-New York
The afternoon light was pale, as if the sun was being swallowed by a thin veil of clouds. The city felt unusually quiet, drained of its usual energy. Every movement outside carried a strange silence beneath it. Beyond the glass, the distant hum of traffic filled the streets, occasionally pierced by the sharp wail of sirens echoing through the avenues.
Inside the 17th floor of the Royal State Building, Hanz's team was already at work.
Three of his men were focused on the screens in front of them, typing rapidly as lines of encrypted code filled the monitors. The only sound in the room was the steady rhythm of keyboards clicking.
At the center of it all, Hanz stood quietly by the window.
He was slowly pouring whiskey into a glass already filled with ice cubes, watching the city as if it didn't concern him at all.
A few minutes passed as layers of encryption verified the connection—routing through multiple secure nodes, masking both ends of the line.
"Sir, all channels are green," one of the analysts said quietly.
"No intrusion, no mirror nodes. We're clean."
"Connection stabilized," another added.
"We can proceed with secure negotiation."
Hanz stepped forward from the window.
Calm. Controlled.
"Begin," he said.
On the main terminal, the interface shifted—minimalist, black background, with a single active session.
A secure identifier appeared:
BLACK BROKER // AUTHORIZED NODE: BLACK
A message came through almost immediately.
Black: Long time since Ukraine conflict I assume this is not a courtesy call.
Hanz's assistant glanced at him—just long enough to notice he hadn't moved.
"Sir, the broker is requesting confirmation of intent."
Hanz standing behind the team.
"Tell him," he said, "this is a procurement request."
The assistant typed:
HYOps: Confirmed. Procurement of one operational unit. Recovery objective. High-risk environment. No political attribution. Deployment zone: Zarakhanda, Africa.
A brief pause.
Then the response came.
Black: Understood. Classification accepted.
The interface updated slightly, indicating the deal had moved into formal negotiation protocol.
Black: Specify operational tier requirement.
The assistant turned again.
"Sir, broker is asking for unit classification—Combat Mercenaries or Extraction team both are capable of a Recovery mission"
Hanz took a sip of whiskey.
"How much leverage for Combat Mercenaries?" he asked calmly.
The assistant relayed.
Seconds later, the broker responded with a structured pricing sheet.
"Sir Broker has sent two categories" says the Assistant
"Proceed" Hanz response
"Offensive Combat Mercenaries cost around sixty thousand dollars per week," the assistant explained. "They are primarily used for attack and assault missions."
"And the second one?" Hanz asked calmly.
"The Elite Veteran Unit costs ninety thousand dollars per week," the assistant replied. "They specialize in defense—protecting convoys, manning checkpoints, and securing strategic locations."
Hanz turned slightly toward the window again, watching the skyline fade into evening light.
After a moment of silence, he stepped away from the glass and approached his team.
"Alright," he said calmly. "We'll go with the Elite."
"And logistics?" he added.
The broker replied.
Black: Rates exclude deployment logistics. If organic transport is unavailable, aviation and extraction support will be billed separately under operational overhead.
Hanz nodded faintly.
"Tell him I have transport covered," he said.
"Private aviation asset will be assigned."
The assistant typed immediately.
HYOps: Transport secured. Private aircraft available for deployment. No external logistics required.
A short pause.
Then—
Black: Acknowledged.
Black: Proceeding to activation phase upon receipt of funds.
The payment interface unlocked—crypto channels, multi-signature wallet authorization, layered verification.
Within minutes, the transaction was processed.
A confirmation flashed across the screen.
TRANSFER VERIFIED // FUNDS RECEIVED
Then the final message:
Black: Elite unit is now mobilizing. ETA confirmation pending extraction window.
The connection stabilized.
Then slowly dimmed.
