Betrayed Agent: Back for Blood

I crouched in the shadow of an abandoned shipping container, the ocean wind shoving the stink of diesel and dead fish down my collar. The floodlights at the Port of Santa Estrella swept across the tops of the container maze in twelve-second cycles. My fingers pressed against the throat mic, and I kept my voice low.

"All units, report position."

Six confirmations came through my earpiece. Twenty-three operators. Three assault teams. Six DIA informants were being held in the basement—they were alive, the intel's last confirmed update had said. I was Shadowblade Security's tactical commander. I had spent eight months chasing this lead.

"Operation codename: Broken Spine. Breach command is 'Execute.' Nobody moves without my order."

Through my night-vision goggles, I watched the warehouse two hundred meters away. Thermal imaging showed seventeen heat signatures. Then a voice exploded in my earpiece.

"Execute."

Not my command. Marcus Vane—deputy director of Shadowblade Security—was sitting in the mobile command unit a klick away. He had given the breach order fifteen minutes early.

"Abort the operation!" I shouted. "Green Team, hold position—"

Too late. The warehouse windows blew out all at once, and streams of gunfire poured down from the third floor. Green Team got pinned at the entry point. The basement door flew open, and six hooded prisoners were dragged onto the platform. A man in a bone-white mask stepped forward with a machete in his hand.

El Fantasma.

I raised my rifle and charged. A round grazed my left shoulder, another ripped across my ribs. All I saw was the machete rise and fall.

Six times.

By the time I pulled back—with three dead teammates and four wounded—the sky still hadn't started to lighten. After the helicopter lifted off, the medic cut open my tactical vest, and all I could think was this: How long had Marcus been setting this up?

Three weeks later, in the underground military tribunal at Arlington headquarters.

I stood at the defense table in prison greens, my left arm in a sling. In the front row of the gallery sat Sarah Caldwell, my fiancée. She wore a crisp formal uniform, her eyes fixed on the prosecution table the entire time. She never looked at me once.

When the prosecutor played the satellite comms log, she stood up.

"The defendant issued the breach command fifteen minutes early during the operation, resulting in the execution of six informants."

Her voice was steady. Not even a tremor.

She had personally reviewed the communications record. A Defense Department contract compliance officer had no authority to access military satellite logs unless someone opened the back door for her. That man was sitting in the third row of the gallery.

Marcus Vane.

He had been promoted to deputy director nearly a year earlier and had gained high-level access to the operations system. Sarah had used his credentials to obtain the original data.

Then the prosecutor presented the bank transfer records—an anonymous account in the Equatorial Islands had received five hundred thousand dollars from the Black Scorpion Syndicate two weeks before the operation, and the account holder's name was mine. Every piece of evidence pointed back to my office at Shadowblade headquarters. Only three people had access to that office.

Me. Marcus. And security chief Gerald Price.

The jury deliberated for four hours. Life without parole. Blackrock Fortress.

As the marshals cuffed me, I passed the gallery. Sarah's lips moved, shaping two words I couldn't hear.

Blackrock Fortress doesn't appear on any map. Three hundred miles of salt flats surrounded a concrete stronghold. Cell Block D was at the lowest level: eight feet long, six feet wide, one welded steel bunk, and a fluorescent tube that never turned off. I scratched dates into the wall with my fingernail.

The lead guard was called Bulldog Hank. Six-five, shaved head, neck so thick his jawline barely existed. Every Tuesday and Friday, during "routine inspection," he and two deputies would pin me against the wall and search me. Then, after the search, they'd use batons to "inspect" my ribs and spine. In week ten, Hank planted a boot on my neck and said, "Marcus Vane says hello." I locked the name away.

The gunshot wounds I'd taken the night of the operation had mostly healed within the first month. What really wore me down were the twice-weekly beatings. Hank always aimed near the old wounds. There wasn't a day my lower back and side weren't swollen. So I started watching everything outside the cell. Hank had an old injury in his left knee; whenever he crouched, his right hand hit the wall first. The night-shift guard always nodded off for the first time at 3:10 a.m. When the meal cart rolled down D Block, the third wheel squealed at a higher pitch than the other three.

On the morning of day 357, they took me to the infirmary. The prison doctor didn't even look up as he scribbled on the exam form.

"Abnormal indicators. Requires outside transfer for further evaluation."

Hank stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. The day before, during "inspection," he had driven the baton into my lower back three times, each blow more precise than the last—kidney area. Afterward he'd patted my face and said, "New destination tomorrow."

I knew exactly what the transfer meant.

Compassionate medical release. Die on the road. Paperwork clean.

They'd fabricated a diagnosis of kidney failure, but I knew my own body. The pain was real. The blood in my urine was real. But I was nowhere near unable to walk. They just needed a diagnosis that would look plausible on a form.

Dead men don't get second opinions.

The prison transport rolled into the deep desert just after sunrise. Hank stood up and unlocked my leg irons.

"Figure you ought to see the sky one last time before you die, hero."

