Day Six

  0200 Hours Sumpter Smith Air National Guard Base, Birmingham, Alabama

  The base was nearly pitch black.

  There were no lights in any of the administrative buildings' windows, no airmen were wandering between hangars, nor were there any vehicles moving along the flight line. Even the tower was dark, its usual chatter silenced by orders from those appointed or elected into office.

  However, this night was anything but dead. An unholy torrent of relentless rain hammered against the concrete, setting the perfect scene for the ominous black aircraft, idling on the tarmac with their blades slicing through the deluge and atomizing the water into a violent, swirling mist. The downwash turned the rain into horizontal needles, pounding the crew chiefs nearby like statues in the spray as they waited for their passengers.

  The storm these birds sat in drenched everything to the bone. The late Autumn rain in Alabama was cold, heavy, and miserable, turning the legion of MH-6s, MH-60s, and MH-47s on the flight line into patches of black and gray blobs.

  Every aircraft bore that ominous, non-reflective black paint used exclusively by one aviation unit—the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, known as the Night Stalkers. They didn't fly cargo or even transport troops. Their sole purpose was to deliver America's most elite killers exactly where and when they were needed, even in conditions that no sane pilot would consider taking off in.

  Beneath the spinning rotors, dozens of ghostly men in full combat gear formed up into chalks—helicopter loads organized by team and mission objective. They moved like shadows through the darkness, their shapes barely visible through sheets of rain.

  The operators wore the iconic four-tube Ground Panoramic Night Vision Goggles (GPNVGs) mounted on their helmets—gear restricted to the absolute apex of the nation’s special operations forces. These devices offered a field of view unmatched by any standard night-vision device, yet cost more per unit than most cars. But tonight, combined with gas masks that concealed their entire faces, the technology played a different role: it erased their humanity.

  Their weapons told the rest of the story, a story that would never be printed in tomorrow’s headlines. They carried customized short-barreled rifles fitted with suppressors that were anything but standard issue. Every piece of gear was unique, tailored to each individual, except for the black multicam uniforms they all wore. The pattern broke up their silhouettes so effectively against the darkness of night that it was difficult to tell exactly how many of them were out there in the rainy gloom.

  To anyone looking in from the linked gate nearly a thousand meters away, the scene was a blurry mass of shadows. They couldn't see that this had evolved far beyond a law enforcement operation or even a standard military deployment. The only details visible from a distance were the stark, solid-colored items against the black: plate carriers loaded with magazines, breaching tools, and the bone-white zip tie cuffs that were anyone smart enough to surrender when they landed.

  Even the sidearms at their hips were non-standard, proof that these men operated outside the bounds of conventional logistics. While most carried tried-and-true Glock 19s, a few preferred Smith & Wesson, and even the occasional 2011 for those who preferred more… old-school. Regardless of the make, everything had a place, and everything served a lethal purpose.

  The airbase had become a gathering of reapers. Operators of D Squadron and those of The Tribe—America’s premier and most elite killers—stood on the tarmac or sat lazily in the idle helicopters with their three-letter agency paramilitary handlers. Men whose faces would never appear in an official photograph, here to facilitate wetwork that officially did not exist.

  They didn't talk. There was nothing left to say. The mission brief had been given five times already, every contingency discussed, every variable accounted for as much as humanly possible. Now, as the rain slicked their gear, it was just muscle memory and instinct.

  Team leaders checked their people one last time. Hands ran over magazine pouches, confirming each one was seated properly. Suppressors were given a quick twist to ensure they were snug tight. Night vision was flipped down, flipped up, adjusted, and checked for battery life.

  "This is Dancer One-One to all dancer elements, comms check." A voice cracked in every ear of the encrypted communications network

  "Dancer One-Two, up…. One-three radio check… One-six good to go… Dancer Two-three, good." The responses came in quick succession as each chalk—each helicopter load—checked in with their assigned callsign.

  The entire operation was called ‘Dancer,’ with twelve chalks organized by objective: Dancer One-One through One-Six. The Blackhawks would target the primary objectives in their group, while the Littlebirds, Dancer Two-One through Two-Four, would assault secondary targets like guard outposts with the reconnaissance teams. Over a hundred special mission unit operators, divided into specific teams, were assigned to different sections of the surprisingly large makeshift compound.

