Revenant Protocol

Caden Voss awoke to the searing recollection of blood and flames. The SUV that had been behind him was a smoldering ruin, its twisted metal chassis hissing like a crippled beast. He dragged himself up out of the furnace of heat and filth, each movement a symphony of pain: broken ribs, torn shoulder, face opened where glass had cut through flesh. But even as the desert sun rose the horizon, searing sand under his feet, he forced himself to get up. Clutching a frayed leather satchel against his chest, he lurched from the wreckage, not willing to pause because pausing was to perish.

The wind howled and hot grains of sand into his eyes and mouth, but Caden didn't give in. His brain replayed the mission in fragmented flashes: the predawn raid on the cartel stronghold in Durango, the thunder of drone bombs collapsing guard towers, the cold crackle of the vault swinging open at his hand. He had gone in undercover, swiped the ledger a plain J.R.-size notebook that held the key to Project Revenant, the black-ops initiative that had killed him and then everything was black.

And now, reality consisted only of pain, sun, and the distant roar of engines. He'd barely gotten clear of the crash zone when the cartel's armored SUVs drove up, spewing bullets. Caden dived into the nearest dune, his heart racing, and returned fire with a calm, practiced hand. Two shots, two dead. And then he was running once more, skirting rocky outcroppings, using all the tricks of his training to stay alive.

FLASHBACK

Moonlight had poured in from a shattered skylight as Caden made his way into the inner compound. Mackenzie's voice in his ear had been steady. "Perimeter clear. You have ninety seconds before they cycle through the defenses again." His hand opened the vault door, and he noticed rows of steel cabinets. He located the one where the symbol of the cartel was etched and entered the code Mackenzie had cracked: 4‑1‑9‑7. The lock clicked. Underneath lay the ledger, its cover worn, pages thick with handwritten notes: dates, names, covert operations. Every line traced back to Project Revenant's scientists, politicians, military contractors, engineers. Caden's breathing ceased. He closed the book, placed it in his satchel, and turned to leave.

A shape moved in the doorway. Before he could react, a rifle stock slammed against the back of his head, and he went black.

PRESENT

Sunlight had risen high when Caden came upon the wreckage of an abandoned cabin, its wooden front weathered to blonde by sun and wind. He pushed open the door on groaning hinges to discover chaos inside: overturned chairs, broken glass, black smudges on the floor. On a rickety table lay his contact, once a cartel lieutenant now turned informant face down, one bullet hole in his temple. Above him, in red.

YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO AWAKEN.

Caden's heart was racing. He knelt, felt for a pulse, none. His hands were trembling as he opened the satchel and drew out the ledger, flipping through the pages until he came to what he was seeking. And then he noticed a USB drive taped underneath the final page. He pulled it free with one gloved hand, plugged it into the laptop on the desk, and turned it on.

The screen flickered. Grainy footage appeared: a man stepped into view same height, same build, the same scar above his left eyebrow. The timestamp read four days ago. The figure smiled with cold assurance and spoke in Caden’s own voice:

“Phase Two is complete. The real Caden Voss died in Prague. We’ve built something better faster, untraceable. Let the old dog chase shadows. We’ll be waiting.”

Caden closed the laptop with a snap. His face distorted on the black screen: the same haunted eyes, the same features but the existence of someone else. Someone who had used his existence as a tool. His heart pounding with rage and astonishment: he was following himself.

HEADQUARTERS

In a windowless operations room halfway around the world, Agent Juno crouched over a bank of screens showing satellite images of the crash site. Director Malik stepped up beside her, voice quiet. "He's alive," she reported. Malik tapped on the screen. "Subject 002 is deployed. Send him in now. And return with the ledger dead or alive." The red dot blipped on the map, moving toward Caden's position.

THE DESERT NIGHT

By night, Caden had bandaged his wounds as best he could with torn fabric and antiseptic from the cabin's small first-aid supply. His shoulder throbbed, each painful breath a reminder of his own mortality. He knew the cartel killers would return, and now the government's own prototype assassin was on his heels. He could feel the noose tightening.

He climbed up into the desert hills above the cabin, using the darkness behind giant cacti and rocky outcroppings to cover his approach. All instinct cried to flee deeper into the desert, but he needed answers and the ledger was the only map to the truth. He crept along a ridge line until he noticed headlights cutting through the darkness. Two armored SUVs, driving with military tactics. Caden braced himself against the rock, his heart racing as the cars whizzed by, unaware of the specter among them.

The engines fell silent, and he slid down the hill and toward the nearest canyon. The wind shrieked, and the moonlight cast macabre patterns on the sand. He paused to drink, to steel himself for what was to come: confronting the organization that had turned him into a human killing machine.

THE KNOCK

At first light, he found a second safehouse, an old mine shack miles from any road. He set the ledger and USB on a dusty table in a battered shack, then fell onto the floor, exhaustion finally overwhelming him. His head rolled back against the wall, and he drifted into a fitful half-sleep.

A soft tap roused him. He sat up, hand on the gun beside him. Three taps. Stop. Two taps. The old signal employed by a single individual. His heart tightened. He stood up, racing heart, and proceeded to the door. Morning light poured through slats in the wood, illuminating the sand in front of it.

He opened the door an inch. There, in the dim light, stood a woman he had not seen in five years, hair flecked with sand, eyes wide with fear and something else he could not place.

"Caden," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It's me."

He blinked, stunned. She took a step closer, and he saw the flash of metal beneath her coat.

Before he could talk, her eyes went wide with alarm. She raised her hand, and a silenced gun materialized.

"Don't move," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Behind her, the canyon entrance was abuzz with movement armed men moving through the dawn haze. Caden's blood ran cold as he realized the moment had come: there would be no more fleeing.

He opened his mouth to ask one question:

"Why are you here?"

But the sole response was the hail of bullets and the fact that the actual hunt had only just begun.