-THE CALL-
-Tokyo 2:30 AM
Renji Aoki lay sprawled across the cold sidewalk of Tokyo's nightlife district, one arm over his face, the other hanging limp near the gutter. Neon lights from clubs and karaoke bars painted the wet pavement in shifting reds, blues, and violet streaks. The smell of cigarette smoke, ramen broth, and loyalty toasts, then more bottles, then insults, laughter, and endless rounds of whiskey. Even Renji, whose tolerance was legendary, had been dragged under by the tide of alcohol.
Now he was just another drunk employed to anyone passing by.
Except he wasn't.
"Oi. Wake up."
A boot nudged his shoulder.
Two Tokyo police officers stood above him, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion.
"You can't sleep here," one said sharply. "You're blocking the sidewalk."
Renji groaned, barely moving.
As one officer bent down to haul him up, something slipped from Renji's coat pocket and clattered onto the concrete.
A phone.
The younger officer reached for it.
Then it vibrated.
A sharp electronic buzz sliced through the street noise.
Renji's eyes snapped open.
In a flash, his hand shot out like a striking blade. He snatched the phone from the officer's grasp before the man could react. The policemen staggered back, startled by the speed.
Renji ignored them.
Still half-kneeling on the pavement, hair disheveled, shirt wrinkled, breath heavy with alcohol, he stared at the screen.
One unread message.
FLASH ORDER // PERSONNEL RECOVERY // ZARAKHANDA
The drunken haze vanished from his face.
His eyes hardened.
The lazy slouch in his shoulders straightened.
The man on the ground disappeared, replaced by something colder… sharper… dangerous.
The older officer frowned. "What is it?"
Renji slowly stood, swaying only once before regaining perfect balance. He slid the phone into his coat.
"Nothing," he said in flawless Japanese.
Then he looked toward the dark skyline beyond the neon streets.
"Just work."
Without another word, he walked into the night, leaving the confused officers behind as if they had never existed.
-Bangkok
The arena in Bangkok shook with noise.
Sweat, blood, and heat clung to the air as thousands of voices crashed against the walls. Under the white glare of the ring lights, Kamon "Kao" Rithdee stood in the center of the canvas, chest heaving, shoulders glistening with sweat.
Across from him, his opponent staggered on swollen legs, one eye nearly shut.
They had gone five brutal rounds.
Kao's elbows had opened cuts. His knees had folded ribs. His kicks had slammed like baseball bats into flesh. But the other man kept moving, kept surviving.
The bell rang.
The crowd erupted.
Some shouted Kao's name. Others screamed for blood. Beer cups flew through the air. Gamblers argued in the stands. The whole place felt ready to riot.
Both fighters were called to the center.
The referee held their wrists.
The announcer read the scorecards in rapid Thai.
Then—
"By unanimous decision..."
A pause.
The referee lifted the hand of Kao's opponent.
For half a second, the arena froze.
Then chaos.
Boos thundered from every direction.
People screamed at the judges. Bottles bounced near the ring apron. Men cursed and pointed at the officials. Even some of the opponent's own supporters looked confused.
Kao didn't move.
His face remained blank, though blood ran from a split brow.
He gave one short nod, then turned and stepped through the ropes.
As he walked down from the platform, the crowd kept roaring—not at him, but for him. Some booed the result. Some shouted his name. Others mocked the corruption of the decision.
He ignored all of it.
The hallway to the locker rooms was narrow and dim. The cheers became muffled echoes behind concrete walls.
Inside the locker room, Kao sat heavily on the bench and began unwrapping his hands.
His coach threw a towel over his shoulders.
"They expected more," the old man said. "Because they know you're not just a fighter."
Kao said nothing.
The coach looked at him in the mirror.
"They know you're a soldier."
Still silent, Kao bent forward and reached into his sports bag.
He pulled out a battered phone, its screen cracked near one corner.
One unread message.
He opened it.
FLASH ORDER // RESCUE OPERATION // AO: ZARAKHANDA
The pain in his ribs disappeared.
The sting of defeat vanished.
His breathing slowed.
The fighter sitting on the bench was gone.
What remained was the man he used to be.
Kao stood up.
