The tropical humidity had seeped into the plane even before they landed.
The Cessna 680 swept low over thick, tangled clouds, bouncing to a halt on a bare, clay runway. When the tires finally kissed earth, Fox pushed his sunglasses to his forehead and glanced outside.
This was an old military airstrip, somewhere between the borders of Guyana and Brazil—overgrown grass everywhere, leaning chain-link fences, and a half-burned water tower in the distance, blackened and rusted like a broken bone.
They carried no checked baggage, only tactical packs slung over their shoulders.
Fox wore an off-white short-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled crisp, passport belt at his waist, old-school aviator shades, and a faded baseball cap—looked like a retired flight instructor.
Vulture was in a gray-green surplus jacket with a fake patch—scored off some Miami flea market. Pants cuffed at the ankle, boots still stained from their last demolition job. He chewed tobacco, gaze sharper than the sun.
John, as always, was the peacock: battered straw hat, loose Hawaiian shirt over his shoulders, sandals, dragging a massive hard-shell suitcase—inside: a folding rifle, a toolkit, and a box of blue cheese.
Not long after they parked, a silver-grey pickup crept to the airstrip's edge. The driver held up a scrap of metal painted with "JACOB," fingers wrapped in dirty bandages, face set in that universal "don't talk to me" glare.
"This our guy?" Fox murmured.
"Thomas's contact," John shrugged. "Checked him out—Samir, ex-border militia. Slid into the smuggling business. Fuel, pills, whatever makes a buck. He'll get us to the edge of the warlord's territory."
"He reliable?" Vulture spat his chew by the barrel.
"In this country?" John grinned. "Reliability's just a matter of price."
The pickup's back seat was crammed with woven sacks of pungent herbs, stinking like spoiled curry leaves. Samir didn't waste a word, just jerked the truck west, bouncing them down a cracked mud road, red dust billowing everywhere.
Inside was a sauna; outside, the world was split open by the last rain.
John popped a water bottle, barely sipped before the truck slowed.
Ahead: an abandoned checkpoint. The iron gate hung crooked, four men in mismatched camouflage loafing by the wall—soldiers, or just country boys with AKs, it was hard to tell.
Truck stopped.
Samir got out, cigarette in his teeth, muttering to the guards, some argument or negotiation.
Then—he glanced back at them. Not a warning, not an apology. A check:
You're in the circle now.
Fox's hand drifted down to the seat, palming a sanded-down jamming trigger. He could kill the radios—but it's too late.
The gunmen were already at the doors, rifles up. Samir spun and run out of the car as fast as he could.
"We've been sold," Fox breathed.
"Fast," Vulture hissed, reaching for his gun—stopped cold by the unmistakable click of a bolt behind his ear.
A fifth man—hidden under the truck the whole time.
John slowly raised his hands. "Old friend," he said quietly, "I'm guessing there's no more room for negotiation?"
A deep voice came from behind the checkpoint. "Not a time for bargains. It's a time for settling accounts."
The rain started in the distance.
They knew that voice. Years ago, after a botched arms deal, John had once thrown a revolutionary leader out of a helicopter. And the man he'd thrown? Now limped out of the shadows—Karl Bruno.
Former commander of the Guyanese Independent Guerrillas. Once MI6's point man against Venezuelan incursions. Abandoned by his "allies" after a failed op.
He'd lived—barely. Lost a leg, lost his trust in anyone, gained a taste for vengeance.
And now he was here. With guns, with hate, and with eyes that said, today, you all die here.
One hour later, they were led into the heart of the warlord's camp—a wooden hut with a rusted tin roof, two battered Guyanese flags hanging on the wall, one upside down, just for spite.
Inside was all shadows and damp. A long table covered in tropical cloth, bowls of bushmeat stew, fried plantain balls, and a pot of curry pork stirred with a wooden spoon. At the corner, an open bottle of cheap rum, two rolled cigarettes stabbed into withered leaves, still unlit—as if waiting for ghosts.
Three of them sat under guard, ringed by Bruno's men—skin dark and shiny, eyes cold as snakes grown up in mud.
Bruno took the head of the table, camo jacket still soaked, left leg bound up in steel and leather like a patchwork anchor. Rain dripped off his shoulders, but he didn't flinch, didn't seem to feel the cold.
