The sandstorm had passed hours ago, but its ghost still hung over Alpha Ridge like a silent accusation. Dust clung to the walls, to the crates, to the rifles lined in the corner as if everything in the outpost were holding its breath.Echo Unit gathered around the central table—tired, bruised, but standing. Always standing.Captain Marcus Mercer scanned their faces one by one. Ortiz was sporting a new cut above the eyebrow. Hale had wrapped tape around his knuckles after punching a steel locker in frustration. Bishop looked hollow-eyed but composed. Ramos cleaned his rifle in slow, controlled motions, every movement deliberate. Quinn paced the back wall, restless energy leaking from him in sharp breaths.And Cole sat closest to Mercer, leaning forward, focused, ready.They were waiting on him.But Mercer hadn’t spoken yet.Not because he didn’t know what to say—he did.But because he knew the weight of his next decision would change everything.“Intel confirms movement in Sector Delta

Night settled over the valley like a heavy cloak, swallowing the jagged shadows of the ruined compound as Echo Unit pushed deeper into the outskirts. The farther they moved, the more the silence clung to them—too thick, too fragile, the type of silence that suggested listening eyes.Captain Mercer walked ahead with Ramirez just off his shoulder, their footsteps ghost-quiet over the dirt. Behind them, Bishop and Kane scanned opposite flanks while O’Connor covered their rear, his rifle steady despite the fatigue lining his face. They’d been on the move for nearly three hours, following the faint trail of intelligence that suggested the missing reconnaissance team had passed through this area before vanishing.There were no bodies. No gear. No comms. Just nothing—an emptiness that unsettled every man on the squad, even if no one said it out loud.“Still no heat signatures?” Mercer whispered.Ramirez lifted his thermal scope again, panning across cracked rooftops and hollowed-out doorfram

The morning broke slowly over Camp Halcyon, the first pale band of light stretching across the desert like a quiet promise that today might finally be different. The base was still half-asleep, generators humming, distant boots crunching over gravel in unhurried rhythm. Echo Unit stood outside their barracks in a loose formation, each man weighed down by something heavier than gear. Word had arrived at dawn: they were to prepare for a classified briefing at 0900. That alone wasn’t unusual. But Mercer knew—everyone knew—that after the last operation, after the betrayal, after Alvarez’s close call and Roarke’s unraveling temper, this briefing meant something big. Something they wouldn’t walk back from unchanged.Mercer stepped out of the barracks last, letting the door swing shut behind him. He scanned the line of his men—his family—and took in the quiet details that only he seemed to pay attention to. Roarke tying his boot for the third time, pretending he wasn’t pacing mentally. Dalto

The blindfold came off with a violent jerk.Amir blinked through the sting of sweat and sand as the world swam into focus. He was strapped to a metal chair, wrists bound, ankles locked, the room around him dim and windowless — lit only by a strip of cold white LEDs overhead. The air tasted like metal and old engines.An interrogation cell.Deep inside Iron Division territory.But he wasn’t alone.Maeve sat across from him, similarly restrained, a cut above her brow still bleeding in a thin line down her temple. Her eyes found him instantly.“You alive?” she whispered.Amir nodded. “You?”“Hurting, but breathing.”“Good. That’s enough.”A door hissed open behind them.Boots entered. Heavy. Controlled. A rhythm that belonged to someone high-ranking — someone with authority and comfort in this place of shadows.A man stepped forward, hands clasped behind him. His uniform was black and unmarked, but the bearing left no doubt: Commander Rourke, Iron Division’s internal operations chief.Th

The room they threw Amir and Maeve into was colder than the corridors. Stainless steel walls. No windows. A single flickering light that buzzed like an insect trapped in a jar. The door locked with a heavy metallic snap, sealing them inside as if the air itself had been taken hostage.Amir sat upright only because leaning back made his ribs scream. His wrists were zip-tied behind him. Maeve lay against the opposite wall, blood dried along her hairline, breathing shallow but steady.“Maeve,” Amir whispered. “Stay with me.”She blinked slowly, disoriented. “How long… were we out?”“Two hours, maybe less.”It was impossible to be sure—Iron Division’s interior complex had no clocks, no windows, no orientation. Only the rhythmic echoes of boots in the hall and the low hum of distant machinery.Maeve tried sitting up. Pain folded her forward, but she pushed through it.“They didn’t kill us,” she said. “Which means they want something.”“Sentinel files,” Amir rasped. “They know we triggered