His coach saw the change instantly.
"You leaving?"
Kao tossed the bloodied hand wraps into the trash.
"Yes."
"For where?"
He picked up the bag and slung it over one shoulder.
"Back to war."
New York
Meanwhile, Hanz had contacted one of his staff members who managed the maintenance of his private plane in Florida.
The phone rang.
The man answered while standing by the window and looking at the white private plane in the distance
"The plane is ready for deployment, Mr. Hanz."
"Good!" Hanz replied
then turn off the phone.
-Seoul, south Korea
Lee Joon sat stiffly in the plastic chair across from the glass desk, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had turned pale.
The loan office was small, clean, and painfully bright. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A wall clock ticked louder than it should have. Behind the desk, a woman in a navy blazer scrolled through his file with practiced indifference.
"Mr. Lee," she said without looking up, "your payment is already thirty-seven days overdue."
Joon swallowed.
"I know."
"You were granted one extension last month."
"I know."
She finally looked at him. "Then why are you here again?"
Outside the window, Seoul traffic moved under gray afternoon skies. People hurried with purpose. Everyone seemed to know where they were going.
Joon did not.
"I just need more time," he said quietly. "Two weeks."
The teller adjusted her glasses. "Your employment records show no active company registration. No military pension. No listed sponsor. No guarantor."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"How do you intend to pay in two weeks?"
Joon said nothing.
Because there was no answer he could give.
The loan had started as something small.
Hospital bills for his father after the stroke.
Then legal fees.
Then rent.
Then interest.
Then more loans to cover the first loan.
Everything collapsed after the incident.
Three years ago, he had been a respected staff sergeant in the Korean Special Forces. Then came the operation near the northern border—a raid built on faulty intelligence. Wrong coordinates. Wrong targets. Wrong assumptions.
Men died because of orders passed down through layers of command.
But only one name was dragged into the light.
Lee Joon.
He had survived.
Which made him useful to blame.
No prison sentence. No public trial. Just discharge, silence, and doors quietly closing wherever he went.
Now he sat in a loan office begging strangers for mercy.
The teller slid the file shut.
"We can offer another extension," she said.
Hope flickered in his chest.
"...with revised penalties."
She turned the monitor so he could see the numbers.
His stomach sank.
The balance had become a monster.
"I can't pay that."
"Then you should have paid on time."
Joon stared at the desk, jaw tightening.
The woman's phone rang. She excused herself and stepped into the back room.
Joon remained motionless.
Then his old phone vibrated in his pocket.
A single message.
No sender ID.
He opened it.
FLASH ORDER // RESCUE OPERATION // AO: ZARAKHANDA
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then something long buried stirred awake.
His posture straightened.
The defeated man in the plastic chair disappeared.
His breathing steadied.
The room suddenly felt too small.
The teller returned. "Mr. Lee, if you sign here we can—"
"I won't need the extension."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
Joon stood.
He took the unsigned papers, folded them once, and placed them neatly back on the desk.
"I'll settle everything soon."
There was no arrogance in his tone.
Only certainty.
He turned and walked out of the office into the cold Seoul afternoon.
The city kept moving around him.
For the first time in years, so did he.
-Ho Chi Minh- Vietnam-
Dang Vinh sat inside the private room he called his workshop.
The space looked less like a bedroom and more like a command center. Two reconnaissance drones rested on a steel table beside signal boosters, antenna arrays, soldering tools, battery packs, and dismantled circuit boards. A locked equipment case sat beneath the desk. Three monitors glowed with maps, code windows, and market charts.
He had money.
Enough to buy comfort.
Enough to leave the old life behind.
But habits from war never truly died.
So while others collected paintings or watches, Dang collected machines, networks, and information.
A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth as he sat cleaning one of the drones with slow, careful movements. Dust and grime stained the cloth in his hand as he polished the camera lens and checked the rotor arms.
He trusted machines.
He understood frequencies.
