Lieutenant Iris Cade, call sign Raven, accused of treason. Three operatives are dead because of you. The words echo off bare concrete walls, cold and final as a grave being sealed. The man speaking doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. His tone carries the weight of a judge reading a death sentence.

 

 

 He stands under the single overhead bulb, face half shadowed, holding a manila folder like it’s evidence at a trial that’s already over. Vulkoff, 50some, gray haircropped military short, face carved from stone. Former FSB interrogator, the kind who learned his trade in places that don’t officially exist.

 He’s wearing a black tactical shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms marked with old scars. No emotion in his eyes, just the cold efficiency of a man who’s broken hundreds of people and will break hundreds more. The woman sitting in the chair across from him doesn’t respond. Can’t respond. Her hands are zip tied behind her back, wrists raw from 12 days of the same position.

 Lieutenant Iris Cade, 27 years old, dark hair matted with dried blood, gray prison transfer uniform torn at the shoulder, left cheek swollen purple, split lip crusted over, but her eyes are open, alert, focused on a point on the wall behind Volkov’s head. She breathes 4 seconds in through her nose, 4 seconds hold, 4 seconds out through her mouth.

 The rhythm is mechanical, practiced. The kind of breathing that doesn’t come from panic, it comes from training. Vulkov tosses the folder onto the metal table between them. Papers spill out, photographs, incident reports, three faces staring up from glossy 8x10s, young, uniformed, dead. These men trusted you, Vulov says.

He picks up one photo. A soldier, maybe 25, smiling in his dress blues. Sergeant Davis, killed in an ambush outside Ria. His team walked into a trap because someone leaked their route. He drops the photo, picks up another. Corporal Singh, executed in a safe house that was supposed to be secure.

 Someone told the enemy exactly where to find him. He leans forward, placing both hands flat on the table. And then there’s Lieutenant Brennan, your partner, shot in the back during extraction. The shooter knew exactly which window he’d be covering. They were waiting for him. Volkov’s voice drops to almost a whisper. CIA says, “You sold them out.

All of them. For money, for ideology, for whatever reason, traitors tell themselves when they look in the mirror.” He straightens. They’ve disavowed you. No rescue, no trial, no record that you ever existed. As far as the world is concerned, Raven died the day you were captured. Iris doesn’t flinch. Her chest rises and falls. 444.

Her eyes don’t leave that spot on the wall. Vulov circles the table slowly. His boots make no sound on the concrete floor. Most prisoners break by day four. Some last a week if they’re stubborn. You’ve been here 12 days. He stops beside her chair. That makes you either very strong or very stupid.

 I’m betting stupid because a smart person would know when they’ve been abandoned. He reaches out and grabs her chin, forcing her head to turn. Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t resist. Their eyes meet. His are flat, dead. Hers are bloodshot from lack of sleep, but focused, sharp. Last chance, Vulkoff says quietly. Tell me where Tower 4 operates.

 Give me names, locations, protocols, and I’ll make this quick, painless. You’ll die with whatever dignity a traitor deserves. He releases her chin. Or we continue. And I promise you, Lieutenant, the next 12 days will make these seem merciful. Iris’s lips part. For a moment, it looks like she might speak. Then she swallows, closes her mouth, and goes back to breathing. Four.

 Four. Four. Vulkoff stares at her for three long seconds. Then he smiles. It’s the kind of smile that belongs on a man watching something burn. Stupid it is. He turns to the two guards standing by the door. Both are young, maybe late 20s, dressed in unmarked fatigues. No insignia, no names, just muscle. Begin the next phase, Vulkoff says.

3-hour stress position, no water. Wake her if she sleeps. The guards nod. One of them steps forward, a nervousl looking kid with pale skin and darting eyes. He glances at Iris, then quickly away. Something flickers across his face. Not quite sympathy, more like recognition of what’s coming. Vulkoff walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. You have until 0600 tomorrow to reconsider.

 After that, we move to more persuasive methods. He doesn’t look back. Enjoy your evening, Lieutenant. The door slams shut. The echo fades, and Iris is left alone with two guards and a silence so heavy it feels like drowning. But if you look closely at her hands, still tied behind the chair, you’d see something. Her fingers moving, tapping against each other in a pattern.

 Three short, three long, three short. Morse code S O S. No, too simple. This is something else. A count, a rhythm, a message to herself. Day 12. Position holding. The camera pulls back through the wall, through layers of concrete and earth, up through cold mountain air, across 40 km of dark forest and winding roads, until it finds another room, warmer, brighter. a safe house kitchen with maps spread across a wooden table.

 Six people gathered around, gear piled in corners, rifles, plates, medical kits, the organized chaos of a team preparing for action. And standing at the head of the table, finger tracing a route on the map, is Lieutenant Commander Ava Morgan, 32, hair pulled back in a tight bun, tactical pants and a black long-sleeve shirt. No rank visible, no insignia.

 But the way everyone’s eyes track her movement says rank doesn’t matter here. Respect does and she has it. And Iris has been in that facility for 12 days. Ava says her voice is calm, measured, the tone of someone who’s done this before and will do it again. Day 1 through 4, standard interrogation, verbal, psychological pressure. Day 5 through 8, they escalated.

 Physical sleep deprivation stress positions. She looks up at the team. Days 9 through 12, chemical interrogation, truth serum, enhanced techniques. A man sitting to her left, late 20s with a tactical vest already strapped on, speaks up. And she hasn’t broken. His name tag would read Reyes if he wore one. Dark eyes, skeptical.

 She hasn’t broken, Ava confirms. How do you know this? From a woman across the table. 40s medic patch on her shoulder. Dr. Elena Cross. We’ve had zero communication. For all we know, she gave them everything on day two. Ava taps the map. Because if she’d broken, they would have moved on tower 4 assets already. They haven’t.

 Satellite shows the safe houses are still secure. No raids, no movement. That means Iris is holding. Commander Harrison’s voice crackles through the radio speaker on the table. Ava, this is a high-risk play. If you’re wrong, we lose Raven and compromised the entire network. Ava picks up the radio. We’re not wrong, Commander.

 Iris knows the mission. She volunteered for this. We trust her training and we move tonight. There’s a pause. Static. Then Harrison’s voice resigned, but firm. Roger that. You have authorization, but if this goes sideways, extraction is on you. Understood. Ava sets down the radio and looks at her team. Here’s what we know.

 The black site is a former Soviet installation. Carpathian Mountains, three entry points, main gate, service tunnel, and a ventilation shaft on the north side. Guard rotation every 4 hours. Current count is eight external, three internal. She points to a grainy satellite photo. Our man inside is Carter. He’s been undercover as a guard for 6 days.

