Page 25

“Today,” Leite said, motioning to packets on the table.

“CQC drills this morning, your style, then ours. Afterward, lunch in the mess. Nothing fancy, but it’s hot and high-calorie.

” Joker nodded, looking through the printed agenda.

“In the afternoon,” Leite continued, “a timed obstacle course competition.”

Blitz leaned toward D-Day. “We’re about to get challenged by guys who run on espresso and revenge.”

D-Day smirked. “Speak for yourself. I was born for competitive chaos.”

From the far side of the room, one of the BOPE operators, tall, lean, expression carved from granite, murmured something in Portuguese that made his nearby teammates chuckle.

D-Day tilted his head. “What was that?”

Migs translated under his breath, grinning. “He said your shoulders look heavy. Probably from carrying all that American ego.”

Zorro chuckled along with his teammates.

Leite raised one hand, a subtle gesture that called the room back to order. The operators quieted immediately.

But Zorro’s mind had already shifted gears. “Captain,” Zorro said, voice calm but steady, “before we gear up, what’s your biggest current threat? The one that keeps your operators awake at night.”

Leite didn’t answer right away.

The room stilled. The easy rhythm of camaraderie thinned like smoke in the wind.

He tapped a button on the table. The holographic map shifted, zooming out. Sections of the city were marked in pale red. Densely populated favelas. Transportation hubs. Ports. Overlays of recent activity spiked along known smuggling corridors and outer ring districts.

“Our greatest threat,” Leite said slowly, “is not external. It was born from within.”

The SEALs straightened subtly. Even Joker leaned forward.

Migs said with a bite in his voice. “ Alvorada Negra. ”

Leite nodded solemnly. “Black Dawn.” He tapped again. A new image flickered to life, a man’s face. Strong jaw. Deep-set eyes, cold expression. It wasn’t a recent photo.

“Leandro Batista,” Leite said. “Former special forces. Served with distinction. Commendations. Master tactician. Dishonorably discharged for unauthorized force and multiple civilian deaths. He called it necessary evolution.”

D-Day muttered, “Those are always the ones who come back wrong.”

Leite didn’t disagree. “He disappeared two years ago. Presumed dead. But in the last eight months, we’ve seen his signature resurface. Precision raids. Communications blackouts. IED patterns lifted straight from our own manuals.”

Joker’s voice dropped. “Inside knowledge.”

“Yes,” Leite confirmed. “He knows how we think. How we train. He uses it to dismantle the very systems he once swore to protect.” He rubbed at his temple.

Zorro couldn’t fathom one of their brothers turning on them, but it had to rankle Leite that one of his own had.

“Batista believes we betrayed our own doctrine. That BOPE has been domesticated. His words.” He paused. “ Alvorada Negra is his resurrection.”

Zorro studied the image. “Who’s the woman behind him?”

“His second in command. We only recently confirmed it.” He tapped again.

The image that appeared next was clearer and more recent. A woman in a plain black cap and mirrored sunglasses, her mouth unsmiling, her posture unnervingly loose. Not careless. Just lethal.

“Anja Duarte,” Leite said. “Confirmed ex-intelligence. We don’t know if she’s Brazilian, American, or another national. But we know she’s lethal.”

“She stands like a sniper,” Gator said.

Professor grunted. “You took the words out of my mouth, Gator.”

Leite turned to look at them with elevated respect. “She works clean. Efficient. One shot, one exit, no survivors. Three confirmed deaths in the last six months.”

Blitz shifted. “Where was she spotted?”

Leite gave a hollow smile. “She isn’t. Only her rounds are.”

“These two lead Alvorada Negra ,” Leite said. “While they’ve stayed in the shadows, we believe they are preparing for something public.”

“What else are your guys working on?” Joker asked.

Leite tapped once more. The map shifted. A new marker pulsed in the heart of the city.

“We’re running security for the Atlantic Coalition Security Forum that starts tomorrow. Multinational leaders. Diplomats. Defense contractors. Press. An event built on peace, diplomacy, and visibility.”

“This is news to me,” Joker said, catching Zorro’s eye.

Zorro sat up straighter. His LT wasn’t just a leader; he thought ten steps ahead of anyone stupid enough to engage him in battle.

There was something he was feeling, and now Zorro was feeling it too.

He relaxed. When Joker was ready, he would share.

That narrow-eyed gaze was nothing but a precursor to action.

“It’s classified information for which you are cleared, in my mind. We welcome any insights you might have on our coverage of this important event.”

“All right, boys. Time for you to show these guys what this team is made of.” Zorro looked at his CO, but Joker didn’t look back. The watching was over.

That was the easy part of the day.