He could breach cameras, reroute surveillance feeds, spoof location pings, and piggyback off civilian satellite traffic with tools built from scrap.
But there was one system he could never fully control.
The market.
A sharp notification sounded from the computer behind him.
He turned slightly.
One of the screens flashed red.
PORTFOLIO ALERT: -50%
Dang froze.
Another notification followed immediately.
ZARAKHANDA CONFLICT ESCALATION IMPACTING REGIONAL MARKETS
Then another.
POSITION LIQUIDATED
His jaw tightened.
He slowly set down the drone component and stared at the screen as numbers bled downward in real time.
One of his coin positions had been wiped out.
Months of gains erased in minutes.
"Son of a—"
He stopped himself halfway through the curse.
Beyond the door, he could hear dishes moving in the kitchen.
His wife was still awake.
Dang inhaled sharply from the cigarette, held the smoke, then exhaled through his nose like a wounded bull.
He stood, walked to the monitor, and checked the damage.
Margin calls.
Forced liquidation.
Spreads blown wide.
The war in Zarakhanda had reached his house without firing a shot.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
Then a new notification appeared.
Not from the exchange.
Not from any known server.
Encrypted.
Priority level black.
Dang's eyes narrowed. He clicked it open.
FLASH ORDER // RESCUE OPERATION // AO: ZARAKHANDA
For several seconds, the room was silent.
Then he gave a dry laugh.
"They crash my portfolio... and now they want me to fix their war."
He stubbed out the cigarette, opened the locked equipment case, and began checking the contents inside.
This time, with purpose.
From the kitchen, his wife called out softly, asking if everything was alright.
Dang glanced once at the red market charts and answered without raising his voice.
"Yes."
He picked up one of the drones and smiled faintly.
"Everything is moving again."
-Meanwhile, in Florida, the aircraft began to move into position for departure. Inside the cockpit, the pilot ran through the final checks, fingers moving across switches and controls with practiced precision. The engines growled to life," ready for takeoff!"
-Manila 1:00 PM
The church bells of Quiapo rang above the traffic noise.
Vendors shouted along the crowded streets. Jeepneys coughed smoke into the humid Manila air. Devotees moved in and out of the old church gates carrying candles, prayers, and burdens no one else could see.
Elias Romero stood across the street and could not move.
Rainwater dripped from the hem of his jacket. His hands stayed buried in his pockets. He stared at the entrance as if it were a checkpoint guarded by ghosts.
People passed him without notice.
Some made the sign of the cross before entering. Others hurried inside with children in tow. An old woman limped past him holding a small bouquet of sampaguita.
Elias remained where he was.
He had walked all the way to the church to pray.
But he could not make himself step through the doors.
Because men like him did not belong in places like that.
Not anymore.
He used to wear a uniform.
Back then, he believed service meant honor. Discipline. Protection. Duty.
Then contracts started appearing after he left.
Simple jobs at first—security escorts, intimidation work, debt collection. Cash in envelopes. Questions never asked.
Then a politician's fixer offered real money.
Enough to pay tuition for his younger sister in the province.
Enough to send medicine to his father.
Enough to keep his mother from selling the last jewelry she owned.
Enough to matter.
He told himself it would only be once.
It never was.
Now his parents had mortgaged their land anyway.
The tuition still came every semester.
And blood money disappeared faster than clean money ever did.
A child brushed past him carrying a candle. Elias stepped aside instinctively.
His eyes returned to the church doors.
He remembered faces.
A councilman shot inside a parked SUV.
A businessman who never reached home.
A barangay captain who begged before the second bullet.
He closed his eyes.
The bells rang again.
Inside the church, voices rose in prayer.
Outside, Elias felt only weight.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He ignored it.
It vibrated again.
Annoyed, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
No sender.
Encrypted message.
He opened it.
FLASH ORDER // RESCUE OPERATION // AO: ZARAKHANDA
The noise of Quiapo seemed to fade.
His breathing slowed.
The guilt remained—but something older moved beneath it.
Training.