 He’ll signal when Volkoff initiates the biometric scan. That’s our window. 60 seconds after the scan triggers the file, we breach. Not before. If we move early, Hail can delete the evidence. If we move late, Vulov might kill Iris before we reach her. Reyes leans forward. You’re betting everything on a file that may or may not trigger when they scan her.

 I’m betting on the fact that Iris has an encrypted biometric key embedded in scar tissue from an IED 3 years ago, Ava says. Her tone doesn’t invite debate. When Vulov runs the scan to confirm her identity for execution, the key unlocks a classified file that proves Marcus Hail is the mole.

 The file contains communication logs, timestamps, six leaked safe house locations, all traced to Hail. She looks around the table. Iris has been in hell for 12 days to get us this proof. We’re not going to waste it. Dr. Cross adjusts her medkit. And if the scan doesn’t work, if the file corrupts, then we improvise, Ava says flatly. But Iris will still be alive when we pull her out. That’s non-negotiable.

 The team exchanges glances, nods, the kind of silent agreement that happens between people who’ve walked into fire together before. Ava rolls up the map. Gear check in 20 minutes. We move at 0200. Get rest if you can. It’s going to be a long night. As the team disperses, Ava walks to the window. Stares out at the dark mountains in the distance.

 Somewhere out there in a concrete room with no heat and no hope, Iris is counting seconds, breathing through pain, holding the line. Ava’s hand moves to her pocket, pulls out a challenge coin, old worn. On one side, a trident. On the other, the word shadow, her father’s coin, the one she carried through her own hell 20 years ago. She turns it over in her fingers, feeling the weight. Then she whispers so quiet no one else can hear.

Hold on, Raven. We’re coming. But back in the black sight, holding on is getting harder. The stress position is simple, elegant in its cruelty. Iris stands facing the wall, arms raised above her head, palms flat against the concrete, legs spread shoulderwidth apart, back straight. The position looks easy. For the first 10 minutes, it is. After 30 minutes, the shoulders start to burn. After an hour, the arms shake.

After 2 hours, the pain becomes a living thing, clawing through every muscle fiber, screaming for relief that won’t come. Iris has been in this position for 2 hours and 40 minutes. Sweat soaks through her uniform despite the cold. Her arms tremble, not small tremors, full body shaking that she can’t control. Her breathing is ragged now.

 4 44 is harder to maintain when every inhale feels like shards of glass in her chest. The nervous guard, the one who looked at her with something almost like sympathy, stands 10 ft behind her. His rifle is slung over his shoulder. He’s not watching her. He’s watching the clock on the wall, counting down the final 20 minutes until shift change.

 The other guard left an hour ago, so it’s just the two of them, prisoner and keeper. Silence, except for Iris’s breathing and the occasional drip of water from a pipe somewhere in the ceiling. You can stop this, the guard says suddenly, his voice is young. American accent, Midwest, maybe. Just tell him what he wants.

 It doesn’t have to be everything. Just enough. He’ll let you sit. Let you rest. Iris doesn’t respond. Can’t afford to waste the breath. I’ve seen what he does when he gets serious. The guard continues. There’s an edge to his voice now. Not cruelty, fear. You think this is bad? Tomorrow he brings out the real tools. The kind that leave permanent damage.

 I’ve watched him break people who thought they were tough. Special forces. Spies. They all break eventually. You will, too. Iris’s left arm gives out, drops 6 in before she catches it, forces it back up. Pain lances through her shoulder like a hot wire. She bites her lip to keep from crying out. Tastes blood.

 Just tell him something. the guard says. And now there’s a plea in his tone. Anything. I don’t want to watch you die in here. For the first time, Iris speaks. Her voice is cracked but clear. What’s your name? The guard hesitates. We’re not supposed to. Your name? Iris repeats a pause then quietly. Carter. Carter. Iris takes a shaking breath.

 How long have you been with them? I’m not supposed to talk to you. You already are. Another pause. Then Carter steps closer. Close enough that she can hear him shift his weight. 6 days. I’m new. They recruited me from a private security firm. Said the pay was good. The work was quiet. They didn’t mention this part. Iris almost laughs. It comes out as a weeze. You don’t belong here, Carter.

 Neither do you. You’re wrong. She forces her arms higher, ignoring the screaming in her shoulders. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Before Carter can respond, footsteps echo in the hallway, heavy boots, multiple people. The door swings open and Vulov enters, flanked by a man in a suit, late 40s, sllicked back hair, expensive watch.

 He looks out of place in the grimy black sight, like a corporate lawyer who wandered into a dungeon. Vulkov gestures at Iris. 3 hours. Not a word. Impressive. He nods to Carter. She can sit. Iris’s arms drop. She nearly collapses, but catches herself stumbling to the chair. Every movement is agony. She sits, and even that hurts, but the relief is so overwhelming, she has to close her eyes for a moment.

 When she opens them, Vulov is studying her. I want you to meet someone. This is Mr. Hail. He’s very interested in your case. Marcus Hail. The name Iris has been waiting 12 days to hear. The mole, the traitor, the reason she’s here. She keeps her face neutral, but her pulse spikes. Hail steps forward, hands in his pockets, casual as if they’re meeting for coffee. Raven, Hail says, and his voice is smooth, educated. East Coast.

 You’ve been quite the inconvenience. I’m impressed. Truly, most people would have given up by now. Iris stares at him, says nothing. Hail smiles. Strong, silent type. I respect that. But you should know this ends one of two ways. Either you tell us what we need or we make an example of you. Personally, I’d prefer the former. Less paperwork. She hasn’t broken.

 Volkov says there’s something like professional admiration in his tone. 12 days. No useful intelligence. Either she’s incredibly disciplined or she doesn’t know anything worth protecting. Oh, she knows plenty. Hail says. He pulls out a tablet, swipes through files.

 Iris Cade, legacy operator, second generation, mother was CIA, disappeared during Operation Nightfall back in 2010. Iris was 17, recruited into the program at 19, trained by some of the best. He looks up, including Lieutenant Commander Ava Morgan, the woman who just pulled off that dramatic rescue of Shadow 1. Quite the mentor. At the mention of Ava’s name, Iris’s jaw tightens just a fraction, but Hail catches it. His smile widens. There it is, he says softly.

 You do care about something after all. Good. That gives us leverage. He taps the tablet screen and turns it toward Iris. The display shows a photo, a house, suburban Virginia, white fence, flower garden. And standing in the driveway holding grocery bags is a woman in her 60s. Gray hair, kind face, Iris’s mother. Sarah Cade, Hail says, lovely woman.

 Still lives in the same house you grew up in. Goes to the market every Wednesday. visits her book club on Fridays. Very routine, very predictable. He leans in close. Very vulnerable. Iris’s breathing changes. The rhythm breaks. 444 becomes 354. Her hands curl into fists. Now we’re getting somewhere. Volkoff says. He crosses his arms. Tell us about tower 4. The network.

