code is 5-5-6." A look to my left revealed a black suitcase. Slowly, I picked it up and turned the dials on the case, unlocking it. I opened it to find an honest-to-God manila file, complete with a seal labeled "For Your Eyes Only."

"What is this?"

"Details for the op, sir."

"Op?" I queried, but received no response from either man. Shrugging, I broke the seal and opened the file, finding a packet inside. The first page was simply labeled "OPERATION: FUTURE." I flipped it open, but every line inside was redacted with black stripes, just like in the movies. Confused, I kept flipping through it, trying to figure out what the hell the packet was.

Some subtitles were left unredacted: "Objectives," "Equipment," "Intel," etc., but the details that came with them were blacked out. There were only two pages that had any helpful information: "Personnel."

There were several photos on the pages, but not just of any random people. They were all the people that were with me on the Christmas trip! Each photo had a caption with the name and a list of what I presumed to be some of the primary skills each person possessed.

Mike: advanced medical, communications, special tactics, surveillance

Zoe: communications, cryptology, surveillance, interrogation/counter-interrogation

Chip: heavy weapons, demolitions, special tactics, engineering (DIVE-QUALIFIED)

Jawa: sniper, special tactics, close air support, engineering (DIVE-QUALIFIED)

Catherine: cryptology, advanced medical, interrogation/counter-interrogation, surveillance (UK ASSET)

Alexander: aviation, interrogation/counter-interrogation, heavy weapons, special tactics (ROTARY-WING-QUALIFIED)

Cyrus: special tactics, demolitions, surveillance, sniper (ROTARY-WING-QUALIFIED)

There was also a section on the second page that was listed off qualifications that applied to all of the personnel:

AIRBORNE

AIR ASSAULT

SERE

TACTICAL DRIVING

TECHNICAL BREACHING

BASIC TACTICS

BASIC MEDICAL

ETC.

But strangest of all were the captions under the photographs of Erica and myself. Both simply said: [TO BE DETERMINED BY B.R.R.]. Seriously, that was it. Me, Benjamin Ronald Ripley, was in charge of determining what would be done by myself and Erica Hale.

Staring at the page in confusion, I remembered what Dad said: "Some battles, you'll have to fight yourself." I could see how it applied to me, but what about Erica? Was she really so important that I had to decide?

"Sir, what are your orders?" the driver suddenly asked.

"What do you mean? What orders?" I replied in confusion.

"Sir, what are your orders?"

"I don't know what that means!"

"Sir, what are your orders?"

"I don't know—"

"Sir," the man in the shotgun seat said, his voice sounding like the boom of Great-Grandpa Clyde's when he rescued me. "What will you become?"

I sat in silence as I slowly processed the question. As I looked back at the file, staring at the names, the pictures, the captions, it finally hit me.

"What are your orders, sir? Do you know?"

"I think I do."

Ben POV

I awoke with a gasp, staring up at the ceiling of the apartment he was in. Christmas music softly played, and the smells of coffee and hot chocolate floated in from the kitchen. Groaning as I worked out the stiffness in my joints, I sat up.

Looking around me, I saw that Chip and Jawa were nowhere to be seen, with their laughter coming from the kitchen. Zoe and Mike were dead asleep, the latter's snoring audible. As for Erica, she seemed to have awakened around the same moment I did, and was currently rubbing out her eyes. She then turned towards me, and we just stared at each other.

She had bed head, her face was droopy, and in her simple shirt and shorts, she looked like she just woke up. I had a feeling I probably looked just as bad, if not worse. And yet, I didn't particularly care. She was a sight for sore eyes.

"How'd you sleep?" she suddenly asked. And for the first time in a long time, I was able to answer honestly with a smile.

"Pretty damn good, Erica. Pretty damn good."

Congratulations to everyone that read through this behemoth. Please make sure to leave feedback, good or bad.

This chapter is, in my opinion, the lynchpin of the story. Not only for the sake of context, but it also delves into the interpersonal relationships between the characters, personal demons, and lessons of loss, persistence, confidence, and courage. But most importantly, this chapter was all about the gray area: the treacherous waters in which morality is shaky and uncertainty is paramount.

Because that's what the CIA does. That's what warfighters do. And that's who these characters are.

Thank you all for bearing with me through this odyssey. Until we meet again,

- ADF-2