2025-07-10 19:03:00
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370: Submarine Showdown
The dock lights dimmed as emergency systems kicked in. Red strips along the walls flickered, throwing broken shadows across the water. The submarine sat low and silent now, engines off, hull still warm. Steam rose where bullets had bitten metal. Achilles wiped blood from his knuckles and looked at the dark water.“Status,” he said.“Perimeter locked,” Brig. Rachael replied: “We’ve sealed the upper exits. No movement topside.”Anthony’s voice came next, steady but tense: “Sub’s crew is still inside. At least six, maybe more. Thermal reads are messy.”General Achilles Hector nodded once: “They’re hiding. Buying time.”He looked down at El Serpiente, unconscious, breathing shallow. Achilles cuffed him and handed him off: “Get him out. Alive.”“And you?” Rachael asked.Achilles didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer to the water’s edge and studied the submarine. He noticed the small things: the way the hatch seals were newer than the rest of the hull, the extra cable runs along the s
369: Final Fortress
Night pressed down on the coast. The ocean below the cliffs was black and restless, with waves crashing against the rocks. The coastal mansion sat above it all, its lights glowing softly, its walls thick, quiet, and confident. From a distance, it looked peaceful. Expensive. Untouched.Achilles lay flat on the ridge across from it, binoculars steady in his hands.“Perimeter confirms it,” Rachael whispered through comms: “This place is built for war, not comfort.”Achilles already knew. He had seen the angles, the blind spots, the way the lights were placed to blind anyone coming in from the sea. He tracked movement behind tinted glass, counted guards by pattern, not sight. Every six minutes, two men crossed the west wing balcony. Every ten minutes, a drone swept the cliff edge.“This isn’t Serpiente’s style,” Margaret said quietly over the line: “Too clean and modern.”“He didn’t build it,” Achilles replied: “He inherited it.”The Faithfuls were spread out now, silent and unseen, each
368: Convoy Siege
The gunfire came in short, disciplined bursts. Not wild or desperate but professional.Margaret’s convoy tore through the industrial district, headlights off, engines screaming as concrete walls and rusted warehouses blurred past. Gabrielle sat low in the back seat, seatbelt tight across her chest, her hands clenched together. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She watched. She listened.“They’re pushing us right,” the driver shouted: “Blocking the cross street.”Margaret leaned forward, eyes sharp, tablet glowing faintly in her hands: “Don’t take it. That alley is a dead funnel.”Another burst of gunfire shattered a side mirror.“They’re not cartel,” Margaret said into comms: “Their spacing is too clean. They’re trained to box, not spray.”Achilles was already moving through the night, boots slamming against pavement, breath controlled despite the pace: “I know,” he said: “That’s why they’re dangerous. Rachael, distance?”“Thirty seconds,” Rachael replied: “Hard push.”The lead SUV s
367: City Countdown
The city did not celebrate yet.Even after the broadcast ended, even after El Serpiente was restrained and dragged out of the studio, Cartagena remained tense, like a body holding its breath after narrowly avoiding death. Sirens echoed from distant streets. Helicopters cut across the night sky. People stood on balconies, phones in hand, whispering, pointing, afraid to believe it was truly over.Achilles stood in the studio corridor, Gabrielle wrapped in a protective vest beside him. He checked her face carefully, his hands gentle but precise, as if she were another fragile device that needed careful handling. She was shaken, but steady.“I’m okay,” she said softly before he could ask: “I really am.”He nodded once, accepting it. He knew better than to smother her strength. Still, he kept her close.Margaret’s voice came through the comms, sharp and urgent: “Don’t relax yet. We’re not done.”Achilles straightened: “Report.”“The explosives we neutralized were not the full network,” Mar
366: Public Threat
The studio lights burned hot.El Serpiente’s voice flowed smoothly across the broadcast, calm and rehearsed, the kind of calm that frightened people because it sounded reasonable. Millions watched across Colombia and beyond, unaware of the quiet war unfolding behind the cameras.Achilles stood just outside the studio doors, his presence hidden but absolute. He did not rush. He did not panic. He listened.“Foreign generals,” El Serpiente said: “operate above your laws. They bring violence and then call it peace. Tonight, you will see the truth.”Behind him, Gabrielle sat bound but unbroken, her posture straight, her eyes steady. Achilles caught her gaze through the glass for a brief second. She did not cry. She did not plead. She trusted him.That trust settled into Achilles’ chest really deep.Margaret’s voice came through the comms, controlled but tight: “Explosive signatures confirmed. Twelve locations so far. Transport hubs, plazas, waterfront markets. Civilian density is extreme.”
365: Urban Hunt
Cartagena breathed differently at night.The city glittered along the coast, lights reflecting off the Caribbean like nothing beneath them was wrong. Music drifted from bars. Traffic rolled on. Lovers walked hand in hand. To the outside world, it was calm.To Achilles, it was a battlefield wearing a smile.He stood inside a dim operations room commandeered from a compromised municipal building, eyes fixed on a live city map. Red markers pulsed across districts where cartel influence was strongest. Blue markers showed civilian density. Yellow flagged political interference.Too many yellows.“They’re shielding him,” Achilles said quietly.Margaret nodded from the screen beside him, her face sharp with concentration. “Three council members, two senior police commanders, and one federal liaison are actively delaying warrants. Paperwork traps. Jurisdiction loops.”“Bought or threatened,” Rachael added: “Possibly both.”Achilles leaned back slightly, folding his arms: “He wouldn’t hide in
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