 How many operatives? Where they’re stationed. And your mother continues her quiet life completely unaware that her daughter died a hero. Hail adds. Or you stay silent and tomorrow morning Sarah Cade has a tragic accident. Gas leak, house fire.

 These things happen and you get to live with the knowledge that you could have saved her. The room goes silent, waiting. Carter shifts uncomfortably by the door. Volkoff watches Iris like a scientist observing a specimen. Hail’s smile is predatory, and Iris, battered and exhausted and pushed to the edge, closes her eyes, breathes four, four, four. When she opens them, she looks at Hail with an expression that’s not fear. It’s something colder. Calculation.

“You already know where Tower 4 operates,” she says quietly. “You’ve leaked six safe houses in the past 2 years. You don’t need me to tell you what you’ve already sold.” Hail’s smile falters. “Just for a second, but it’s enough. What you need, Iris continues, voice gaining strength, is confirmation that I know about you, that I have proof, that someone out there is coming for you. That’s why you’re here, not to break me.

 To find out how much danger you’re in the silence that follows is different, heavier. Vulkoff’s eyes narrow. Hail’s expression hardens. Careful, Lieutenant, Hail says, and the smoothness is gone from his voice. Now it’s sharp. You’re making assumptions you can’t afford. Am I? Iris meets his gaze.

 Then why are you standing in a black sight in the middle of nowhere asking questions you should already have answers to? Why haven’t you just killed me and moved on? She leans forward, ignoring the pain. You’re scared because somewhere in your timeline, something went wrong, and you think I know what it is. 12 days in hell, accused of treason. But what if the real traitor is the one who sent her there? Hit like if you know trust is tested in the dark and subscribe to see who breaks first, the prisoner or the system. Hail’s face goes cold.

 He nods to Vulov. Increase the dosage. Full chemical interrogation. I want answers by morning. Vulov hesitates. That level of serum could cause permanent damage, memory loss, cognitive impairment. Then we’ll have our answers before her brain turns to mush. Hail snaps. He looks at Carter. You get a medical kit.

 Make sure she doesn’t die before we’re done with her. Carter nods quickly, too quickly, and leaves the room. Hail follows, already on his phone, barking orders to someone on the other end. The door closes, leaving Vulov alone with Iris. He studies her for a long moment. Then he speaks, and his voice is different, quieter, almost respectful.

 You’ve been trained for this. I can see it. Seer protocols. resistance conditioning. You’ve built up tolerance to the drugs. That’s why you’re still coherent. He pulls up a chair, sits across from her, but no training prepares you for everything. The dosage I’m about to give you will overwhelm your system. You’ll talk. Everyone talks eventually.

 The only question is what you say before your mind goes. Iris looks at him. You don’t want to do this. It’s not about want. It’s about orders. You’re better than hail. I can see it. You’re a professional. He’s a coward hiding behind you. Volkov’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Flattery won’t save you. It’s not flattery. It’s truth. You interrogate.

He betrays. There’s a difference. She pauses. And when this is over, when the truth comes out, which side of history do you want to be on? Before Vulov can respond, the door opens. Carter returns with a medical kit. Behind him, a second guard carries a metal tray with syringes and vials.

 Vulkoff stands, takes the largest syringe, and fills it with a clear liquid. Last chance, he says to Iris. Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll use the standard dose. You’ll feel sick for a few days, but recover. Stay silent. And I use the full amount. You might never be the same. Iris looks at the syringe, then at Volov. Then she does something unexpected. She smiles.

 Not a big smile, just a small knowing curve of her lips. Do it. Vulkoff pauses. You’re either very brave or completely insane. Maybe both. He injects the serum. Iris doesn’t flinch. The liquid burns cold through her veins, spreading from her arm to her chest to her head. The room starts to tilt. Colors bleed at the edges. Volkov’s voice comes from very far away. Tell me about tower 4.

 Iris’s mouth moves. Words come out, but they’re not the words she means to say. Her brain and her tongue aren’t connected anymore. Tower four is everywhere. Locations. Give me locations. Paris, London, Tokyo, Mars, the moon, your mother’s house. The words tumble out. Nonsensical. Training kicking in through the haze. Feed them garbage.

 Keep them guessing. Vulov frowns. She’s rambling. Increase the dose. Sir, if we go higher, Carter starts. do it. But before Carter can move, Iris slumps forward. Her breathing becomes shallow, rapid. Her eyes roll back. Vulkoff swears, checks her pulse. She’s crashing. Get the medical officer now. Carter drops the tray, bolting from the room. The crash echoes.

 Syringes scatter across the floor, and in the chaos, Carter’s hand brushes against his pocket, pressing a small device, a transmitter, so small it’s invisible. The signal it sends is a single pulse. Three short, three long, three short. 40 km away in the safe house, Ava’s phone vibrates. A single message on the screen. SOS overdose. Crashing. Ava’s face goes pale.

 She grabs the radio. Harrison, we’re out of time. Carter just sent distress. Iris is crashing. We move now. You’re 2 hours ahead of schedule. I don’t care. Gear up. She looks at the team already moving before the order finishes. Forget the plan. We go in hard and fast. If Iris dies before we reach her, this whole thing was for nothing. Reyes throws her a vest.

 What about the biometric scan? The file? We’ll trigger it ourselves if we have to, but first we keep her alive. Ava chambers around in her rifle. 5 minutes. Vehicles move. The team explodes into action. Controlled chaos. Everyone knows their role. Gear checks happen in seconds. rifles, mags, flashbangs, medical. Ava is the first out the door, climbing into the lead vehicle. Reyes takes the wheel. Engine already running.

 As they peel out into the night, Ava pulls out her phone, opens a secure app, types a message. Raven, if you can hear this, we’re coming. Hold on. Just hold on. But back in the black sight, Iris can’t hear anything. The world is a blur of sound and color and pain. Her heart hammers against her ribs. Too fast, irregular. Dr.

 Cross, the black sight’s medical officer, a thin man with shaking hands, pumps something into her IV. Adrenaline, trying to restart her system. She’s seizing, he says. We need to get her stable or she’s gone in the next 10 minutes. Vulkoff paces. Hail wanted answers. What do I tell him if she dies? Tell him he pushed too far. The doctor snaps. This isn’t interrogation. It’s execution.

In the corner, Carter stands frozen, watching Iris convulse on the floor. His hand is still in his pocket, fingers wrapped around the transmitter. He presses it again. Once, twice, three times, each pulse of prayer. Hurry, hurry, hurry. And somewhere in the fog of Iris’s mind, beneath the drugs and the pain and the fear, a single thought surfaces, a memory.

 6 weeks ago, sitting across from Ava in a briefing room. Ava’s voice, calm and certain. This is going to hurt. You’ll think you’re breaking, but you’re not. You’re bending, and when you bend far enough, you spring back twice as hard. Can you handle that? Iris had nodded. I can handle it. I know you can. That’s why I’m sending you. The memory fades. The seizure slows.