  As the chalks finished their tertiary radio check and organization, Dancer One-One, the flight lead, came through. "Hope you boys are ready to dance. Birds are spooled, weather is shit but flyable, and we are green for departure on your mark." He spoke to the clandestine Joint Operations Center (JOC) next to the briefing room.

  But inside the JOC itself, the air was thick with tension and the smell of stale coffee that had been sitting in the pot for as long as these operations had been a stop-and-go endeavor…

  Compared to properly built facilities, this Joint Operations Center looked like a joke. Hell, most JOCs were temporary structures, but at least there had been some thought in their construction or cable management. Here, the staff had been crammed into a single modular building hastily placed by crane and welded together with corrugated metal connectors that leaked whenever it started to sprinkle.

  Hell, the exposed electrical wiring crisscrossed along the floors and ceilings like industrial veins, feeding power to whatever equipment had been requisitioned, borrowed, or outright stolen from a dozen different agencies. The floor was scuffed, dented, and stained, with duct tape marking out pathways between workstations to keep people from tripping over the rat's nest of cables that snaked everywhere.

  Plastic folding tables served as workstations with each one sagging under the weight of laptops, radios, and monitors that displayed everything from satellite feeds to drone footage and even encrypted chat windows.

  It was a proper shit show of a ‘building.’

  At the center of everything was a large coffee table stolen from a lobby, holding a three-dimensional terrain model of the target compound. It was the kind of model that someone had obviously printed from satellite images, then spent hours carefully aligning everything so that every inch of the compound was accurately displayed. Miniature buildings held together with Scotch tape, guard towers made from stained 5-inch wooden coffee stirrers, and tree lines arranged with string. It was the most professional thing in the entire JOC, and it sat on a table that wobbled.

  Despite the slum-like conditions, the dozen staffers occupying this tiny shithole focused on their particular slice of the operation like a laser cutter. Then again, it wasn’t like they had a choice; failure was absolutely not an option.

  "All Dancer elements are green across the board," some intel guy stolen from JSOC reported to no one in particular. "Surveillance teams report no change in compound activity. Weather's holding at current shitty levels."

  Two desks over, a Intelligence Agency staffer was reviewing the latest updates from the DEVGRU’s Black Squadron and the Rangers RRC on overwatch. They were all deployed en masse and shuttled in heavy weapons. The plan had shifted in case PANIC was unable to get their gunships. If they weren’t going to get heavier support, they were going to make their own.

  The Targeting analyst assumed the role of a command room analyst and monitored thermal signatures, movement patterns, and vehicle counts. She had been doing this for six days straight, and her exhaustion was evident in the way she rubbed her eyes between screen refreshes.

  Still showing eight heat signatures just outside the primary target build," she said, updating a digital log. "Two more are nearing the northern greenhouse. Other than that, there have been no changes in the past hour."

  An FBI liaison sat at another terminal, coordinating with the law enforcement units designated as the quick reaction force (QRF) and making sure everyone had the latest rules of engagement (ROE) updates. After the law enforcement agencies were removed from the main raid roster, their new role shifted to acting as the second wave. While the more aggressive assailant entered and did the dirty work, FBI, DEA, and local police SWAT teams were expected to swoop in and take the credit.

  But as the entire room felt like a coiled spring wanting to be released, praying that the Op wasn’t going to be scrapped, once again, Lysandra stood by the door.

  The woman wore a hard look as she took in the chaos, still dressed in her workout clothes—the same black leggings and moisture-wicking running top from earlier—but now Lysandra was fully kitted up, making her casual clothes seem almost absurd.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Her plate carrier rested on her shoulders, with Level IV Small Arms Protective Inserts (SAPI) plates weighing on her chest and back. The chest rig was similar to the operators outside, holding only 3 magazines of .300 Blackout, but it was cluttered with various other specialized, mission-specific gear.

  Every piece of her equipment was custom-made specifically for her specialized mission, but what stood out the most were the specially crafted restraints woven from hypertensile material. They were the kind of restraints that could theoretically restrain a mana-enhanced warrior with superhuman strength. These cuffs looked more like thick cable ties, but Lysandra knew they had been tested on her and usually held…. Usually.

