The morning sun cast harsh shadows through the conference room windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like ash from last night's destruction. Outside, storm clouds gathered on the horizon like an advancing army, their darkness promising worse weather ahead. Sean Covington sat rigid in his chair, electrical burns still tender beneath fresh bandages. Every breath tasted of antiseptic and failure.
Manager Delgado paced behind the mahogany table, his silk tie askew, sweat stains darkening his expensive shirt despite the early hour. "Gentlemen, ladies, what we experienced last night was an unfortunate security breach. These things happen in our line of work."
Estela's pen stopped moving across her notepad. The scratching sound had been the only noise for the past five minutes while Delgado delivered his prepared speech. Now silence filled the room like poison gas. She'd been recording everything on the small device hidden in her purse since Delgado started talking about "acceptable losses" at yesterday's briefing. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
"Security breach?" Sean's voice came out rougher than intended, his throat still raw from screaming. "Five good hunters are dead because you left classified files sitting next to fucking ammunition receipts."
"Now see here, Covington." Delgado's face flushed red, the color spreading down his neck like spilled wine. "I won't be lectured by a field operative who can't follow basic protocols."
Sean's nanobots stirred, responding to the rage building in his chest. The familiar warmth spread through his limbs, but this time it felt different. Hungrier. Like electricity before a lightning strike. "Protocols? You want to talk about protocols? Those supersoldados knew exactly which files to grab. They had our security codes. They had our safe combinations."
"That's classified information," Delgado snapped.
"Classified?" Sean leaned forward in his chair, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding his mouth. "Martinez is fucking dead. Vasquez is fucking dead. Morales had his head ripped clean off. But sure, let's worry about classifications."
Kasper de la Fuente shifted in his chair, exoskeleton servos whining softly like mechanical insects. "Kid's got a point. Those supersoldados moved like they had blueprints of the building."
"We don't know they were supersoldados," Delgado replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Could have been anyone with stolen equipment."
Douglas Berston looked up from his case files, dark circles under his eyes speaking to another sleepless night. "Anyone? They quoted fucking Marx while executing our people. They had energy weapons that vaporized reinforced concrete. You can smell the ozone burns from here. Common thieves don't have that kind of hardware."
"Language, Detective Berston." Delgado's voice carried the authority of someone who'd never bled for his position. "I understand you're all emotional, but conspiracy theories won't bring back the dead."
Sean stood abruptly, his chair scraping against polished floor like nails on a chalkboard. The sound made Estela flinch, her hand moving instinctively to the recording device. Every eye in the room tracked Sean's movement like he was a loaded weapon. Lightning flickered through the windows.
"Emotional?" Sean's voice dropped to a whisper. "You think this is emotional? Let me show you what emotional looks like when five men die because some desk jockey can't secure a fucking filing cabinet."
"Sit down, Covington, before you do something you'll regret."
"The only thing I regret," Sean said, taking a step closer to the table, his nanobots beginning to hum audibly beneath his skin, "is not doing this sooner. You want to know what really happened last night? Those supersoldados walked through our defenses like they owned the place because someone gave them the keys."
"That's a serious accusation," Captain Restrepo interrupted from his position at the far end of the table.
"It's the only explanation that makes sense," Sean replied, his nanobots beginning to glow faintly beneath his skin. The air around him smelled like charged metal. "Either we have a leak, or our security is run by someone too fucking stupid to protect classified intel."
Delgado's face went from red to purple. "I've had enough of your insubordination. You're suspended pending a full investigation."
"You can't suspend me."
"Watch me."
"No," Sean said, his voice carrying a new edge that made the air in the room feel electric. Thunder crashed overhead, rattling the windows. "You watch me. Article Seven of the Association Charter. I invoke trial by combat."
The conference room erupted. Board members shouted over each other, papers scattered as chairs scraped back. Through the chaos, Sean kept his eyes locked on Delgado's face, watching color drain from purple to sick white.
"You can't be serious," Delgado stammered, his voice cracking. "That's an archaic tradition. Barbaric."
"Article Seven, Section Three," Sean recited, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "Any member may challenge administrative leadership through single combat when gross negligence results in member casualties. Pretty fucking clear to me."
Captain Restrepo raised his weathered hand, and the noise died like someone had cut the power. "The motion is recognized under Association law. All in favor of sanctioning the trial?"
Hands rose around the table. Not all, but more than enough. Estela's was among them, trembling slightly as she committed to something that could destroy them both. Her recording device had captured everything. Another flash of lightning illuminated the room.
"Motion carries," Restrepo announced. "Combatants will engage in the Association gymnasium. Standard rules apply."
Delgado's hands shook as he loosened his tie, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. "This is madness. I have contacts in the capital. Political influence. You people need me."
"We need someone who doesn't get our people killed," Sean replied, already heading for the door as rain began pattering against the windows. "If that's you, now's your chance to prove it."
The gymnasium smelled of old sweat and broken dreams, mixed with the lingering scent of disinfectant that couldn't quite mask the underlying odor of violence. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in harsh, unforgiving light that made shadows dance like specters. Sean stripped off his shirt, revealing the web of electrical burns across his torso. Each mark was a reminder of Delgado's incompetence, still tender to the touch.
