[02:13]
Location: Undisclosed, Bolivia-Brazil Border
Mission: Operation 'Dull Knife'
The air felt like hot, sticky soup.
Lieutenant Colonel Long Wei hated the jungle. He hated the 98% humidity that made his advanced graphene-polymer camouflage suit cling to his skin like a layer of cheap plastic. He hated the thumb-sized insects buzzing desperately around the acoustic dampeners in his helmet.
But most of all, he hated lazy targets.
"Dragon to Base," he whispered, his lips barely moving. The microphone at his throat caught the vibrations and turned them into a clear digital whisper. "Eyes on target. Visual confirmation. 'El Cuchillo' is on the terrace, smoking."
In his right contact lens, tactical data flowed. His heart rate: 70 BPM (Beats Per Minute), stable. His team's: 15 green dots on his miniature HUD (Heads-Up Display), all within combat parameters. Team 'Phantom,' the most covert special forces unit under the Global Defense Alliance (GDA), was the best. And he, at 23, was their commander.
Not because of nepotism. But because at 19, he had rewritten the doctrine on asymmetric warfare. At 21, he neutralized three terrorist cells single-handedly with only a combat knife and a working knowledge of applied psychology. At 23, he was a recognized military genius, a master strategist, and—though he'd never admit it—a master weaponsmith who could build a sniper rifle from scrap pipe and a ballpoint pen spring.
"Copy, Dragon," General Tano's deep, fatherly voice sounded in his earpiece. That voice was Long Wei's only anchor to the real world beyond this green hell. Tano was his mentor, the man who saw the potential in a rebellious young cadet and forged him into a weapon. "Primary target confirmed. Rules of engagement are in effect. Capture alive if possible, neutralize if forced. Priority is his laptop and the ledger. We must cut the head off this snake tonight."
"Understood, Base," Long Wei said. He shifted his gaze from his digital scope. Across the valley, 800 meters away, the lavish compound of 'El Cuchillo' (The Knife), the world's most powerful drug lord, looked like an impenetrable fortress.
But 'impenetrable' was a relative term for Long Wei.
"All units," he whispered into the team channel. "Initiate Phase Two. 'Cobra,' 'Viper,' you take the east perimeter. 'Ghost,' 'Shadow,' you're with me on the main route. We move in three minutes. Silent. Don't give them a reason to look out the window."
Fifteen invisible nods responded in the darkness.
Long Wei shifted his custom assault rifle, the M-9 'Chiroptera,' which he had designed himself. It was light, silent, and fired a subsonic projectile that could punch through Level IV armor like hot butter.
He took a slow breath. The silence before a mission was always the worst part. His mind drifted for a second—not to a woman (he had no time for that), not to family (he was an orphan)—but to the blueprints for a new EMP (Electromagnetic Pulse) grenade he was working on in his lab.
"Dragon," Cobra's voice, his second-in-command, broke the silence. "Movement. West perimeter. Two sentries."
Long Wei zoomed his optics. Correct. Two silhouettes, detected by heat sensors. "Yours, Cobra."
"Understood."
Silence. Then two soft 'pfft's, barely audible, from a .300 Blackout suppressor. The two hot spots on Long Wei's HUD turned from orange (alert) to gray (neutralized).
"West perimeter clear," Cobra reported, his voice flat.
"Good," Long Wei said. He rose from his prone position. "Team 'Phantom,' move out."
Like ghosts, 15 elite soldiers melted into the shadows.
[02:47]
Inside El Cuchillo's Compound
The interior of the compound was quiet. Too quiet.
Long Wei's team moved in a perfect 'Liquid Pyramid' formation—a tactic he had invented, allowing the unit to flow through narrow corridors while maintaining 360-degree lines of fire. They had bypassed three layers of security: electric fences (disabled by an EMP drone), guard dogs (sedated with non-lethal gas), and patrols (neutralized by Cobra and Viper).
Now they were in the main hall. Imported marble, stolen art, and the smell of cheap cocaine mixed with expensive cigars.
"Dragon to Base. We are inside. Primary target..." Long Wei stopped.
In the center of the room, on a chair upholstered in human leather (Long Wei assumed), sat 'El Cuchillo.' He was fat, sweaty, and... smiling. On his lap was the laptop they were looking for. He wasn't tied up. There were no guards near him.
"Lieutenant Colonel Long Wei," El Cuchillo said in broken Mandarin, his smile revealing gold teeth. "I have been waiting for you. You are five minutes later than the General's schedule."
Long Wei's blood ran cold.
Not cold with fear. But cold with realization.
All 15 of his team members froze. Their advanced suits made them nearly invisible, but the tension in the room could cut steel.
"Base," Long Wei said, his voice now devoid of emotion. He didn't raise or lower it. He just stated it. "Base, we have a situation."
No answer from General Tano. Just a soft, static hiss.
"Oh, he can't hear you anymore, hijo," El Cuchillo chuckled, tapping the laptop. "Your esteemed General Tano is busy managing his new 'investments.' And you, my genius boy... you are an 'operational cost' that had to be written off."
"Cobra," Long Wei commanded, his eyes never leaving the kingpin. "Lock the doors. 'Ghost,' scan frequencies. Check for explosives."
"Too late," El Cuchillo said.
He pressed the 'Enter' key.
On Long Wei's HUD, every door and window in the room suddenly lit up red. WARNING: EXPLOSIVE CHARGES DETECTED.
