Deep within the Little River Canyon National Preserve was an illegal cultivation site carved out in the middle of the forest about forty miles northeast of Fort Payne, Alabama. The entire clearing was a man-made scar and was a hive of activity in what was otherwise protected federal wilderness.

  From the elevated hide site two hundred meters to the northwest, the recon team had a commanding view of the entire operation, and it looked exactly like what intelligence had predicted: a full-scale cartel growing facility that had somehow been operating unnoticed for probably longer than marijuana had been accepted in mainstream society.

  The main clearing covered a few acres, with hacked-out stumps of old-growth pines still visible where trees had been felled and dragged away. But the entire area hadn’t been densely deforested — they had been smart about it. Or at least smart enough not to clear-cut the whole area and create an obvious void in the canopy that would show up on satellite images. Instead, they selectively removed trees, creating enough space for their operation while maintaining a broken canopy overhead that would make aerial surveillance difficult.

  Toward the center of the clearing sat two actual greenhouses—proper structures with aluminum frames and translucent plastic sheeting, probably ordered from Amazon or stolen from some agricultural supply company. But what made the scene really suspicious was the fact that the crop was outside, arranged in terraced rows that followed the natural slope of the land. Marijuana plants, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, arranged in neat lines where even in the rain and darkness, you could see the disciplined organization of it all.

  It made one wonder just what the hell was growing in the greenhouses.

  The entire compound was going to be an absolute bitch to handle. It was surrounded by earthen berms about six feet high, bulldozed into place, forming a perimeter that served both as concealment and as a defensive feature. Along the top of these berms ran elevated walkways of rough-cut lumber platforms, connected by makeshift stairs, giving whoever was on guard duty a decent view of the approaches.

  And there were guards. Small mercies were granted because, thankfully, these lazy bums would have been fired at the mall with how badly they patrolled the place. Only three of them were visible right now, roaming the walkways with the kind of bored patrol pattern that indicated weeks or months of absolutely nothing happening. There were a lot more inside, sleeping or lazing away during this stormy night.

  Amateurs. Or at least, not prepared for what was about to hit them.

  One guy was leaning against a post, probably smoking. Another was walking his section, but checking his phone every few steps. The third had just dipped under a building to escape the rain, probably to take a piss or something.

  Other than the greenhouses, buildings were scattered around the compound as if someone had just dropped them wherever there was flat ground. There were five structures in total, all haphazardly put together from prefabricated metal panels, sheet metal roofing, and lumber from trees they had cut down. Nothing matched, and nothing was level. The whole place looked as if it had been built by people who barely knew how a building fits together, not by professionals. But they didn't need something professional or permanent. They just needed something that would work in the moment.

  It was clear that little thought had been given to the inhabitants' comfort, as rain poured down in sheets, pounding the metal roofs like jackhammers. The poor sons of bitches inside must have gone deaf by now from the noise, since sheet metal did little to insulate against it.

  Not only that, visibility was absolute shit. You could maybe see a little more than a hundred feet out in the open. This was the kind of weather that made sensible people stay indoors, and those unfortunate enough to be outside were absolutely miserable. However, this was ideal weather for the kind of tactical operations about to descend upon this place.

  No one could hear a damn thing beyond their immediate vicinity.

  From the hide site, a sniper pair lay prone behind a Barrett MRAD in .338 Norma Magnum. The rifle's bipod dug into the muddy forest floor, and a ghillie drape over their hide broke up their silhouette against the vegetation and protected them from the rain. They were about 217 meters away, observing the compound from a slightly elevated position, when the spotter pressed his push-to-talk.

  "Target One is static, northwest platform," he murmured into his boom mic, voice barely above a whisper. "Target Two is mobile, southeast walkway. Target Three is inside Building Four."

  Beside him, the person behind the trigger scanned through a high-powered optic, tracked one guy maneuvering along the wall, barely protected in a poncho. It was a less-than-ideal piece of rainwear if someone wanted to get into a gunfight, because getting your rifle up and out of that thing and aimed at a target was an incredibly tall order.

