The jungle was heavy with silence.
Sergeant Daniel Cross crouched in the undergrowth, his M4 rifle braced against his shoulder, eyes sweeping the shadows between towering trees. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, but he didn't blink. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut—the stillness was too complete, the air too tense.
Behind him, his squad fanned out in a staggered line. Six men, hardened veterans, moving with the discipline of wolves on a hunt. They had been tracking a weapons convoy for three days through mud, rivers, and suffocating heat. Tonight, they would strike.
At least, that was the plan.
Cross's earpiece crackled faintly with static, then went dead. He frowned, tapping the side of his helmet. Comms down? That's no accident.
He raised a clenched fist. The squad froze. The jungle seemed to hold its breath.
And then the world exploded.
A thunderous blast ripped through the trees to his left. Fire and shrapnel engulfed Sergeant McAllister, hurling him backward in a spray of blood. Before Cross could shout, gunfire erupted from the darkness—short, controlled bursts. The precision of professionals.
"Contact! Left flank!" Cross roared, diving into cover as tracer rounds sliced the air above him. Bark splintered from the tree at his shoulder.
Private Lewis screamed as a round tore into his throat, collapsing in the mud. Another man went down in seconds. They weren't being attacked by bandits or rebels. This was a kill squad.
Cross returned fire, the rifle's recoil slamming into his shoulder. Shadows flickered in the smoke—men in black masks, eyes hidden, moving like predators. The jungle lit up with the sharp crack of rifles and the deafening thump of grenades.
"Fall back! Break contact!" Cross shouted, dragging Corporal Reyes by the collar. Reyes was bleeding from a gash in his leg, grimacing but still clutching his weapon.
They stumbled through the vines and smoke, bullets chewing through the earth around them. Cross fired over his shoulder, cutting down one of the masked soldiers who had been closing in. The man dropped soundlessly, swallowed by the undergrowth.
And then Cross saw her.
Amid the chaos, standing unnervingly calm. A woman in a black leather jacket, pistol raised with perfect control. She fired twice—bang, bang—and two masked soldiers fell before they even realized she was there.
Her eyes locked on his. Cold. Calculating. And then—strangely—she smiled.
Cross felt his stomach tighten. She wasn't with his squad. She wasn't local militia. She was an outsider, moving with the ease of someone who'd been here all along.
And in that split second, he realized the ambush wasn't about the convoy.
It was about him.