"IT'S A TRAP!" Cobra yelled, a split second before the walls exploded.
[02:49]
Hell
Chaos is an honest teacher. It doesn't care about rank, genius, or billion-dollar equipment.
Long Wei was thrown backward by the C4 blast hidden in the marble walls. The shock-dampening system in his combat vest saved his ribs, but the concussion was unavoidable. The world spun in a sea of fire and dust.
"STATUS!" he roared, his ears ringing.
"Viper's hit! Leg's gone!"
"Ghost is blind! Optics shattered!"
"CONTACT! CONTACT! LEFT FLANK!"
Through the smoke, Long Wei saw them. Not cartel grunts in cheap clothes. But soldiers. Trained soldiers, wearing black, unmarked uniforms, firing with deadly precision. Elite mercenaries (PMC).
"El Cuchillo is escaping!" someone yelled.
Long Wei ignored him. The primary target was irrelevant. The mission had changed.
"THIS IS A BETRAYAL!" Long Wei broadcast on all channels. "PROTOCOL OMEGA! ACTIVATE PROTOCOL OMEGA!"
Omega. The worst-case scenario. GDA Command had turned on them. Their mission wasn't capture; it was execution. They were the targets.
"Dragon!" Cobra crawled to him, his rifle barking, suppressing fire. "We're pinned! Main exit is covered by a heavy machine gun!"
Long Wei forced his world to focus. He was a tactical genius. Even in chaos, his brain was a cold computer calculating probabilities.
Enemy: Estimated 30, superior gear, fortified position.
Phantom Team: 13 effective, 2 KIA, 1 critical.
Situation: Pinned in the main hall.
Exit: Back door (heavy guard) or...
His eyes fixed on the marble floor. "Map!" he snapped.
On his HUD, the complex blueprint appeared. "Wine cellar beneath us. Connects to an emergency escape tunnel. Cobra, coordinates 77-Delta. Get the team there!"
"What about you, Boss?!"
"I'll create a diversion!" Long Wei said, checking his ammo. Two mags left in his rifle. Three in his sidearm.
"Like hell!" Cobra retorted. "We go out together!"
"THAT IS AN ORDER, LIEUTENANT!" Long Wei barked, pulling rank for the first time that night.
Right at that moment, a voice—a voice he would hate forever—sounded on the enemy frequency.
"Long Wei," General Tano's voice was calm, broadcast throughout the compound. "Surrender. You can't win. You're too young, too smart. You saw things you shouldn't have. The Alliance needs stability, not a boy genius who questions orders. Die with honor."
Long Wei felt something he'd never felt before: pure, hot rage. Not explosive rage, but a cold, freezing anger.
He grabbed his comms. "General Tano," he whispered, his voice like ice. "I'll see you in hell. But I'll make sure you get there first."
He cut his channel. He looked at Cobra. "You have 60 seconds. Get them out. I'll buy you time."
"Boss..." Cobra's eyes were red behind his tactical goggles.
"I have one last mission for you, Cobra," Long Wei said, his tone softening for a fraction of a second. "Live. Get them home. And tell the world what Tano did."
Long Wei didn't wait for an answer.
He saw the laughing El Cuchillo in the corner, now protected by four mercenaries. He also saw something else: a server's trolley loaded with bottles of expensive liquor. Next to it, a stack of cigar boxes... and the incendiary grenade he carried.
A plan formed. Not a good plan. Not a smart plan. A desperate plan.
"Cobra, when I say RUN... RUN!"
Long Wei pulled the pin on his incendiary, lobbing it at the liquor trolley. The 70-year-old alcohol exploded like a massive Molotov. A wall of fire split the room, separating his team from the enemy.
"RUN! RUN NOW!"
Cobra and the 12 remaining 'Phantom' members ran for the spot Long Wei had marked, firing an explosive charge at the floor to open the way to the wine cellar below.
Long Wei stood.
For a second, he was the only target. Ten, twenty mercenaries now focused on him.
He was Lieutenant Colonel Long Wei. And he would not die hiding.
He raised his M-9 'Chiroptera,' his weapon feeling like an extension of his soul.
"For 'Phantom'!" he yelled.
He squeezed the trigger.
Time slowed.
He saw his first bullet hit a mercenary in the throat.
He saw his second and third hit another in the chest.
He felt the first bullet impact his ceramic plate—like a sledgehammer blow.
He felt the second tear through his shoulder—a searing pain.
He kept firing. The enemy formation broke under his sudden, vicious assault.
He was a military genius. He was a god of war. And he was dying.
He saw a flash in the corner of his eye. From a side corridor he had just ignored.
A rocket-propelled grenade (RPG).
A mercenary held the launcher, smiling.
Long Wei knew he had no time. He was done.
On his HUD, he saw the 13 green dots of his team enter the tunnel below. They'd made it. They were safe.
"Mission... accomplished," he whispered.
He didn't try to dodge. There was no point.
He had only one last thought as the rocket shot toward him. It wasn't about Tano's betrayal. It wasn't about his short life.
It was the thought of an engineer.
The rocket's trajectory is slightly off to the left. The operator needs to recalibrate his sights.
Then, the world went white.
The explosion was unimaginable. The heat vaporized everything. The pain was an ocean of fire that swallowed him whole. His advanced vest, his body, his rifle—all of it turned to atoms.
Long Wei, at 23, was killed in action.
...
...
...
Darkness.
Silence.
Cold.