  "Copy," came the quiet response in their earpieces. "Hold for now. Teams are moving into position."

  The spotter shifted his thermal optic and panned along the makeshift wall, and through the rain and darkness, he caught glimpses of them.

  Four to six human-shaped figures, creeping through the treeline using the storm's noise and the degraded visibility to close in on the wall. Several other teams were doing the exact same out there, with an identical sniper team providing overwatch. However, the team these particular pairs of snipers watched were bounding up to their pre-assault positions.

  Each assault team had its own objectives to attack, and each sniper pair had its designated area of responsibility, with overlapping fields of fire. This was a textbook austere-environment raid, but the only difference was the lack of fires or any other support. The only asset they had was an ISR platform loitering overhead, monitoring everything.

  The spotter kept scanning, inspecting the compound once more. The guard on the phone hadn't moved; the one smoking was still sitting under a makeshift guard tower, and the last guard they were responsible for finally returned, adjusting his trousers. No one seemed aware of what was happening. No one had noticed that they were surrounded by operators skilled at killing silently.

  With the sniper’s crosshairs settling back on the smoker, he allowed himself the smallest hint of satisfaction. Everything was in place. Every team was ready. All they needed now was for the call from command to set everything in motion.

  Just as he thought that, the radio crackled to life. "All assault elements are in position. We're good to go on your mark.” The assaulter's field commander’s voice came through in a quiet, hushed tone over the net.

  The sniper behind the MRAD shifted slightly and keyed his mic. "Copy that, we’re good as well. Just waitin’ on the cavalry."

  Acknowledgments from the other sniper teams soon filtered through over the next few seconds, with each pair confirming they had their targets lined up and were ready to take their shots. Three guards. Three sniper teams. Three precision rifles zeroed in on the beating hearts of the poor sons of bitches.

  "Voodoo, Wraith One. Conditions set. We're green for X." With everyone finally settled into their positions, hunkering down in the mud and rain, the call was made that the spring was coiled.

  Silence stretched across the net. Ten seconds, then fifteen. It was the kind of pause that made you wonder if someone's radio had died or if the whole operation was being scrubbed at the last second. None of the teams moved, nor did they breathe any harder than they had to. They regulated themselves to just being patient while command did their thing.

  A few seconds later, their patience paid off, as their radio crackled to life as the mission controllers gave everyone what they were looking for. "Solid copy, conditions set. Dancers have passed checkpoint Cajun and are cleared for HLZs. They're two minutes out."

  Both the sniper's and spotter’s ears perked up as they glanced at each other and shared a small and malicious smirk. “Showtime." The spooter said as the sniper's eye returned to his scope.

  There was almost a universal shift as every member of the recce team switched on now that there was wet work to do. Morbid excitement seemed to electrify the air. Thumbs hovered over safety switches, and fingers quietly tapped at the trigger guards of their rifles.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Through the lens of his high-powered optic, the sniper hovered the reticle over the heart of his target—the smoker—just itching to pull the trigger as the doomed soul let out a huge yawn and flicked his cigarette over the side of the berm. As if following the discarded tobacco, the guard kept walking toward the edge, stretching his arms and letting out a mute groan amid the storm's cacophony.

  "You've got to be shitting me," the spotter muttered, watching through his thermal optic as the guard positioned himself at the edge of the walkway. The guard didn’t even look down at the team crouched just below him, then unzipped his pants.

  "Hey, if ya gotta go, ya gotta go," the sniper replied, keeping his crosshairs steady on his victim’s chest.

  The assault team, crouched and stacked just below at the base of the berm, kept their weapons trained on the guard as he let out another, much more satisfied sigh. Through the sniper’s scope, a long thermal string poured out of the guard as he lolled his head back, letting the rain pelt his face.