Delgado entered wearing expensive athletic gear that had clearly never seen real use. His hands shook as he pulled on boxing gloves, leather squeaking against sweaty palms with sounds like small animals in distress.
"Last chance to back out," Sean offered, rolling his shoulders to test the mobility around his burns. The movement sent fresh pain shooting down his arms like liquid fire. His nanobots hummed in response, a sound like angry wasps.
"I built this office from nothing," Delgado replied, finding some courage in his own words. "Turned it from a backwater posting into a regional power center. I won't be pushed out by some violent thug with daddy issues."
Everything stopped.
Sean's nanobots went completely silent. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Even the fluorescent lights seemed to dim, casting deeper shadows across the gymnasium floor. The air itself felt heavy, oppressive, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
"Everyone knows about your father, Covington." Delgado stepped forward, suddenly confident, his voice carrying across the silent space. "Drunken military washout who beat you bloody every night until the bottle finally killed him. Is that why you love violence so much? Does it remind you of home?"
Just like when dad called me worthless.
The thought hit Sean like a physical blow, dragging him back to being twelve years old and hiding bruises under long sleeves. He felt something break inside his chest, but it wasn't his ribs this time. It was something deeper. Something that had been holding him together since the first time he'd learned that love and pain came from the same hands.
"Sean," Estela called from the observation window, her voice barely audible through reinforced glass but sharp with concern. "Don't let that piece of shit get in your head."
But it was too late. The dam had broken, and twenty years of carefully controlled rage came flooding out like a river bursting its banks.
Sean crossed the gymnasium floor in two long strides, nanobots erupting to life like a fucking supernova. The air around him crackled with energy, filling the room with the sharp scent of ozone. Delgado swung wildly, his expensive gloves whistling through empty air like he was swatting at flies. Sean absorbed the momentum, stored the kinetic energy, felt power building in his bones like electricity in a storm cloud. His skin grew hot to the touch.
"You want to talk about my old man?" Sean whispered, catching Delgado's second swing on his forearm. The impact should have shattered bone, but Sean's nanobots drank it up like they were starving, humming with increased intensity. "He was a piece of shit who taught me that pain is just information. And right now, you're giving me a whole fucking education."
Delgado's eyes widened as Sean began to glow with stored energy, the light casting writhing shadows on the walls. Sweat poured down the manager's face, mixing fear and exertion. "This isn't fair. You're enhanced."
"Fair?" Sean's fist connected with Delgado's solar plexus, releasing every bit of stored energy in one concentrated burst. The sound was like thunder trapped in a bottle, echoing off the gymnasium walls with bone-shaking intensity. The smell of burned air filled the space. "Life isn't fair. That's the first lesson daddy taught me."
Delgado flew backward like he'd been shot from a cannon. He hit the gymnasium wall hard enough to leave spider web cracks in the concrete, the impact creating a sound like breaking bones. Then he slid down to the floor like a broken puppet, his expensive athletic gear torn and bloody, his breathing shallow and labored. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
Sean stood over him, chest heaving, nanobots still humming with excess energy. Victory tasted like copper pennies and hollow satisfaction. In the observation window, he could see Estela watching with wide eyes, her hand pressed against the glass, her breath fogging the surface.
"It's over," Captain Restrepo announced from the doorway. "Delgado is removed from position effective immediately."
But Sean's nanobots, overcharged from absorbing all that rage and kinetic energy, had other plans. They misfired spectacularly, sending white-hot pain through every nerve ending in his body like he'd been struck by lightning. The electrical burns across his shoulders suddenly felt like molten metal had been poured directly onto his skin. His vision exploded into stars and static.
His legs gave out. He hit the gymnasium floor face-first, the taste of blood filling his mouth as consciousness fled like smoke in the wind.
Time moved strangely in the space between collapse and awareness. Sean drifted through fragments of voices, the cool touch of medical equipment, the distant rumble of thunder that seemed to echo his own internal storm. Gradually, piece by piece, the world reassembled itself around him.
He woke to the sound of arguing voices and the metallic taste of blood. He lay on a medical cot, IV drip snaking into his arm like a mechanical serpent, the gymnasium lights now dim and bearable. Through slitted eyes, he could see Estela standing near the door, her small recording device nowhere to be seen but her expression tense with dangerous knowledge. The storm outside had intensified, rain drumming against the windows with increasing urgency.
"The position falls to the senior administrative officer," Captain Restrepo was saying to a group of board members. "Miss Montenegro has been handling most of the actual administrative work for months anyway."
Estela stepped forward, and Sean noticed she looked different somehow. Taller. More confident. Like she'd been waiting for this moment longer than anyone realized, like lightning finally finding its target.
"I accept the appointment," she said, her voice carrying new authority that cut through the room's tension. "My first priority is securing unlimited resources for the Project Lazarus investigation. No more budget restrictions, no more political considerations."
"Now hold on just a minute there."