 Iris’s breathing stabilizes. Not normal, but enough. The doctor sits back, exhaling hard. She’s stable, barely. Vulkoff crouches beside her. Can she talk? Not for hours. Maybe not at all. The damage might be permanent. Then we wait. Hail will want to see her when she wakes up. If she wakes up. He stands and walks into the door.

 Pauses, looks back at Iris, still unconscious, face gray. 12 days, he says quietly. I’ve never seen anyone last this long. Whatever she’s protecting, it must be worth dying for. Carter watches him leave, waits until the footsteps fade. Then he kneels beside Iris, checking her pulse. It’s weak but steady. He leans close, whispering so only she might hear, though she’s too far gone to register words.

 They’re coming. Ava’s coming. Just a little longer. You can make it. You have to. Outside, the night is cold and black. Stars hidden behind cloud cover. Mountains silent. But somewhere in that darkness, two vehicles race along narrow roads, headlights cutting through fog.

 Inside the lead vehicle, Ava checks her watch. 12:30 a.m. An hour and a half to the black site at this speed. She keys the radio. Carter, give me a status update. Is Raven stable? Static. Then Carter’s voice, barely audible. Stable. Unconscious. They’ll scan her at 0600 for execution authorization. That’s your window. We’ll be there by 0300.

 Can you keep her alive until then? A pause. I’ll try. Don’t try. Do it. That’s an order. Roger. Ava switches channels. Harrison, we’re 90 minutes out. I need satellite confirmation that Hail is still on site. Harrison’s voice crackles through. Confirmed. His vehicle hasn’t moved. He’s in the facility. Good. When we breach, I want him alive.

 He doesn’t get to die before answering for what he’s done. Copy that, Ava. Harrison hesitates. Iris is strong. She’ll make it. She has to, Ava says quietly. Because if she doesn’t, I’m the one who sent her into hell. The vehicle speeds on behind them. The second vehicle follows, headlights synchronized.

 The team is silent, each lost in their own thoughts, running scenarios, checking gear, preparing for the kind of action that ends in either triumph or body bags. Reyes glances at Ava. You think she held? 12 days and she didn’t break. Ava looks out the window at the dark mountains rushing past. I know she held because she’s legacy and legacy doesn’t break. We bend and then we come back harder.

 And if the file doesn’t trigger, then we make Hail confess the old-fashioned way. Reyes grins despite the tension. I like the old-fashioned way. 40 minutes pass. The vehicle slow, turning off the main road onto a dirt track that winds deeper into the mountains. No lights, no signs, just forest and rock and the distant silhouette of a concrete structure half buried in the hillside. The black sight.

Ava raises her fist. The vehicles stop. Engines cut. Silence except for wind through trees. She opens her door carefully, stepping out. The team follows, moving like ghosts. Seven people, full tactical gear, night vision, suppressed weapons. They gather in a tight circle. Ava pulls out a tablet showing the facility layout.

Service tunnel is here. 200 m north. Carter will unlock the inner door at 0250. We breach at 0300. Exactly. Volkov’s office is central. Interrogation room is below. We split. Reyes, take three and secure hail. I’ll take three and extract Raven. Questions? None. Good. Comm’s check. Each team member taps their radio. Green lights across the board. Move out. They disappear into the forest.

 Silent, efficient. The kind of movement that comes from doing this a 100 times in training and a dozen times for real. 20 minutes later, they’re at the service tunnel entrance. A rusted metal grate hidden behind overgrown brush. Ava pulls it aside, revealing a dark shaft leading down. She goes first.

 The tunnel is narrow, cold, smells of mold and old concrete. Water drips somewhere ahead. They move in single file. Weapons up. Night vision turning the darkness into shades of green. 3 minutes. The tunnel opens into a maintenance corridor. Pipes along the ceiling. electrical panels and at the far end, a heavy steel door with a keypad lock. Ava checks her watch. 2:49 a.m. She keys her radio.

 Carter, we’re at the service entrance. Status. Hold. Carter’s voice is tense. Vulkoff just left the interrogation room. Hallways clear. Unlocking in 30 seconds. The team waits, silent, breathing controlled. Ava’s finger rests on her trigger guard. Not on the trigger, not yet. But ready. 20 seconds. 10 5 The keypad beeps. Green light.

 The door clicks open. Ava pulls it slowly. Peers inside. Empty hallway. Fluorescent lights. Concrete walls. She signals. The team flows in, splitting immediately. Reyes and three others peel left toward the upper level. Ava and her group go right down a stairwell toward the interrogation wing. They descend two flights. At the bottom, another door. Voices on the other side.

 Ava raises her fist. The team freezes. She listens. Won’t wake for hours. We should move her to a holding cell. Vulkoff wants her in the chair when Hail returns. He wants her to see his face when she realizes she failed. Footsteps. Moving away. Ava waits 10 seconds. Then she opens the door. The hallway is empty, but third door on the left is the interrogation room.

 She can see light bleeding under the gap. She moves forward. Team behind her. reaches the door, nods to the two behind her. They stack up, ready. Ava tries the handle. Locked. She pulls out a breaching charge. Small, quiet. Places it above the lock. Steps back. Holds up three fingers. Two. One. The charge pops. Soft thump. The lock breaks. Ava kicks the door open.

 The room is exactly as Carter described. Concrete, single bulb, metal table. And slumped in a chair, head lolling, is Iris, unconscious, an IV in her arm, heart monitor beeping slow and weak. Carter stands beside her medical kit open. He spins as the door bursts open, hand going for his weapon. Then he sees Ava and freezes.

Friendlies, Ava says quickly. She rushes to Iris, checking vitals. Pulses weak, breathing shallow but alive. Iris, Raven, can you hear me? No response. Ava looks at Carter. What did they give her? Sodium pentathol. Triple dose. She crashed. I stabilized her, but she needs a hospital. We’re getting her out. Help me disconnect this IV. Together, they work fast, unhooking monitors, removing the IV.

 Ava wraps Iris in a thermal blanket, then lifts her in a fireman’s carry. Iris is dead weight, limp, but Ava doesn’t hesitate. Carter, you’re with us. We move now. They turn toward the door just as alarms start blaring. Red lights flash. The facility erupts in chaos. Boots pound overhead. Shouts echo through corridors. Carter swears. They know we’re here.

 Ava keys her radio. Reyes status. We’ve got hail. Vulkoff is mobilizing guards. Were pinned down on level two. Hold position. We’re bringing Raven out through the service tunnel. Meet at the rendevous in 15 minutes. Roger. Ava looks at her team. Suppressed fire only. We ghost out. No bodies if we can avoid it. Let’s move. They exit the interrogation room.