The old colonial barracks had been gutted long ago, refit into something harder. Claustrophobic. Concrete walls. Scorched paint. Cracked tile and rusted doors that never quite sealed.

BOPE had turned it into their kill house, a skeletal mock-up of an apartment block in one of Rio’s densest favelas.

Heat pressed in from all sides. The narrow hallway trapped it, held it hostage until sweat pooled beneath Zorro’s plates and slid down the small of his back.

The air reeked of bleach, gun oil, and yesterday’s smoke grenades. Light slanted through open doorways in harsh, perfect rectangles. Shadows pooled where the light couldn’t reach.

The hall breathed around them.

Joker stood beside Captain Leite, his face carved from granite. He didn’t speak yet.

Just raised a stopwatch and clicked it once. The faint tick echoed in Zorro’s head. “Breach stack.”

They didn’t question. They moved.

The BOPE team watched from the catwalk, eyes sharp and rapt, getting the rare benefit of SEALs in motion, in their element. No wasted movement. No chatter. Just practiced, patient violence waiting to be unleashed.

Zorro’s boots whispered across broken tile as he took point, D-Day just behind him, rifles up, barrels tracking the ceiling. Blitz and Buck sealed the rear. Professor stayed back at the exterior, eyes scanning the dark corners, tracking every shift of light and shadow with unsettling precision.

The first door waited at the end of the narrow hall. Paint chipped. Handle sweat-slick.

Joker gestured toward the warped metal at the far end of the corridor.

His voice came low. Deliberate. “Flash left. Hard right. Don’t get cute.”

Zorro adjusted his grip on the rifle. Didn’t look up. “Can’t help it, LT. It’s in the genes.”

There was a pause. Brief. Breath-held.

Joker’s voice came back cold. “You keep talking, I’ll carve the clever out of your DNA, Martinez.”

Behind him, D-Day muttered, “Better leave some. Man’s useless without his sass.”

A few chuckles. Quiet. Tight. Flat.

Zorro shifted forward, low and amused. “That’s not true. I’ve got cheekbones and trauma certification.”

Buck leaned in. “And a death wish.”

Joker didn’t acknowledge a word. “Go.”

They moved.

Zorro took point, his rifle sweeping the corridor. D-Day shadowed him close, Blitz and Buck covering the rear. Professor tracked them from the flank, eyes like glass, sharp, quiet, calculating.

The heat pressed in, thick and wet. It clung to Zorro’s skin, seeping through the seams of his plate carrier, turning his breath shallow. The air in the hall clawed. He blinked. Just for a second and felt her .

The memory of Everly’s mouth, hot, hungry, trembling, rose like steam under his collar.

The taste of her still burned in his chest. Heat on heat. Sweat on memory. Focus up.

The hallway narrowed. Lights buzzed overhead, casting long rectangles that sliced the shadows apart. This Long, narrow corridor was always and forever a perfect kill zone. No room to breathe. No room to fuck up. One mistake, and you don’t walk out.

The heat pressed in, soaking through his gear and sliding down his spine like sweat laced with static.

The stack flowed forward, carving the space in swift, practiced arcs. Professor, Blitz, and Buck split off to clear side rooms.

Zorro and D-Day surged up the middle. No hesitation.

The door was in sight.

Zorro pivoted to cover the angle, just a standard motion.

But his weight shifted wrong. His heel struck the tile half a beat too wide.

Not much. Just enough to throw his hips out of alignment.

He had to plant harder than normal to recover.

He knew better. Steps mattered. His footing was integral to frame, and frame was his survival.

He corrected fast enough to fool most eyes.

But not Joker’s.

From the catwalk, that voice landed low and lethal. “You forget how to put one foot in front of the other, Martinez?” Zorro’s jaw locked. “Sloppy.” The word cracked in the hallway.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t breathe.

They hit the door hard. It gave with a shriek.

A black-suited tango burst through the threshold, helmeted, silent, and fast . Too fast.

Zorro’s first tap hit his shoulder. The second clipped chest. The man didn’t drop. He kept coming, a blur of fists and tactical black. Zorro felt the hit in his teeth . It rattled down his arm like electricity. He pivoted, dropped low, swept the leg.

The man hit the floor but recovered too quick, scrambling like he wanted blood .

Another silhouette surged behind him, D-Day’s problem now. Grapple. Elbows. Slam.

No words. No sound. Just bone, breath, muscle, violence.

Zorro slammed his target into the wall, plaster cracked, flakes raining. His cuff was fast, tight. Angry.

Behind him, D-Day finished his man with a brutal knee sweep and zip-tied him like he meant it. Zorro stepped back, pulse thudding in his neck. Chest heaving. He hit his comm. Zorro to Joker. Targets secure.”