Instinct.
Purpose.
Elias looked once more at the church entrance.
Still, he could not enter.
So instead, he bowed his head where he stood.
A short prayer.
No words.
Then he slid the phone back into his pocket and turned toward the street.
Jeepneys roared past. Vendors shouted. Life continued.
Elias stepped into the chaos and disappeared into Manila.
-Malaysia
The dawn call to prayer echoed across the quiet streets of Kuala Lumpur.
Its solemn melody rolled between concrete buildings, through narrow alleys, over shuttered shops and sleeping apartments. Even the city's usual noise seemed to pause beneath it.
Inside the mosque, Azlan Rahman pressed his forehead against the floor.
Stillness.
No cargo manifests. No debt collectors. No engines. No lies.
Only silence, prayer, and the weight he carried.
He remained bowed longer than the others.
When he finally rose, the lines on his face seemed older than his years. He moved with the calm discipline of a man who had spent too much of his life in places where mistakes were buried with bodies.
Outside, morning light crept over the courtyard.
An elderly imam waited near the stone fountain, hands folded behind his back.
Azlan approached respectfully and lowered his gaze.
"Imam."
The old man nodded. "You have not been sleeping."
Azlan gave a faint smile. "I have not been successful."
They began walking slowly along the outer path of the mosque.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then the imam said, "Your wife came yesterday."
Azlan's jaw tightened.
"She asked if I had seen you."
"And what did you say?"
"The truth. That I only see men when they are searching for God or hiding from themselves."
Azlan looked away.
The imam continued gently. "She wants the matter settled."
The divorce.
Even hearing the word felt heavier than expected.
"She deserves peace," Azlan said quietly.
"She also deserves what was promised."
Azlan nodded once.
The settlement was lawful. Fair, even.
The apartment in Shah Alam.
Compensation.
The business funds she had invested when he claimed he was building a transport company.
He had not lied completely.
There had been transport.
Ships.
Containers.
Routes.
Just not the kind that belonged on tax forms.
When one shipment vanished at sea, everything collapsed.
Frozen accounts.
Investors demanding repayment.
Cash burned covering legal problems and bribes.
What remained in Azlan's account would not even satisfy half the divorce settlement.
"How much time?" Azlan asked.
The imam sighed.
"Not much."
Azlan stared at the courtyard stones.
He had crossed armed checkpoints with forged papers. Navigated coastlines in monsoon weather. Negotiated with men who smiled while planning murder.
But standing broke before a woman he once loved felt harder than any of it.
The imam placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Money can settle papers," the old man said. "But not the heart."
Azlan almost laughed.
"At the moment, I would settle for the papers."
The imam smiled despite himself.
Then Azlan's phone vibrated inside his pocket.
Once.
Then again.
He frowned and checked the screen.
No number.
Encrypted sender.
He opened the message.
FLASH ORDER // RESCUE OPERATION // AO: ZARAKHANDA
The morning air changed.
Or perhaps only Azlan did.
His eyes sharpened. His posture straightened.
The imam noticed immediately.
"Bad news?"
Azlan slipped the phone back into his pocket.
"No."
He looked toward the waking skyline.
"A difficult opportunity."
The imam studied him. "Will it bring you peace?"
Azlan gave a tired smile.
"It might buy it."
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the gates of the mosque, where the city—and his old life—waited for him once more.
-Back in Florida, the plane began its run down the runway, its engines roaring like thunder. It sped past in a blur, and seconds later, lifted into the sky.-
-Serbia
Rain dripped from the edge of the casino roof and struck the pavement in steady taps.
The parking lot shimmered beneath neon lights, rows of luxury cars reflecting red and gold from the towering building behind them. Security cameras turned silently overhead. Valets stood near the entrance pretending not to watch.
In the center of the lot, surrounded by casino staff and two uniformed security officers, Nikola Vukovic stood with one hand in his coat pocket and the other holding a key fob.
His face showed nothing.