The hallway is still clear, but won’t be for long. They run fast back the way they came. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit grow louder. Doors slamming. Orders shouted in Russian. The facility waking up like a kicked hornet nest. They reach the stairwell, start climbing. Halfway up, footsteps thunder from above. Ava raises her weapon.

 Two guards round the corner, rifles up. They see the team and hesitate for half a second. That’s all it takes. Ava fires twice. Suppressed shots. Both guards drop. Not dead. Center mass. They’ll live, but they’re out of the fight. The team steps over them and keeps moving. Service tunnel.

 Ava is first through the door, still carrying Iris. The tunnel feels twice as long on the way out. Every second stretches. The alarm is muffled down here, but still audible. Pursuit can’t be far behind. They reach the exit. Great. Ava passes Iris to one of her team, then climbs out first, sweeping the area with her rifle. Clear.

 She reaches back, pulling Iris up and out. The rest follow. Vehicles are 100 meters away. They run. Ava’s lungs burn. Iris is heavier than she looks, but Ava doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop. They reach the vehicles. Doors open. Ava lays Iris across the back seat. Dr. Cross immediately starts working on her. IV oxygen. Checking vitals. Drive.

 Ava orders Reyes. Now the engine roars. They tear down the dirt road. Behind them. Lights appear at the facility entrance. Vehicles giving chase, but they’re slower, heavier. By the time they reach the main road, Ava’s team has a 3minute lead.

 Ava looks down at Iris, still unconscious, face pale, but breathing, alive. She puts a hand on Iris’s shoulder, squeezes gently. You did it, Raven. You held. Now rest. We’ve got you. She’s one slip away from breaking. He’s one call away from proving guilt. Drop a comment.

 Could you hold 12 days knowing rescue might never come? The vehicles speed through the night, tail lights disappearing into darkness. And back at the black site, Vulov stands in the empty interrogation room, staring at the broken door. At the IV lying on the floor, at the chair still warm from where Iris sat. He picks up the syringe, studies it, then he smiles. Not anger, respect. So that’s how it is. You weren’t the prisoner. We were.

 He drops the syringe, turns to the guard beside him. Find out who Carter really works for and send word to Hail. Tell him he’s been played, but by then Hail is already in custody. Reyes and her team have him zip tied in the second vehicle, phone confiscated, mouth gagged. He struggles, but it’s useless.

 Reyes leans close, whispers in his ear. Iris Cade says hello. And she wants you to know. She never broke. Not once. Can you say the same? Hail’s eyes go wide. realization dawning. He’s been outplayed, outmaneuvered, and now there’s nowhere left to run.

 The two vehicles merge onto a highway, headlights blending with early morning traffic. By the time the sun rises, they’ll be across the border, safe, and Iris, broken but unbeaten, will wake up knowing she won. But that moment is still hours away. For now, she sleeps. And Ava watches over her, one hand on Iris’s wrist, feeling the pulse, counting the rhythm. 44 4. The same rhythm she taught Iris 3 years ago. The same rhythm her father taught her 20 years before that. Legacy.

 It’s more than a program. It’s a promise that no one gets left behind. That the mission doesn’t end until everyone comes home. That pain is temporary, but honor is forever. And as the vehicle races toward dawn, Ava closes her eyes, breathes 444, and whispers a promise to the woman lying beside her. “We’re not done yet, Raven. This is just the beginning.

” The safe house appears just as dawn breaks. Gray light creeping over the horizon, turning mountains from black to purple to pale blue. The two vehicles pull into a barn 20 m from the main building, doors closing behind them with a heavy thud that echoes in the empty space. Engine noise dies.

 For a moment, there’s only silence and the sound of seven people breathing hard. Ava is out first, yanking open the back door where Iris lies unconscious across the seat. Dr. Cross is already beside her, checking vitals with practice deficiency, pulse, respiration, pupil response. She looks up at Ava and nods once. Stable, but we need to get her inside. Set up a proper IV.

 Monitor her for the next 6 hours. Two team members lift Iris carefully, carrying her toward the house. Ava follows, rifle still slung across her back, eyes scanning the perimeter out of habit. Reyes brings up the rear, hauling Marcus Hail out of the second vehicle.

 He’s still zip tied, still gagged, but his eyes are wild now, darting between faces, looking for an out that doesn’t exist. Inside the safe house, they’ve converted the living room into a makeshift medical bay. CS, equipment, enough to stabilize someone until real help arrives. They lay Iris on the nearest cot. Dr. Cross starts an IV immediately, hooking up monitors. The steady beep of a heart rate monitor fills the room, slow but regular.

 Ava stands at the foot of the cot, watching Iris’s chest rise and fall. 12 days. She’s seen the preliminary reports Carter sent, the beating, the drugs, the psychological warfare. Most operatives would have shattered by day five, but Iris held. And now she’s here alive, breathing. The mission isn’t over, but this part.

 The part where Ava had to trust someone else to endure hell while she planned the rescue. That part is done. Commander Harrison’s voice crackles through the radio on the table. Ava, confirm status. Do you have Raven? Ava picks up the handset. Confirmed. Raven is secure. Unconscious, but stable. Dr. Cross is monitoring. And Hail in custody. Reyes has him contained. He’s not going anywhere. There’s a pause. Then Harrison’s voice comes back and there’s relief in it.

Outstanding work. I’m authorizing immediate medical evacuation for Raven. Hilo will be there in 40 minutes. As for Hail, I want him transported separately. Maximum security. We’re not taking chances. Roger that. What about Vulov? He’s gone dark. Facility was abandoned by the time local authorities arrived. We’ll track him, but right now hail is the priority.

 He’s got information on six compromised networks. We need him talking before his handlers realize he’s been captured. Ava looks across the room at Hail. He’s sitting in a wooden chair, hands still bound behind his back. Reyes stands over him, rifle held loose, but ready. Hail’s eyes meet Ava’s. There’s calculation there.

 He’s already working angles, already trying to figure out what he can trade to save himself. Understood, Ava says into the radio. We’ll prep him for transport, but Harrison, I want 5 minutes with him first alone. A longer pause. Ava, that’s not protocol. I know. I’m asking anyway. Harrison size. 5 minutes. But if he’s damaged when the Hilo arrives, it’s on you. He won’t be damaged, just educated.

Ava sets down the radio and walks over to Hail. She nods to Reyes, who steps back, but doesn’t leave the room. Ava pulls up a chair and sits across from Hail. For a moment, neither speaks. Ava just studies him. This man who sent Iris into hell, who leaked safe house locations, who got three operatives killed.

 He’s middle-aged, soft around the edges, the kind of man who spent more time in conference rooms than combat zones. A bureaucrat who traded lives for money or power or whatever currency traders use to justify their choices. Finally, Ava reaches over and pulls the gag down from Hail’s mouth. He works his jaw, then speaks. His voice is hoarse, but still carries that smooth, educated tone. You have no idea what you’ve stepped into, Commander Morgan.

