Chapter 31

THIRTY-ONE

The hangar echoed with the hum of machinery, a cavernous space of steel and shadows. The sleek, black Range Rover idled near the far corner, its tinted windows concealing the lethal intent within. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, four men moved in tandem, silently covering the ground at a rapid pace. This wasn’t a mission of recovery. It was a hunt, and the target was already marked for death.

Stone, the team leader, paced in front of the vehicle, his eyes cold and calculating beneath the scar that traced down his temple. He glanced at his watch, then over to the men prepping for the mission. There was no need for conversation; they knew their roles. Their bodies moved like clockwork, tactical vests tightened, weapons loaded, suppressors screwed into place with soft clicks that echoed like a countdown.

"Gear check. Final," Stone growled, his voice gruff and commanding.

His HK hung across his chest, a silent promise of violence. He stopped by the Range Rover’s tech specialist, Mac, who was perched atop the vehicle, attaching the final pieces of satellite equipment to the roof.

"Comms are live," Mac confirmed, his voice clipped. "Green light."

Stone turned to the team. "This is weapons-free. Rules of engagement are simple: Bishop goes down. No negotiations, no captures. Just dead. Clear?"

A silent ripple passed through the squad as they double-checked their gear. These were men of war, and the pre-battle routine electrified them. Suppressed rifles gleamed under the dim lights, magazines clicked into place. Stone’s cold eyes swept over them, making sure each man was ready. This wasn’t a mission where anyone got a second chance.

Grimm slung his sniper rifle over his shoulder, eyes already scanning the distance as if lining up the kill in his mind. "Ready to roll, LT."

Stone clicked his earpiece, stepping to the side as he made the call. "Command, this is Talon Team. Over."

A crackle of static came through before the calm voice of Thorne responded. "Go ahead, Talon Team."

"We’re geared up and rolling out. Requesting an update on Bishop’s position." Stone pulled a tablet from his vest. The screen flickered to life, displaying a topographical map of the rugged terrain in the White Mountains, a mix of steep ridges and dense forest—a sniper’s playground.

The voice on the other end replied, "Last known location is grid coordinate 44.1260° N, 71.4336° W. Hatch is on his trail, pursuing him up the ridgeline. Expect contact soon."

Stone’s jaw tightened as he memorized the coordinates. "Roger that," he muttered, ending the call. The rest of the team stood ready, rifles in hand, eyes sharp and focused.

He glanced at Grimm, who gestured toward the mountains visible in the distance. "Bishop’s up there. The longer we wait, the farther he gets."

Mac tapped his tablet. "Satellite feed’s up. I’ve got heat signatures pinging on the ridge—one’s definitely Hatch, the other’s gotta be Bishop. They’re not far."

"Move out," Stone ordered, his voice low but authoritative. "We take him down. No loose ends."

The team climbed into the Range Rover, the vehicle’s engine purring like a panther ready to pounce. Grimm slid into the front seat, his rifle resting across his lap, eyes locked on the tree line ahead. Mac sat in the back, his fingers flying over his tablet as he monitored the feed, while Rook adjusted his gear, checking his sidearm with a focused intensity that belied his usual reckless energy.

As the Rover rolled out of the hangar and into the open air, the dense forest lay ahead, the perfect place for a man like Bishop to make his stand. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the road as they drove toward the ridge.

The vehicle slowed as they neared their drop point, tires crunching on gravel. The tension in the air was palpable, each man processing the gravity of the mission in his own way. Grimm’s fingers flexed on his rifle, his trigger finger itching for the kill. Rook’s leg bounced, clearly eager for the moment when things would explode into chaos. Mac focused on the screen, watching for any sign of movement.

Stone pulled the Rover to a stop just below the ridgeline, the forest around them unnaturally quiet. The team dismounted, moving like shadows through the underbrush, their movements efficient, controlled. The scent of damp earth and pine filled the air, the soft rustle of leaves the only sound as they advanced.

"Got a visual," Stone whispered into his mic. "Two targets. Moving.”