  Lysandra’s entire setup was bespoke and highly specialized, all thanks to The Unit armorers, who finally warmed up to her after a few missions. Lysandra loved her niche rifle that hugged snugly against her plate carrier. Having handled an unholy number of AR-15s and piston-driven rifles in various calibers and configurations, she settled on a B&T APC300K. A compact rifle with a 7-inch barrel, designed specifically for her trade. Chambered in .300 Blackout, the platform was highly optimized to reliably cycle heavy, whisper-quiet subsonics and snapping supersonic rounds.

  Most rifles could technically do that, but the B&T was one of the very few weapons capable of doing so without shoving an obscene amount of gas and metal shavings into your face. Or... breaking horribly. For someone in Lysandra's profession, sometimes you needed to take out a poor soul without alerting anyone in the next room. And sometimes… situations call for you to turn your rifle to that very wall, switch to supers, and then just eliminate whoever was behind it without worrying about not penetrating said wall.

  The most intriguing piece of gear, however, was the custom ballistic shield strapped to her left forearm. It was this piece of equipment that always drew stares from anyone who wasn’t part of her team. Having a ballistic shield was one thing, but the one Lysandra wore had a quite… intimidating and predatory design that made people wonder what it was really used for.

  Layered with Level IV ballistic ceramics that bulged noticeably at the tip and center, the shield’s surface was matte, with deep, aggressive hooks protruding from the sides. It nearly looked as if it was geometrically designed to catch a blade mid-swing instead of simply sliding off.

  Thickened with heavy-duty ceramic ballistic plating, the shield provided enough density to withstand an incredible amount of high-velocity armor-piercing rounds. However, the problem was that this shield was nowhere near large enough to cover her entire torso, let alone protect most of her body. It was clear there was another purpose for this shield besides stopping bullets.

  At the wrist, the shield extended nearly a foot before ending in two hardened, curved fangs, forming thick, brutal points. It would have been a terrifying weapon if Lysandra ever chose to attack someone with it, except that this was a defensive shield made of hybrid composites, making it less than ideal for stabbing.

  Leaning against the wall, Lysandra sighed as she watched Harris across the room with her single eye, her expression unreadable while the Texan was still on the phone, pacing around.

  And he was pissed.

  "—I don't give a damn what the legal interpretation is," Harris was saying, his voice tight with barely controlled fury. "We have been sitting on this target for six days while you people jerk each other off in conference rooms. The surveillance team just reported increased activity. They're packing up. If we don't move tonight, we lose them. Didn’t Congress pass laws exactly for this scenario?!"

  There was a long pause as Harris stopped pacing. The Texan’s pale face turned bright red as he began to clench his teeth in barely concealed fury. Everyone in the JOC just glanced briefly before immediately returning to their tasks. They acted like they weren’t paying attention, but they were all listening closely. Even Lysandra cringed at the display as she adjusted her FAST helmet and M50 joint service general-purpose gas mask, tucked snugly under her right arm.

  “Yes, sir, I understand the political sensitivities," Harris continued, his tone dripping with the kind of forced professionalism that made it clear he wanted to reach through the phone and strangle someone. "But we're not talking about raiding a church bake sale here. These are confirmed enemy combatants and high-value targets with warrants, operating a narcotics production facility on federal land. This is exactly what the emergency authorizations were designed for.

  An analyst glanced away from her screen and caught the eye of the FBI liaison. “Still nothing?” she mouthed silently.

  The FBI Liaison shook his head.

  "No, we don't have authorization for gunships. Yes, I'm aware that's a problem. But we've worked around it—My team rehearsed the assault without air support. It's not ideal, but it's doable. What we need is the green light to actually go."

  One Geospatial Intelligence analyst closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "This is fucking ridiculous," he muttered, just loud enough for the people nearby to hear. "We've been ready for six goddamn days."

  "Politics," one of the Signal Intelligence (SIGINT) analysts said, taking a sip of already cold coffee. "Always fuckin’ politics."

  Harris started pacing again, gesturing wildly with his free hand. "I'm telling you, if we wait for another legal review, they'll be gone. They’re starting to move more than just product, and boys in the field spotted some of the magical cooks, or whatever the fuck, leaving! They've caught wind of something! They're spooked! We go tonight, or we don't go at all!"

  A new voice came through the phone, sharper and more commanding than the others. Harris stopped pacing. His expression went from angry to dangerous.