This is bigger than one mole, bigger than tower 4. You’ve just made yourself a target. Save it, Ava says flatly. I’m not here for threats. I’m here to tell you what happens next. Hail smirks. Let me guess. Interrogation, trial, prison. You think that scares me? I’ve been in the game long enough to know how this plays out. I’ll negotiate. Trade information for a lighter sentence.

Maybe witness protection. I’ll be out in 10 years living under a new name. You’re not wrong, Ava says. That is how it usually works. But you’re forgetting something. What’s that? Ava leans forward close enough that Hail can see every line of exhaustion on her face.

 Every hour she didn’t sleep while Iris was in that black sight. You hurt one of mine and we have long memories. Hail’s smirk fades slightly. Iris Cade spent 12 days in hell because of you. Ava continues. Her voice is quiet but carries the weight of a promise. She was beaten, drugged, threatened. She almost died tonight because you overdosed her trying to break her silence.

 And through all of it, she never gave you what you wanted. Not a single safe house. Not a single name. She held because that’s what legacy operators do. We hold. She sits back. So, yes, you’ll negotiate. You’ll trade information. You might even get a lighter sentence. But here’s what you need to understand.

 Every operator in Tower 4 now knows your face, knows your name, knows what you did. And if you think witness protection will keep you safe from people who’ve spent their entire lives learning how to find targets that don’t want to be found, you’re not as smart as you think you are. Hail’s face has gone pale. Are you threatening me? I’m educating you.

There’s a difference. Ava stands. You’ve got 40 minutes until the Hilo arrives. I suggest you spend that time thinking about how cooperative you want to be. Because the more you help us fix what you broke, the longer you might live to regret it. She walks away, leaving Hail sitting in stunned silence.

 Reyes steps back into position, and this time her smile is cold. She’s right. You know, we’re very good at finding people. across the room. Movement. Iris’s fingers twitch. Her eyelids flutter. Dr. Cross notices immediately, leaning over to check her pupils with a pen light. She’s waking up.

 Ava, you might want to be here for this. Ava crosses the room in three strides. She takes Iris’s hand, squeezes gently. Raven, can you hear me? Iris’s eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, blinking against the light. Then they find Ava’s face and something like recognition flickers. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. Don’t try to talk yet, Dr. Cross says. You’ve been through severe chemical trauma.

 Your system is still recovering. But Iris ignores her. She swallows. Tries again. Her voice is barely a whisper, rough as gravel. Did it work? Ava’s throat tightens. Of all the things Iris could ask, that’s the first. Not where am I, not am I safe, but whether the mission succeeded. It worked. The biometric scan triggered the file. We have everything.

 Communications logs, timestamps, six leaked safe houses, all traced to Hail. He’s in custody. Iris closes her eyes. A single tear tracks down her cheek. Not from pain, from relief. How long? 12 days, 18 hours. You were unconscious for the last 6. Feels like longer. I know. Ava squeezes her hand again. But it’s over. You’re safe. You’re home.

 Iris’s eyes open again, focusing on Ava with more clarity now. Did anyone die because of me? No one died. Carter got you stabilized before the overdose could kill you. We breached exactly when you needed us. Everyone made it out. Carter. Iris manages a weak smile. He’s one of ours. Legacy operator. Generation 3. He volunteered to go undercover when we found out you’d been captured.

 kept you alive long enough for us to reach you. Remind me to thank him. You can thank him yourself. He’s outside with the perimeter team. For a moment, Iris just breathes. The monitors beep steadily. Her vitals are improving. Color slowly returning to her face.

 Then she looks at Ava and asks the question that’s been hanging unspoken between them. Why didn’t you tell me before I went in? About the deep cover protocol? About the biometric trigger? I thought I was just infiltrating the syndicate. I didn’t know I was bait for hail. Ava’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in her eyes. Regret, maybe, or the weight of command decisions that haunt you at 3:00 a.m.

Because if you’d known, you might have acted differently. Hail’s smart. He’s been in the intelligence community for 15 years. If there was even a hint that you were playing him, he would have seen it.

 The only way to make it work was for you to believe you were on your own, that CIA had disavowed you, that no one was coming. So, you let me think I’d been abandoned? Yes. Iris stares at her. Then slowly she nods. That’s why I held because I thought if I broke I’d be giving them everything and getting nothing in return. I thought I was protecting the network out of spite. She almost laughs, but it turns into a cough. Turns out I was protecting it because that was the plan all along.

 I’m sorry, Ava says, and she means it. I know what I asked of you, what I put you through. If there had been any other way, there wasn’t. Iris cuts her off. Her voice is stronger now, clearer. Hail had to believe I was broken. Had to think he’d won. Otherwise, he never would have come to the black side himself. Never would have ordered that final interrogation.

 Never would have made the calls we needed to trace. She pauses. You didn’t abandon me, Ava. You trusted me to do the hardest part, and I did it. Ava’s hand tightens around Iris’s. Yes, you did. The radio crackles. Harrison’s voice. Ava, medical evac is 10 minutes out and I’ve got something you need to hear. We’ve been analyzing the communication logs from Hail’s phone.

 He made six calls in the past 2 weeks. Five were to Vulov, but the sixth was to someone else. A number we can’t trace, encrypted, routed through multiple servers. Ava picks up the radio. What are you saying? I’m saying Hail might not be the only mole. There’s someone else in the chain. Someone higher up.

 The room goes silent, everyone processing that. Rehea swears under her breath. Dr. Cross looks up from Iris’s monitors, face tight, and Hail, still sitting in his chair, starts laughing. It’s a quiet, bitter sound. You think you won, he says. You think catching me closes the loop. But I’m just one piece.

 There are others, people you trust, people in positions you can’t touch. You pulled one thread and now the whole tapestry is going to unravel. Ava walks over to him. Then you’re going to help us find them. Every name, every contact, every piece of the network. You’re going to spend the next month in a secure facility telling us everything you know.

 And if you cooperate, maybe we keep you in protective custody. If you don’t, she lets the sentence hang. Hails laughter dies. And if I refuse, then you go into general population at a federal prison. I’m sure the inmates would love to meet a CIA officer who got American soldiers killed. Traitors don’t do well in prison. Hail, you know that.

 Before Hail can respond, the sound of helicopter rotors cuts through the morning air, growing louder, closer. Two birds, one for Iris, one for Hail. The team moves into action immediately. Dr. Cross preps Iris for transport, disconnecting monitors, and securing the portable IV. Reyes pulls Hail to his feet, checking his restraints. Ava steps outside.

 The sun is fully up now, burning off the last of the mountain mist. Two Blackhawks descend into the clearing beside the barn, rotors kicking up dust and dead leaves. The first touches down and a medical team jumps out, rushing toward the house with a stretcher. They load Iris with professional efficiency. Dr. Cross giving them a rapid briefing as they strap her in.