He shoved me toward a patch of scrub. He stood six feet behind me, muzzle aimed at my back. Jenkins was ten feet off to my left, weapon lowered. The driver stayed behind the wheel with the engine running.

Hank gave me another shove. "Kneel."

I didn't kneel.

As I turned, the chain between my cuffs looped up from below around his gun hand. I twisted hard, biting the links into his wrist and levering up. His Glock discharged in the tangle, the round slicing past my ear and into the sand. Using the forward pitch of his body, I drove my forehead into the bridge of his nose with everything I had. The crunch of cartilage stayed trapped between our skulls, and his blood sprayed across my face.

Hank staggered back and gave me room.

I grabbed his shooting hand and swung the Glock toward the left. Jenkins had just started to bring his weapon up to chest level. I forced down Hank's trigger finger. The first shot blew out Jenkins's knee. He screamed and pitched forward, and when he hit the ground his finger spasmed on the trigger by reflex. His muzzle was angled down; the round ricocheted off the salt crust and hit Hank in the right shoulder.

I adjusted the angle and fired again. The second round entered under Jenkins's jaw and went into his skull.

The driver's door burst open. One boot hit the dirt as he reached for his sidearm. I flung Hank's wrist away, gripped the Glock in both hands—the taut cuff chain between my wrists worked like a stabilizing strap—and fired twice. Both rounds hit center mass. The driver slammed back against the steering wheel. The horn gave one short blast.

Then everything went still.

I braced myself against the hood of the transport, breathing hard. My left ear was still ringing, a burning graze across the outer edge. The bruising in my lower back pulled with a dull ache every time I inhaled—a palm-sized bloom of dark purple spreading from my lower back around to my side.

Doesn't matter. I could still pull a trigger. That was enough.

I searched Jenkins's body and found the handcuff key. I unlocked the leg irons first, then the cuffs. I flexed my fingers, picked up Hank's Glock, and walked over to him.

He was sprawled on his back over the salt crust. Collapsed nose—my doing. Blood pumping from his right shoulder—Jenkins's stray round. Right kneecap destroyed—I'd put the muzzle there and fired.

"Who gave the order?"

He spat blood and cursed at me. I pressed the gun to his left knee. The shot swallowed his scream and fed it to the desert.

"Marcus... Marcus Vane... Sarah signed off too..."

"I know."

I found a folding entrenching tool in the transport. The sand was loose enough that a few hard digs gave me a shallow pit. I dragged him into it, shoveled sand back over him, and stomped it down until only his head and shoulders were left above ground.

I looked down at him. "Marcus Vane says hello."

The sound behind me grew weaker and weaker until all that remained was the wind.

I went back to the transport and stripped Jenkins's uniform. Hank's was useless—too much blood across the chest and shoulder. Jenkins was closer to my build, but the knees of his uniform pants were ruined from the gunshot anyway. I dug a spare pair of dark duty pants out of the vehicle locker, pulled on Jenkins's shirt, then threw an old jacket over it and zipped it to my throat. I found a baseball cap in the cab and pulled the brim low enough to hide most of my face.

Three hours later, I crossed into Greystone.

White fences. Church steeple. The sign over the hardware store still carried my father's name.

When I pushed open the front door, I caught the smell first—sweet, heavy, but not full rot. One window in the living room had been smashed out, and the dry desert air blowing in had slowed the decomposition. The massacre had happened around two months ago.

The living room floorboards had been pried up. In the family cemetery out back, my father's coffin had been dug up and smashed open. The bones had been doused in acid. Half a skull was all that remained.

On the wall, written in blood, were the words in Spanish: Ghosts never forget.

In the master bathroom, my mother lay curled in the middle of a dried pool of dark red. The vent window had been left open, and the room was cooler than the rest of the house. Her position told me what she'd done in the final second of her life—raised a hand to shield herself from whatever was coming. I crouched down and gently slipped the wedding ring off her finger, then closed my fist around it.

No one had called the police.

Sarah had informed the local department that the Defense Department was conducting a national security investigation and that they were not to interfere. From the day I went to prison to the day my family was slaughtered had been about ten months. Marcus hadn't moved until I'd been sentenced to life, until every inquiry had gone cold, until I had no avenue left to appeal.

My sister Lily's room had been torn apart. The window was shattered. There was a blood trail on the floor where something—or someone—had been dragged, but no body. I dropped to the floor and looked under the bed.

Three matchsticks. Arranged in an arrow. Pointing out the window.

She was alive. She'd made it out.

I went back into the living room and dug through the wreckage until I found the iron lockbox my father had kept hidden. His service medals. A Colt M1911. And a black ops service medal—a relic from my FSOD days.

Then I found the shell casing wedged in the bathroom tile grout. A .45 caliber. A scorpion stamped on the base. It had been left there on purpose, resting at the edge of my mother's blood as the killer's signature. Close-range execution. The casing had ejected and dropped neatly into the gap between the tiles.

I clenched the shell casing in my left hand and pinned the medal to my chest. Then I looked up at the family portrait on the wall and said one sentence.

"I'm going to kill every last one of them."