  "Say that again, sir?" Harris had to do everything in his power not to hiss.

  The JOC fell silent, and even the usual hum of electronics seemed to fade as everyone focused on Harris's side of the conversation.

  The voice repeated whatever it had said. Harris's knuckles went white around the phone. "With all due respect, sir, that's horseshit. We have exigent circumstances, we have confirmed intelligence, and we have the assets in place. What we don't have is time to—"

  He was cut off. The voice on the other end started talking over him now, louder, more insistent.

  "They're not American citizens, they're enemy combatants who—"

  More arguing. The conversation was clearly turning into a clusterfuck.

  The FBI liaison rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ, just make a fucking decision," he said under his breath.

  Harris looked like he wanted to throw the phone through the sheet metal wall.

  "Then what the hell do you want me to do?" he finally snapped. "We've got a hundred operators kitted up, helicopters spooled, and a target that's about to vanish into the goddamn woods. If you won't authorize the operation, fine, but I need that decision now so I can send everyone home before we waste any more time and money on—"

  A new voice cut through the argument. Different from the others—older, rougher, with the kind of authority that didn't need to be loud to command attention.

  Harris straightened slightly, his expression shifting from anger to focused attention.

  "Mr. Secretary," he said carefully.

  Suddenly, a new voice interrupted the argument. Unlike the others, this one sounded older, rougher, with a quiet authority that didn't need to raise its voice to demand attention. "Mr. Harris," Hayes continued, his tone clipped and businesslike. "You have confirmed intelligence on enemy combatants operating a production facility for controlled substances on federal land. You have warrants. You have exigent circumstances. And your people are in place, ready to execute. Is that correct?"

  Harris straightened up slightly. The whole JOC seemed to hold its breath. "Yes, sir, that's correct."

  “Then, on behalf of the President of the United States of America, I'm authorizing this operation under DHS purview.” The Department of Homeland Security said definitely. “Execute at your discretion.

  The line erupted.

  "Mr. Secretary, you don't have the authority to—"

  "—military assets cannot be deployed against potentially American—"

  "—this sets a precedent that—"

  Hayes's voice cut through the noise like a knife. "While I cannot authorize the use of active-duty military assets for law enforcement actions—and I'm not—I can and will authorize the use of DHS assets for this operation. Agent Harris and his team are operating under Title 50 authority as part of MY Joint Task Force. The operators on the ground are borrowed assets operating under temporary DHS credentials. The helicopters are contracted through DHS appropriations. Everything about this operation falls under my jurisdiction."

  That’s all the Harris needed. He didn’t wait for anyone else to interrupt with more legal nonsense and override the greenlight. He tapped his phone, ended the call, and then snapped it in half.

  After hanging up, the Texan took a moment to just stand there. With the comically folded phone still in his hand, Haris just stared at the ceiling before closing his eyes. A full 30 seconds went by before he opened his eyes and locked eyes with Lysandra, who still leaned against the wall across the room.

  "Action," he said simply.

  The word hung in the air for only a moment before everything erupted into a flurry of movement and voices shouting into their headsets or at each other. This was the go-code they'd been waiting for, the signal that meant all the arguing was over and it was time to actually do the job they'd been sent here to do.

  Lysandra didn't hesitate. She turned around quickly, raising the gas mask to her face and pulling the straps tight over her head, then snapped her FAST helmet straps into place. The world shrank to tunnel vision through the mask's eyepieces as she immediately felt the torrential downpour soak her to the bones.

  "Action, Action, Action."

  The code echoed across every encrypted channel, transmitted to every team leader, every pilot, every operator sitting in those helicopters waiting in the rain.

  The mission was a go.

  Bursting through the flimsy aluminum doors and into the storm, Lysandra felt the rain immediately hammering against her gear like a thousand tiny, freezing fists. However, waiting in the torrent was singular Polaris MRZR—a skeletal, militarized dune buggy that looked more like a roll cage with an engine than a vehicle.

  The elf didn't waste a second. She didn't bother with the passenger seat or even slowing down. Lysandra sprinted through the puddles and leapt onto the vehicle, which was still humming angrily with Bishop behind the wheel. She grabbed the reinforced frame of the roll cage with one hand, swinging herself onto the side like a huntress mounting a charging beast.

  "GO!" Lysandra screamed through her mask.