 Iris looks at Ava one more time before they slide the stretcher into the hilo. What happens now? Now you heal, Ava says. Real hospital, real bed, real food. And when you’re ready, we debrief. But that’s weeks away. For now, just rest and hail. Hail is our problem. You did your part. Let us handle the rest. Iris nods.

 The medical team closes the Hilo door. Rotors spin up. The bird lifts off, banking east toward the nearest military hospital. Ava watches until it’s a speck in the sky. Then she turns to the second Hilo where Reyes is loading hail. He’s surrounded by four armed guards now. No chances, no mistakes. As they push him toward the door, he looks back at Ava.

This isn’t over, Commander. You’ve started something you can’t finish. We’ll see. Ava’s voice is flat, unimpressed. Enjoy the flight. The second Hilo lifts off. And then it’s just the team standing in the clearing, watching the birds disappear. For a moment, no one speaks. They’re all running on adrenaline and no sleep.

 The crash is coming soon. Reyes is the first to break the silence. So, we got Raven, we got Hail, we have the evidence. That’s a win, right? It’s a win, Ava confirms. But Harrison’s right. There’s more to this. Someone higher in the food chain. Someone who’s been running hail. Then we find them, Carter says.

 He’s walked over from the perimeter, rifles slung across his back. He looks exhausted, but steady. Same way we found Hail. We follow the trail. Ava nods. We will. But first, we secure what we’ve got. Make sure Hail talks. Make sure every safe house he compromised is evacuated and relocated. Make sure the families of the operatives who died because of him get answers. She looks around at her team.

 This operation isn’t finished. It’s just moving to the next phase. What phase is that? Reyes asks. The one where we clean house, root out every mole, every traitor, every person who thought they could betray legacy and get away with it. Ava’s voice is cold. Certain hail is just the beginning. The team exchanges glances, nods. They’ve been through worse. They’ll go through worse again. That’s the job. All right.

Ava says, “Pack it up. We’re Oscar, Mike, and 30. Reyes, you’re driving. Carter, you’re on comms. Everyone else, grab some rest while you can. Next 72 hours are going to be intense.” They scatter, moving with purpose. Ava walks back into the house, pulling out her phone. She dials a number she knows by memory.

 It rings twice before a familiar voice answers. Shadow. It’s her father. Retired but never really out of the game. I heard Raven’s extraction was successful. It was. She’s on route to Walter Reed. Should be there in 2 hours. And Hail in custody singing like a canary to save his own skin. There’s a pause. You did good. Ava Iris held because you trained her to hold. That’s on you. The good part. The bad part is on me, too. I sent her into hell.

 You sent her on a mission. She volunteered. There’s a difference. Ava closes her eyes. Does it ever get easier making those calls? No, it gets harder because every time you send someone into danger, you’re gambling with a life. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, but you keep making the call because if you don’t, more people die.

 That’s command, Ava. That’s what you signed up for. I know. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. No, it doesn’t. Her father’s voice softens. Get some rest. You sound like you’re running on fumes. I will after we’re clear. Take care of yourself, Shadow. The mission doesn’t mean anything if you burn out. I’ll be fine. I know you will. You always are.

He pauses. I’m proud of you. Ava’s throat tightens. Thanks, Dad. The call ends. She stands alone in the safe house living room, surrounded by empty CS and discarded medical equipment. The monitors are silent now. No beeping, no alarms, just the sound of her own breathing. 444. The rhythm her father taught her. The rhythm she taught Iris. The rhythm that keeps them all alive when everything else is falling apart.

 3 months later, the story shifts. Virginia coast. Same beach where Ava and her father sat watching the sunset all those weeks ago. But this time, there are two women sitting on the sand. Ava and Iris. Iris looks different, healthier, hair grown out, the bruises healed. But there are still shadows under her eyes, the kind that don’t fade with rest.

 PTSD is a patient enemy. It waits, ambushes when you least expect it. Iris is managing it. therapy, medication, support group, but it’s there. Ava hands her a challenge coin. It’s new, freshly minted. On one side, a raven in flight. On the other, a single word, unbroken.

 They made these for legacy operators who survived deep cover assignments. Ava says, “You’re the third person to receive one. The first was my father. The second was me. Now you.” Iris turns the coin over in her palm, feeling the weight. unbroken. That’s optimistic. You earned it. I bent pretty far. Couple more days and I might have actually broken, but you didn’t. That’s what matters.

They sit in silence for a while, watching waves crash against the shore. Gulls cry overhead. The sun is warm, but not hot. Perfect weather, the kind that makes you forget just for a moment that there are black sights and interrogation rooms and people who betray their own. Iris’s phone buzzes. She pulls it out, glances at the screen.

 Her expression changes. Titans. She shows it to Ava. Encrypted message. Tower 4. Node compromised. Code name Sparrow. Location: Subsaharan Africa. Operative alone. Extraction window 48 hours. Handler deceased. Below the text, an attachment. A photograph. Grainy lowresolution taken from a distance. It shows a shipping container in the middle of a desert, metal, rusted, and through a gap in the door, barely visible, a figure, hands bound, face obscured.

 Ava stares at the image. When did this come in? 10 minutes ago. I was going to call you after we finished here. Do we have confirmation it’s real, not a trap? Iris swipes through additional data. Metadata checks out. Image was taken 6 hours ago. Coordinates put it in northern Mali. Hostile territory.

 No friendly forces within 200 km. Ava stands, brushes sand off her pants. We need to move fast. 48 hours isn’t much time. Iris looks up at her. You sure you want to do this after what happened with me? That’s exactly why we’re doing this. Because I know what it’s like to be abandoned. Because you know what it’s like to hold on hoping rescue will come.

 We’re not leaving Sparrow in that container. I’m going with you. Iris, you just got cleared for light duty. You’re not ready for a field op. With all due respect, Commander, I’m the most qualified person for this. I know what Sparrow is feeling right now. How to approach without triggering panic.

 How to talk someone down from the edge when they think they’ve been forgotten. Iris stands facing Ava. You taught me that sometimes the mission isn’t about combat. It’s about showing up, being present, proving that someone cares. Let me do that. Ava studies her for a long moment, then she nods. All right, but you’re backup, not point.

 And if at any moment I think you’re not ready, you’re on the next bird home. Clear. Clear. 12 days taught her something. Pain ends. Betrayal ends. But the mission, the mission doesn’t end until we say it does. Share this if you know loyalty isn’t loud. It’s patient. Hit subscribe for the next operative who won’t break.