Across from him, a thick-necked man in an expensive suit grinned through cigar smoke.
"You should have folded," the man said.
Nikola looked at him without expression.
"You should talk less."
The grin widened.
Inside the private poker room, the game had started with cash, then chips, then markers. Hours later, Nikola had nothing left but the black sedan parked outside.
So he wagered that too.
And lost.
One of the casino managers cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Mr. Vukovic, if the debt is acknowledged, we can finalize the transfer now."
Nikola ignored him.
He weighed the keys in his palm once, then extended his hand toward the winner.
The suited man reached eagerly.
Nikola held the keys back for a second.
A pause.
Long enough to embarrass him.
Then Nikola dropped them into the man's palm.
"There," Nikola said. "Now you own a car you don't know how to drive."
Laughter broke out from some of the staff before quickly dying.
The winner's smile vanished.
"You think this is funny?"
"I think," Nikola replied, "you paid too much."
One of the officers stepped subtly closer, sensing trouble.
The suited man jabbed a finger at Nikola's chest.
"You Balkan dogs always think you're dangerous after losing."
Nikola looked down at the finger.
Then back at the man.
"No," he said quietly. "Only before."
Silence spread across the lot.
Even the rain seemed softer.
The casino manager quickly intervened. "Gentlemen, please. The matter is settled."
Nikola turned away before anyone could continue.
No anger. No protest.
Just a man who had lost another possession.
As he walked toward the exit lane, his phone vibrated inside his coat.
He stopped beneath a flickering lamp and checked the screen.
Unknown sender.
Encrypted channel.
He opened the message.
FLASH ORDER // RESCUE OPERATION // AO: ZARAKHANDA
For the first time that night, his eyes sharpened.
The casino noise behind him faded.
The lost money.
The lost car.
The insult.
All irrelevant now.
Behind him, the suited man shouted, "How will you get home now?"
Nikola slipped the phone back into his pocket and kept walking.
Without turning around, he answered:
"I just found transportation."
He stepped into the rain and disappeared beyond the lights.
-Extraction point -
Subang Airport, Malaysia never appeared on postcards.
Far from the polished passenger terminals, beyond rows of maintenance hangars and fuel trucks, a private apron sat under harsh floodlights and damp midnight air. The scent of jet fuel mixed with rain-soaked concrete. Ground crews moved in silence, paid not to ask questions.
Six men gathered near the marked service lane.
And one man had been there long before the rest.
Renji Aoki sat alone on a steel cargo crate near the edge of the tarmac, one leg crossed over the other, smoking quietly beneath the floodlights. A black tactical bag rested at his feet. His jacket was buttoned high, collar raised against the night wind. He watched the runway without speaking, as if he had grown there from the concrete itself.
No one had seen him arrive.
No one had heard him approach.
When Kamon "Kao" Rithdee stepped onto the apron, he noticed Renji first and laughed.
"You sleep here too?"
Renji exhaled smoke. "Only where the company is bad."
Kamon grinned. "Then tonight is perfect."
One by one, the others arrived.
Lee Joon came next in a dark jacket, black shades still on despite the hour. His posture was straight, almost military, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting troops instead of waiting for a plane.
Kamon pointed. "Take those off. It's midnight."
Lee Joon remained still.
"The sun may return unexpectedly."
Kamon laughed loudly.
Nikola Vukovic arrived carrying a black tactical bag and wearing tactical cap beneath the floodlights, cigarette already lit.
"You all look poor," he said by way of greeting.
"You lost your car," Renji replied without looking at him.
Nikola stopped mid-step.
Kamon burst into laughter.
From the far side of the lane, Dang Vinh rolled in a hard equipment case and another duffel slung over his shoulder. He crouched immediately and began checking a compact drone.
"If anyone touches this case," Dang said, "I remove fingers."
"No one wants your toys," Nikola muttered.
"They said that before I hacked their payroll."
Then came Azlan Rahman, brown tactical bag across one shoulder, calm and freshly shaved. He greeted the airport workers by name before joining the group.
