Page 1 of Into Hell: Prelude (Holding Cell: Return to the Island)
T he six agents were outfitted in sleek, form-fitting black gear, their eyes obscured behind dark, reflective goggles as they began their arduous ascent.
Their gloved hands clung tenaciously to the rough, jagged rocks of the towering cliff, while their booted feet sought secure holds on the uneven surface, each muscle straining with determined effort.
The sharp, briny scent of the sea air invaded their nostrils, mingling with the tang of salt and the earthy aroma of the cliffside vegetation that brushed against them as they climbed.
With every breath, they detected elusive hints of something metallic, a sensory buzz amplified by the adrenaline surging through their veins, sharpening their awareness to a razor's edge.
The abrasive texture of the rocks scraped against their gloves, the sturdy material offering some protection but not enough to completely shield them from the relentless jagged edges.
Their boots found precarious purchase on narrow ledges and deep crevices, their grip resolute and unyielding.
At last, as their hands reached the crest of the cliff, they hauled themselves over the edge, their bodies protesting with aching muscles that sang of exertion and victory.
They stood, breathless and exhilarated, amidst the whispering gusts of wind that danced around the summit, the world sprawling out beneath them in a breathtaking panorama.
Agent Alvarez, the team’s leader, scanned the tree line and lifted a cautious hand.
“Stay sharp,” he spoke low, firm. “The satellite images provided a basic layout of the island and the probable location where the traffickers are set up, but we can’t rely solely on those images.
We don’t know what else awaits. Depending on the size of the operation, there may be surveillance across the island.
” He glanced at each man. “Expect surprises.”
Agent Hawks, tall and athletic with jet-black hair that caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, meticulously checked his weapon, ensuring it was primed for action. “Could be a small ring,” he murmured. “Or a whole network.”
Alvarez nodded, raised his fist, and rotated it to signify they move out. “Let’s find out.”
The team melted into the dense foliage, every snapped twig echoing in their ears as they plunged into the humid forest. Two kilometers in, the brush thickened.
Thorny vines lashed at Hawks’ tactical pants; he ignored the sting.
The terrain bucked and pitched, a fading deer path winding upward along the contour of an ancient lava flow, the ground studded with jagged outcrops.
Around them, the dense jungle was so humid that the air stuck in their throats.
Ahead, Agent Gentry held up a fist—halt.
The team dropped, silent as panthers, rifles at the ready.
Alvarez eased alongside Gentry and followed his line of sight: a narrow footbridge spanned a twenty-meter ravine, strung with fraying rope and weathered planks.
On the far side, the path rose towards a squat concrete pillbox hidden in the leafy green.
“Could be rigged,” Gentry whispered, finger on his silenced pistol.
Alvarez nodded. “We’ll go under.”
The team crawled downhill, boots and knees sinking into loam and decomposing leaf litter.
Alvarez tasted copper—blood, from a thorn that split his lip.
He spat and motioned forward. They hugged the ravine wall, skirting the creaking bridge and its nearly invisible filament.
Another step, and Hawks spotted three more lines, at ankle, waist, and eye level—hardly an amateur’s handiwork.
The team regrouped in a defunct drainage ditch reeking of guano and rain rot.
Alvarez pulled the map from his vest pocket and fingered a new route on the soft-lit display of his GPS.
“We’re cutting north, paralleling the ridge.
The satellite images showed a perimeter fence that appears to have been electrified.
But it looked old and patchy. There’s a blind spot near the maintenance shed at the northeast slope.
” He folded the map and braced himself. “We move in pairs. No chatter unless it’s code blue. ”
They fanned out, leapfrogging through bracken and bamboo.
Hawks and Gentry stayed low and silent, flanking the perimeter fence.
Alvarez and Renley followed, pausing every ten meters to listen for a sign—breathing, movement, the faintest click of a rifle bolt.
The forest pressed in, dense with the weight of sweat and expectation.
Alvarez’s mind, sharp and disciplined, ran two tracks at once. Operational focus: angles, threats, wind, and sun. And the other—grinding and raw—looped back to Texas, to a dirt-gray border town where he’d first heard the name they were chasing tonight. Robert Shafer .
This wasn’t a cartel hit squad or a freelance coyote with petty ambitions.