 They walk back toward the parking lot where Ava’s truck is waiting. But before they reach it, Iris stops. Ava, can I ask you something? Go ahead. Do you ever wonder if we’re just cleaning up messes other people made? If we’re just putting bandages on problems that are too big to fix, Ava turns, looking out at the ocean every day, every single day. But we keep going.

 We keep going because if we don’t, who will? Because every operative we pull out of hell is someone’s daughter, someone’s son, someone who volunteered to stand between evil and everyone they love. And they deserve to know that when they’re in the dark, someone is coming for them. Iris nods slowly. That’s why we’re different from Hail.

 He counted people as numbers, assets, liabilities. We count them as family. Exactly right. They reach the truck. Ava pulls out her phone, dialing as she slides into the driver’s seat. Harrison, we’ve got a situation. New extraction request. Code name Sparrow. Northern Molly. I’m mobilizing a team now.

 Harrison’s voice comes through. Tired but alert. Ava, you just finished one op. You need rest. Rest comes later. Sparrow is in a container in the desert with a 48 hour window. We don’t have time to wait. A sigh. All right, I’ll authorize it, but I’m sending backup. You’re not going in with just a fire team.

 Full support, air cover, the works. Copy that. We’ll stage out of Camp Lemonier in Djibouti. ETA 36 hours. Roger. And Ava, be careful. This one feels wrong. Handler deceased. Operative compromised. It’s too clean. Too perfect. I know. That’s why we’re going heavy. If it’s a trap, we’ll be ready. She ends the call. Looks at Iris. You heard that? It might be a trap.

 Last chance to back out. Iris shakes her head. I’m in all the way. Then let’s go get Sparrow. The truck pulls out, heading toward the airfield where a transport plane is already being prepped. Behind them, the ocean continues its endless rhythm. Waves crashing, receding, crashing again. The same pattern that’s been happening for millions of years.

 The same pattern that will continue long after everyone alive today is gone. But for now, in this moment, two women are racing toward another rescue, another mission, another chance to prove that loyalty isn’t just a word. It’s a promise etched in scars and forged in fire. The screen fades to black. Credits begin to roll. But before they finish, one final scene.

 A secure facility. Undisclosed location. Marcus Hail sits in an interrogation room, handcuffed to the table. He’s been here for 3 months, answering questions, giving up names, trading information for protection. Across from him sits a federal prosecutor, female, 40s, sharp suit, sharper eyes. She slides a document across the table. This is your cooperation agreement.

 You’ve given us 12 names, six safe houses, 11 bank accounts. In exchange, we’re recommending 20 years with possibility of parole, witness protection upon release. Hail reads it, signs it, and my family protected. New identities, full relocation. They’ll be safe. Good. Hail sets down the pen. Then we’re done here. The prosecutor stands. Not quite. There’s one more thing.

 She pulls out a photograph. Recent. Shows a man in his 60s, military uniform, stars on his shoulders. Do you know this man? Hail’s face goes pale. I want my lawyer. You already have one. Answer the question. Do you know him? Hail stares at the photo. Then very quietly he says, “Yes.” “And did you report to him? Did he give you orders?” Silence. “Mr.

 Hail, your cooperation agreement requires full disclosure. Who is this man?” Hail looks up. His eyes are hollow, defeated. His name is General William Cross, and he’s been running Tower 4’s opposition network for 8 years. Every leak, every compromise, every operative who died, it all goes through him. The prosecutor’s expression doesn’t change, but her grip on the file tightens. Thank you, Mr.

Hail. That will be all. She leaves the room. In the hallway, she pulls out her phone. Her hand shakes slightly. 8 years. A three-star general. How deep does this go? She steadies herself, dials. We’ve got a problem. Hail just gave us the name at the top. It’s Cross. General William Cross. Yes, that cross. Defense Intelligence Three Star.

 He’s been running the whole thing. A pause. She closes her eyes, listening. Then she nods. Roger. I’ll notify the director, but we need to move fast. If Cross realizes we’re on to him, he’ll disappear. He has resources we can’t match. Another pause. Understood. I’ll assemble a warrant team. Discreet. No leaks. We get one shot at this. The call ends.

 She stands in the empty hallway for a moment, staring at the door where Hail sits. One mole caught, but the network runs deeper. Always deeper. How many more are out there? How many operatives died because someone at the top decided their lives were expendable? She pockets the phone and walks toward the elevator, heels clicking on polished floor.

 behind her through reinforced glass. Hail remains motionless at the table, waiting, wondering if the deal he just made will save him or bury him deeper. The screen fades again, this time to Ava and Iris, 30,000 ft over the Atlantic on route to Africa. They’re suited up, gear checked, ready. The cargo hold is dim, lit only by red tactical lights.

 Six other team members sleep in jump seats, grabbing rest while they can. Ava stares out the small window at clouds below. Mind already running scenarios. Desert extraction. Hostile territory. No air support beyond the initial insertion. They’ll be exposed, vulnerable. And if Harrison is right, if this is a trap, they’re walking straight into it with eyes open.

 Iris sits across from her, cleaning her rifle with mechanical precision. Disassemble. Wipe. Oil. Reassemble. The rhythm is meditative. The same motion she’s done a thousand times. Muscle memory that doesn’t require thought. Her hands are steady now. No tremor. Three months ago, they shook for a week after the black sight. But training and time have rebuilt what trauma tried to break.

 She checks the chamber one final time, then looks up. Hey, Ava. Yeah, thank you for coming for me. For not leaving me there. Ava meets her eyes. In the red light, both their faces look like shadows. Ghosts of who they were before the mission started taking pieces. That’s what legacy means. No one gets left behind ever.

Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Ava shifts in her seat, leaning forward slightly. You know what my father told me once? He said, “The easy missions don’t define you. Anyone can rescue someone when the odds are good. But the missions where the odds are impossible, where every calculation says to walk away, those are the ones that matter.

 Those are the ones that prove who you are. Iris absorbs that, nods slowly. And who are we? We’re the people who show up no matter what. Ava glances toward the cockpit where red numbers countdown flight time. 2 hours 30 minutes to drop zone. Sparrow doesn’t know we’re coming. Doesn’t know if anyone even received the distress call.

might think right now that the whole world forgot them, but in two and a half hours, we’re going to prove that’s not true. That someone always comes. That’s who we are. Iris goes back to her rifle and Ava turns back to the window thinking about Sparrow alone in a container.

 About General Cross sitting in some office right now, drinking coffee, unaware that his name just landed on a prosecutor’s desk. About the mission that never ends because there’s always someone else who needs saving. Always another operative in the dark, counting breaths, hoping. Always another enemy hiding in plain sight, believing they’re untouchable.

 Below them, the Atlantic stretches endless dark water reflecting moonlight. Somewhere down there, ships move through the night. Cargo vessels, tankers, each carrying their own secrets. Above them, stars burn cold and distant.

 And between ocean and sky, seven operatives fly toward another fight, another rescue, another promise kept.