Kamon noticed an old scar when Azlan adjusted his shirt.
"What happened there?"
Azlan pulled the fabric aside and showed a puckered mark near his ribs, close to the armpit.
"Bullet," he said casually. "Missed the lung."
"Lucky," Lee Joon said.
Azlan shook his head.
"Bad shooter."
Even Renji smiled faintly at that.
The men traded insults under the floodlights, their bags lined beside them in black and brown rows. Broad shoulders, scarred knuckles, broken noses, old eyes in young faces—each built by violence in a different country.
Then Nikola glanced toward the perimeter road.
A lone figure was walking through the mist, tactical bag hanging from one shoulder.
Plain gray shirt.
Jeans.
Steady pace.
Elias Romeo.
Nikola spat aside.
"Fucking Filipino always late."
Elias stopped in front of him.
"I'm not late," he said calmly. "You're just early because you have no car."
Kamon nearly doubled over laughing.
Dang almost dropped a battery pack.
Nikola removed the cigarette from his mouth.
"I already dislike him."
Elias dropped his bag beside the others and looked around.
"Everyone here?"
Renji flicked ash to the ground and stood from the cargo crate.
"No," he said quietly, eyes shifting toward the runway lights.
"Now we wait for the man who thinks he owns us."
In the distance, landing lights pierced the darkness.
Two hours of waiting had changed nothing except the mood.
The floodlights still burned over the private apron. The air still smelled of rain and jet fuel. But patience had worn thin.
Kamon had finished pacing thirty minutes ago and started pacing again.
Nikola was on his third cigarette.
Dang Vinh had checked his equipment case so many times it looked personal.
Lee Joon remained motionless behind his black shades, as if time itself had been ordered to stand down.
Azlan leaned against a bollard in calm silence.
Elias sat on his tactical bag, elbows on knees, watching everything.
Only Renji looked exactly the same as when he first arrived.
Then the tower lights shifted.
Far beyond the dark runway, two white beams pierced through the mist.
No one spoke.
The sound came next.
Low at first.
Then rising into a deep mechanical roar that rolled across the tarmac like distant thunder.
The aircraft descended clean and steady, wheels striking the runway with a burst of smoke before racing past in a blur of lights and polished metal.
It turned at the far taxiway and came toward them.
No markings.
No logo.
Just wealth.
The jet stopped fifty meters away, engines humming with restrained power.
The cabin door opened.
A man in a dark suit descended first and walked toward them with measured confidence. Mid-forties. Perfect posture. The kind of man who had never carried a rifle but knew many men who did.
He stopped in front of the team and looked them over one by one.
Then he smiled faintly.
"You look like men who came from one grave only to be transferred into another."
The reaction was immediate.
Kamon smirked.
Nikola flicked ash from his cigarette.
Azlan lowered his eyes with a knowing smile.
Even Renji's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
No one needed further confirmation.
It was Hanz's aircraft.
Years ago, before some of them hated each other and before others had debts heavy enough to bend the spine, Hanz had used the same greeting before sending them into a desert operation in the Middle East.
Half the men they deployed with never came back.
The survivors never forgot the line.
Dang muttered, "Still dramatic."
Lee Joon said quietly, "Still alive."
The suited man heard both and nodded politely.
"Mr. Hanz appreciates consistency."
Elias stood and hoisted his bag onto one shoulder.
"Is he inside?"
The man's smile thinned.
"Mr. Hanz is waiting."
Nikola snorted. "Meaning yes, but hiding behind glass."
Azlan picked up his bag first.
"Meaning we're wasting time."
One by one, the mercenaries started toward the aircraft stairs.
Renji moved last.
As he passed the suited man, he spoke without looking at him.
"Last time he sent us to one grave."
He glanced toward the open cabin door.
"This time, tell him not to be inside it."
For the first time, the man's smile faltered.
Behind them, the engines idled in the night, ready to carry old ghosts back to war.