Shafer’s crew kidnapped border kids before they even had a chance to register in the system.
Alvarez’s eleven-year-old nephew had disappeared, one of a dozen boys in just one week, taken by men in ICE jackets—imposters?
Who could tell the difference these days?
—and moved like livestock in a convoy of unmarked vans.
The trail darkened, a tunnel of brambles and low-hanging branches that scraped perspiration from their brows.
The ravine’s floor stank of ammonia, old fire, and something sicklier—a rot that clung to the tongue.
Gentry flicked his flashlight once, a lean blue beam skittering across the mud—and froze on a splatter of fresh blood, already coagulating in the heat.
They slid down the last four meters, boots sinking in a slurry of decomposing needles.
Up close, the stench clarified: a nest of pain and discarded hope.
Past the next switchback, Renley stiffened.
Hawks, eyes scanning, gestured two. The brush in the gulley below shook, but not with the methodical tread of guards.
It was a softer movement, a huddle, the press of bodies trying not to be found.
Alvarez slid down on his belly, heart battering his ribs.
The others fanned out, forming a silent black crescent along the rim.
The shape in the gulley became five shapes.
Then seven. The youngest was maybe three, the oldest a girl with hollow cheeks and a shaved patch on her scalp, dark eyes blazing with a ferocity that Alvarez recognized instantly: fight over flight, every time.
He signaled the team. Approach slowly. Hands open.
Renley holstered his sidearm and took point, whispering in a voice that barely disturbed the air. “Estamos aquí para ayudar.” We’re here to help. “No tengan miedo.”
A boy, maybe eight, flung a rock at Renley’s face. It missed, but the kid was already winding up for another. The next oldest, a girl with a split lip, brandished a rusty rebar like a sword. Hawks moved to intercept but froze when the girl shrieked—a sound so raw it cracked the hush of the jungle.
The youngest, barely able to walk, clung to the oldest girl’s hip, her legs trembling beneath the weight.
Two smaller boys had pressed their bodies flat against the mud, eyes darting up and away, away, as if by not meeting the eyes, they could erase themselves from the world.
Renley stopped short, palms wide, boots rooted in the muck.
In Spanish, he repeated, “We’re not them. We’re here to get you home.”
The older girl spat, “Mentiroso,” liar , and bared her teeth. She pressed the toddler’s face into her chest, shielding her from what she’d learned to expect.
Alvarez scanned the perimeter—if the kids made it here, someone was hunting them.
He flicked a hand signal: perimeter, two agents, now.
Hawks and Gentry peeled off, rifles up, eyes raking the shadows for movement.
The brush above them rustled. The girl’s eyes narrowed, tracking the noise.
Behind her, a boy hissed, “Don’t let them touch her.
” His accent was pure Chihuahua, fearless and doomed.
Alvarez kept his face blank, careful, and let his hands hang loose at his sides. “We’re not them,” he said, voice rough but even, Spanish thickening the consonants. “We’re here to get you out.”
The oldest girl’s eyes flicked past his shoulder, calculated, hunting for more. Hawks and Gentry angled subtly, fanning out to create space that was more an escape route than an encirclement. She didn’t drop the rebar, but Alvarez saw her grip loosen a fraction, the first crack in her siege.
Renley crouched just outside striking distance. “You don’t have to trust us,” he said, voice low and steady as a surgeon's hand. “But we can get you food, water. First aid.”
The huddled children eyed the canteen clipped to Gentry's belt—hunger and thirst etched into their brittle silhouettes. Yet none moved, not even when he unscrewed the cap and poured a slow trickle into the lid, holding it out like a priest with a chalice. The oldest girl shook her head. “Is poison,” she spat again, then looked away, but not before Alvarez saw the trembling in her jaw. He recognized it, the same tremor that lived in his nephew’s voice following the first months of his rescue from the prison.
Above, the treetop canopy shivered. Hawks swiveled, weapon up, but the movement was only a spider monkey, thin and spooked, vanishing in a scatter of leaves. Still, they all felt it: they were running out of time.
Renley inched closer and unfastened his tactical vest, shucking it off and laying it on the ground like a peace offering. “Here. I can drop my weapon, too.”