  "Hah. Nice… Threading the needle," the spotter whispered.

  The sniper pair watched as that long thermal stream fell from the walkway and drizzled between two members of the assault team who were hugging the berm’s wall. The guys on the ground didn't move, didn't react, just stayed where they were, trying to position themselves as far away from the raining piss as they could without drawing attention.

  At the same time, radios crackled to life in earpieces and headsets. "One minute," Voodoo's voice set a jolt through the entire recce contingent. "Dancers are one minute out."

  Completely oblivious to the dangers around him, the Cartel sicario continued to enjoy the cathartic release for a few more moments, wiggling out a few droplets and restarting the process all over again. Everyone wondered just how big this fuckin’ guy’s bladder was, seeing as he was making a small steaming river in the dirt, but then the guard’s head suddenly perked up.

  The stream faltered slightly, and his posture shifted from relaxed to confused. The cartel sicario didn’t bother to put whatever was in his hand away as he turned his head slightly to the left, then to the right. He strained to hear whatever was hammering away with the rain.

  There was something out there, something that was making the guard nervous as it grew louder and louder.

  The sniper team heard it too. That familiar sound of rotor blades. They were close. Extremely close. These weren’t the distant sound of helicopters circling at altitude. These were the aggressive, earth-shaking thunder of birds flying low and coming in fast as sin.

  As confusion turned into alarm, the guard didn’t quite know what to do. He was still taking a piss and stopped if he wanted to. With his free hand, the sicario grabbed the rifle hanging from its sling under his poncho, while straining his eyes for what was making that noise.

  "Shot on my mark.” The sniper took control of the situation and spoke into his headset, setting off a chain reaction. Every member of the assault force braced themselves, because once those three rifles went off, it was go time.

  With the safety off, the sniper's finger settled firmly on the trigger. The world seemed to melt away as everything narrowed to the reticle. His breathing slowed, and his heart rate dropped as he focused on his prey. Check the wind, the range one more time. He knew he had to take this shot soon. The target was stationary, but that was about to change any second.

  Trying to zip up his pants with one hand while pulling at his weapon, caught in the liner of his poncho, the sicario yelled something over his head as he realized something was very, very wrong.

  "Three."

  "Two."

  "One."

  …

  “Mark.”

  Three suppressed rifle shots split the night, and three bodies dropped simultaneously.

  Through each of the scopes, snipers watched as the cartel members flinched and clutched their chests. The one who had just taken a leak simply stumbled backward off the berm and toppled into the compound proper.

  Perfect coordination. Perfect timing. Clean kills.

  No more words were needed. A half second later, the assault teams were in motion. Those frozen at the base of the berms exploded upward. Operators boosted each other up, using their hands to catapult their teammates or using their knees as step stools as they threw themselves over the six-foot earthen wall.

  The assault came at the speed born of drilling this exact movement hundreds of times. Once they hit the top of the wall, their weapons already up, they were squeezing off rounds at any target of opportunity they could find. But that paled in comparison to a couple of assaulters hoisting up an M240 machine gun—courtesy of the DHS—and setting up a position in the makeshift guard tower.

  Due to the lack of support elements, those assaulting the compound decided to make their own. The gunner and assistant gunner pair settled into position, laid the bipod across a wooden table, and yanked back on the trigger.

  The heavy weapon barked to life, spewing massive fireballs and sending malice and hatred into what they believed was the main guard house and armory. Two of these weapons shredded the entrances, where sicarios were barrelling out, and the windows, with heads popping out. They decided to leave nothing to chance, shredding sheet metal and wood as they gunned down anyone stupid enough to be outside or completely suppressed those still inside who might have had ideas about fighting back.

  Meanwhile, the operators moved along the walls like spiders, clearing out guard towers and adding to the carnage with their suppressed rifles. The M240 did most of the heavy lifting, keeping up its brutal drumbeat of fire, punching holes through walls, destroying cover, and creating an overwhelming wall of violence that made resistance seem impossible.