The new voice was American, cold with professional authority that made Sean's blood turn to ice water. He'd heard that tone before from military contractors and CIA handlers. People who could make problems disappear permanently, who spoke in measured tones while ordering executions.
The man who entered was everything Delgado wasn't. Tall, fit, moving with the precise economy of someone who'd killed before and would kill again without losing sleep. His suit was expensive but practical, tailored to hide weapons rather than impress boardrooms. A small communication device in his ear crackled with static, and rain droplets clung to his shoulders like he'd just walked through the storm.
"Agent Carter, Country Manager for Association operations in Central America. I've been monitoring the situation from San José and flew in the moment I heard about this... disturbance."
Country Manager. That meant federal authority backed by Washington money and political influence that reached into the highest levels of government. Sean had a sinking feeling he was about to become a very big problem for very powerful people. Lightning flickered again outside, closer now.
"With all due respect, Agent Carter," Estela replied, not backing down an inch, her voice steady despite the electricity crackling in the air, "local offices operate with significant autonomy under Association Charter guidelines."
"Under normal circumstances, yes." Carter smiled, but it was the kind of smile sharks gave right before they bit. "However, last night's incident, combined with today's... unseemly display of violence... has attracted attention from Washington. Political attention. The kind that comes with congressional oversight and budget reviews."
Sean kept his breathing steady, feigning unconsciousness while his mind raced through possibilities. Carter's arrival wasn't a coincidence. The communication device, the timing, the prepared talking points. Someone had called him before the trial by combat had even started, someone with access to real-time intelligence.
"Mr. Covington's methods," Carter continued, his gaze moving to Sean's still form with the clinical interest of a pathologist examining a corpse, "while admittedly effective in certain contexts, create serious long-term complications for our organization. Brutal techniques attract media scrutiny. Scrutiny attracts political pressure. Political pressure attracts budget cuts and congressional investigations that can shut down entire operations."
"And yet his methods get results," Kasper interjected, his exoskeleton servos whining softly like mechanical complaints. "Something your political approach has consistently failed to achieve in this region."
"Results?" Carter's laugh was sharp as breaking glass, cutting through the air like shards. "Five dead hunters, a destroyed office, supersoldados with access to our most classified intelligence, and now internal violence that left a senior administrator hospitalized? If these are results, I'd hate to see what failure looks like in your book."
Sean felt his nanobots stir weakly, responding to suppressed rage even in his unconscious state. The worst part was that Carter was right. Every victory came with a price tag written in other people's blood. Every solved case left behind collateral damage that someone else had to clean up. Thunder crashed overhead, rattling the windows like an artillery barrage.
"The situation requires surgical precision," Carter continued, pulling out his own recording device with movements as calculated as a chess master. "Not a wrecking ball with anger management issues. That's why I'm here to take operational control."
Through the small window, Sean could see the storm clouds had darkened to an ominous black, heavy with the promise of devastation. The external tempest mirrored the conflict brewing in this room.
Estela's hand moved to her purse, fingers brushing against her own recording device. She caught Carter's eye and held it with the unflinching stare of someone holding a loaded gun.
"I understand your concerns, Agent Carter," she said carefully, each word measured and precise. "But this office has established protocols for handling enhanced threats. Protocols that have prevented far worse disasters than what we witnessed last night."
"Protocols that resulted in last night's massacre?" Carter stepped closer, the invasion of personal space calculated for maximum intimidation effect. "Miss Montenegro, I respect your loyalty to your colleagues. But loyalty to the wrong people can be extremely career-limiting. Ask yourself: do you want to go down with this sinking ship?"
The threat hung in the air like gunpowder smoke, thick and acrid. Sean felt his nanobots begin to charge again, preparing for violence that would solve nothing and destroy everything they'd worked for. Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the room in stark white relief.
But before he could move, Estela did something that caught everyone off guard.
She pulled out her recording device and set it on the table between them with a soft click that seemed to echo like a gunshot.
"Agent Carter, there's something you really need to hear." Her voice was steady, professional, completely unafraid despite the storm raging both inside and outside the building. "Amazing what you pick up when you actually listen to administrative meetings."
She pressed play. Delgado's voice filled the room, clear as crystal and damning as a confession:
"...acceptable losses are part of the operation. If a few hunters die, that's the price of doing business. What matters is maintaining plausible deniability with our federal oversight."
Carter's face went pale as old bone. But the recording wasn't finished.
"The supersoldados were expected. I was told to ensure minimal security on the Project Lazarus files. Someone wanted them taken."
The room went dead silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the increasingly violent rumble of thunder outside. Rain lashed against the windows like bullets, and Sean could smell the ozone in the air from the approaching electrical storm.
Sean realized that whatever Estela had been recording, whatever she'd discovered and kept hidden while playing the loyal assistant, was about to blow Carter's carefully constructed narrative to pieces.
And based on Carter's expression, which had gone from confident authority to barely controlled panic, it wasn't just his narrative at risk.
It was his life.
The storm outside was nothing compared to the one about to break in this room. Lightning struck close enough to shake the building, and in that moment of brilliant illumination, Sean saw the future written in Carter's eyes.
Blood. Betrayal. War.