Forward Operating Base Kamdesh – 0300 Hours
Zane was wide awake.
Most of the squad was asleep, spent from the previous mission. Not him. He sat in the armory, re-checking his mags, stripping his rifle, inspecting each part like it was sacred.
He didn't trust sleep.
Didn't like downtime.
Not when he felt the eyes.
They were watching.
The Man in Civilian Clothes
At 0327, a figure stepped into the armory. No uniform. No rank. Tan tactical pants, plain shirt. Combat boots laced tight. Scar above the eye. Voice low.
"You Cross?"
Zane didn't flinch. "Yeah."
"You're off the roster for tomorrow's patrol."
"Why?"
"You've been reassigned."
No explanation. No briefing. Just a file folder and a GPS unit placed on the table.
"Go alone. Don't be seen. There's a truck two klicks north. GPS will take you. No questions. No witnesses."
Zane looked at the folder.
No mission name.
Just a photo.
A man with a beard, foreign clothes, and American combat boots.
Traitor. Double agent. Selling out troop movements.
0400 Hours – On the Move
Zane moved through the darkness like a shadow. No NVG glow. No talking. Just wind and crunching gravel.
The truck was there, just like the stranger said. Civilian. No plates. Inside: gear, cash, silenced sidearm.
He drove for hours into the mountains.
Target Location – Small Village
He watched from a ridge. Spotted the man. Laughing with locals. Playing the victim.
Zane studied the pattern. At night, the target walked to a hidden shack, checked a sat phone, then returned like nothing happened.
Zane didn't move until 0200 the next day.
He approached silently. Entered the shack like smoke.
Target turned around—
Recognition in his eyes.
"You're American—"
Pft. Silenced shot to the skull.
Clean.
Zane took the phone. Wiped the room. Set a timed incendiary charge.
0400 Hours – Extraction
As the shack burned behind him, Zane got back in the truck. No proof. No footprints.
Just a sat phone.
When he returned to base, the same man was waiting.
"You followed the directive."
Zane nodded. "That wasn't a military op."
"No, it wasn't. And you still followed through. That's rare."
He slid a coin across the table. Heavy. Matte black. Embossed with an owl and the Roman numeral I.
"Keep it. If you're given a second, you're in."
Zane looked at the coin.
He didn't ask questions.
Didn't need to.
He was being tested. Quietly. Precisely. And he was passing.
That Night
Zane sat alone again, coin in hand, staring at it like it weighed a hundred pounds.
One coin down.
One left.
Then Delta calls.