  All around the compound—south, east, and west—dozens of operators were doing the same thing. They flowed over the walls like water, securing sectors, establishing fields of fire, and suppressing anyone stupid enough to stick their head out.

  But then the helicopters arrived.

  The first couple of Little Birds darted through the darkness like comets, slamming their skids down onto the roof of Building Two. They hit hard enough to buckle the sheet metal, but the operators seemed completely unfazed, immediately dismounting and taking up an overwatch position over the main target of this operation.

  The large cabin, smack dab in the middle of the compound, served as the living quarters.

  As the other little birds hit Buildings three and four, the Blackhawks decided to make themselves known. They didn't fuck around with any of the fancy insertions or rope deployments; they just barreled right into the middle of the terraced marijuana fields. The insanity was a sight to behold as they trusted those on the ground to cease fire in an orchestrated dance while they unloaded the horde of assaults waiting to get some.

  With one wheel balanced on a terrace and the other hanging off the edge, the Blackhawks unloaded their malevolent storage. Operators jumped out of the birds and immediately sprinted toward their objectives, aiming to breach buildings, sanitize whatever was inside, and, importantly, cordon off and isolate Building One.

  Suddenly, the sharp, violent percussions of breaching charges echoed across the compound in rapid succession. Doors and walls were no longer obstacles as Buildings Two, Four, and Five were ripped asunder. Each explosion was immediately followed by the controlled chaos of entry teams flooding through fatal funnels, weapons up, acquiring targets, and neutralizing threats.

  The M240s fell quiet almost simultaneously, their gunners taking their fingers off the triggers as the assault elements moved into their sectors. They were disciplined enough not to pour machine-gun fire into a building their own guys were about to breach—that was how you got friendly-fire incidents. Instead, the heavy weapons shifted entirely.

  Specifically toward the living quarters—Building One.

  Even the sniper rifles quieted, their scopes no longer tracking the elevated walkways, which had been completely overrun. Instead, they focused on the second-story window of building one. There were a few idiots who tried to stick their heads out and snap off a few shots, but they were quickly quieted as the snipers took their literal heads off.

  The overwatch elements had shifted their attention and posture entirely, focusing instead on forming a perimeter around their primary objective. Anyone who tried to flee that building, stick their head out, or make themselves known would have approximately 0.5 seconds to regret that decision before high-velocity rounds ended the conversation.

  As the raid continued, the sounds of gunfire echoed throughout the compound as each building was violently secured. The entire operation was conducted mercilessly, and the operators took absolutely nothing to chance.

  While this was not technically a Full-Spectrum neutralization op, they were forced to treat it as such. The briefing had been clear about the objective: secure the arcane users alive if possible, neutralize all hostiles, and sanitize the site. But ‘secure alive if possible’ came with a massive asterisk when dealing with targets who could reanimate corpses and kill you with a few words. The operators weren't taking any chances. Better to stack bodies and let God sort them out than to give some necromancer three seconds to start yapping away in whatever unholy language they spoke.

  The memory of Lysandra’s run-downs of what they’d run into, the briefing photos—those flesh constructs formed into a singular horror—had burned itself into every operator's mind. These weren't just drug dealers. These were people who violated the fundamental laws of nature and treated death as a tool rather than an ending. This was the kind of shit that made even hardened JSOC operators nervous.

  As a perimeter was formed and the building fell silent, radio calls began filtering through the net of EKIAs and friendly wounded. There were a few surprises, but the compound was still systematically dismantled with the kind of overwhelming violence that left no room for organized resistance.

  And once the area was secure enough, the finale arrived.

  The sound came first—deeper than the Little Birds, heavier than the Blackhawks. This drumbeat was the unmistakable bass-heavy thump of twin rotors beating the air into submission as an MH-47 Chinook descended from the storm like some prehistoric beast and landed in the clearing directly in front of Building One.