He stared at John a long time.
No introductions. No pleasantries. He just tore off a chunk of roast chicken, bit deep, grease dripping down to his collar.
"You boys not hungry?" His voice was rough gravel.
Fox managed a thin smile. "We'll pass for now."
Vulture only stared at the pork stew, as if calculating how many hands had touched it.
John's grin was lazy, practiced. "You know how it is, my friend. Us English gents—tropical food's always a gamble."
Bruno licked his fingers like cleaning a blade. "Afraid I'd poison it?"
"More afraid of dying unpolite before dying hungry," the Brit shot back coolly.
Bruno laughed—a jagged, bitter laugh, like he'd just heard an old friend tell a stupid joke.
"Let's get to it," he said, voice as slow and heavy as jungle drums. "Why'd you come back here, eh?"
The Brit leaned back, voice flat and distant, as if through a curtain of rain.
"My friends," he said quietly, "someone sold us out. Some are dead. Some are waiting to die. I owe them nothing, but I can't let the bastard behind it run free."
"Who?"
"An asshole called D."
Bruno nodded, poured rum into a dented tin cup. Didn't answer right away—just watched the liquor settle, then suddenly slammed the table.
The cup jumped, stew sloshed, guns shifted in every hand.
He didn't shout—but his voice cracked the room like a whip:
"Ah, look at you. Hero now, are you? You want to talk betrayal—with me? After all these years?"
The Brit just lifted his chin, like, Go ahead. Get it off your chest.
Bruno lurched to his feet, one leg dragging, kicking his chair out of the way.
"Twenty twenty-three, when the Venezuelans hit us, we held the ridge seven days, seven nights! You were there! MI6 was there! We held the line with empty mags, with shovels, knives, our teeth if we had to. Then your chopper came." His eyes flared, memories pulsing. "You said you needed to evac, get backup. My arm was torn up—I begged you to take me. And you—"
He jabbed a trembling finger at John.
"—You threw me out of the goddamn helicopter."
Silence, just the rain hammering the tin roof.
"I hit the ground, broke my leg, ribs snapped like dry wood. Some local girl dragged me out of the swamp." Bruno's voice grated, all fury and old wounds. "And you—MI6 called us 'uncontrolled variables' and bombed our fallback. You know how many of my men died that day?"
The Brit spoke softly: "I know."
"Then why come back, you bastard?!"
"I'm not here for Britain." John's voice was steady. "I'm here for him." He nodded at Fox.
Bruno studied Fox for a long beat—then smiled, a crooked thing.
"What's this, some new act?"
Fox said nothing, just laid his hands flat on the table—showing he was unarmed.
Bruno leaned down, close, each word a stone:
"You—I have no quarrel with you…"
Fox tensed.
But Bruno finished, "…You just picked the wrong company."
He straightened, waving to the door.
"Take them. Into the jungle.Let the ants have them."
They were marched through the mud around the edge of the camp, rain drumming on the jungle leaves overhead like secret messages. The rainforest closed in—a bottomless green pit, thick with mosquitoes that felt like death's little feathers brushing their faces. The soldiers kept quiet, guns pressed to their backs, herding them like cattle.
Their hands were tied in front, the rope biting so deep their wrists went numb, but Fox never let himself look weak. As he walked, he mapped every turn, counted every step, logged the shadow of every lurking guard.
The squad rounded a riverbank. Suddenly Fox stopped.
"Wait up," he croaked, voice dry and hoarse. "I gotta take a shit."
Nobody answered.
"I mean it," he said, turning to the guard behind him. "Last thing you want is me crapping myself. Thought you guys prided yourselves on dying clean, huh?"
The guard was young, a diagonal scar across his cheek, still gripping his rifle like a rookie. He glanced at the older sergeant, who gave a nod.
"You, take him behind those trees."
The guard shoved Fox toward the brush. Fox shuffled off the path, face blank, acting natural, muttering, "Don't stare, man, I don't even know you."
The guard leaned against a tree, rifle slack, one hand digging for a cigarette.
Fox crouched, back turned, hands moving as if fumbling with his belt—but really palming a chunk of dry, hard mud from the ground. He worked it with his fingers, hiding it in his fist.
"Hey, brother," he called quietly. "Can you help me out here?"
"Hm?" The guard blew smoke, bored.
"My hands are tied, man. Can't get the belt. Give me a hand?"
The guard rolled his eyes. "What am I, your damn nanny?"
"C'mon, man," Fox said, genuine, tired. "Don't make me die with shit in my pants. Just help me out."
The guard hesitated, then sighed and stepped closer, rifle lowering. "Motherfu—"
Fox spun in a blur, slamming the mud square into the guard's face.
"Your mama never teach you manners?" he snarled.
The guard reflexively closed his eyes, stumbling back—Fox's knee drove up into his gut, then he threw him down with all his weight, booting the rifle away.
The guard gasped, tried to scream. Fox stepped hard on his throat.
A wet crunch, like a bellows deflating.
He stared into the guard's eyes until all the fight was gone.
Ten seconds, start to finish.
Fox rifled the body, yanked out a folding knife, bit down on the back of the blade and pressed it to the rope, working it loose with his knuckles. As soon as the tie snapped, blood rushed to his hands.
He grabbed the guard's AK, checked the mag—twenty-eight rounds, one in the chamber, two more slow mags, eighty-nine rounds total.
Not much, but enough to drag two brothers out of hell.
Fox took a deep breath, licking his cracked lips, all ice on his face. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he whispered,
"Time to pick up my guys."
He pulled the guard's radio and headset—standard camp issue. Switched to channel 2, keyed the mic, mimicking the guard's accent:
"Target's taken care of, heading back in."
Silence.
Nobody suspicious. Perfect.
He scanned the clearing: one guard squatting, whittling a stick stained with blood—intimidation prop, maybe. Another lounged by a betel palm, smoking, rifle hanging from his neck, finger off the trigger. Third stood on a rock outcrop further off, the real danger, scanning the perimeter.
Fox slithered through the southeast undergrowth, boots caked in mud and sap. Every step silent, every stone tested before he pressed his weight—moving like a half-starved jungle cat.
He held his breath as he closed in.
The stick-whittling guard crouched, knife busy on the wood, left hand on the shaft. Fox didn't go for a straight rush—he leaned in, grabbed the guy's right elbow with his left hand.
The guard jerked, turning—"What the—"
In that beat, Fox slid his right hand forward, blade flashing from below the scapula, slicing the jugular.
A muffled "shhk"—hot blood splashed over the roots, gurgling low in the dying man's throat.
Fox didn't even watch him fall. He yanked the AK, checked the mag—full. Safety off, racked a round, slung it on his back, and dropped lower.
He slid toward the smoking guard, now just five meters away. But his real target was the distant sentry on the rocks.
Fox grabbed a fist-sized slick stone from the jungle floor, testing the weight.
Suddenly, he tossed the rock at the smoking guard.
"Catch!" Fox barked—a crisp, no-nonsense order.
The guard's reflexes kicked in, hand rising to catch—
Fox's AK was already up, bead on the sentry. One shot, clean headshot.
CRACK.
Jungle silence shattered.
The sentry's head burst in a red haze, body pitching backward, rifle clattering down the rocks.
Fox swung the AK, two rapid shots—"BAM! BAM!"—into the chest of the guard who'd just caught the stone.
Blood splattered the trunk; the man's cigarette fell, frozen on his face with that "what the hell—" look.
Fox darted in, stripped both bodies of rifles, grabbed his knife, cut Vulture and the Brit free.
"Ready to go?" Vulture rolled his wrists, a thin lockpick in his teeth. "Hell of a soundtrack for a rescue."
Fox tossed him a gun. "Less talking, more shooting."
"Didn't think you'd go full 'bank robber' on these idiots. That 'Catch!' trick? Genius." Brit caught the AK, grinning. "Stealing that one."
Fox chambered a round. "I'm not a commando. I'm a thief. I bet he'd reach—and the dumb bastard did."
"Another minute, I'd have busted out myself," Vulture said, checking his mag with a snap.
"Less banter," Fox growled, eyes scanning the tree line. "We're not done. Time for a chat with that crippled bastard. He said we had no beef—now we do."
Out in the camp, the first signs of chaos were spreading.