Page 4

After a minute, he checked the kid’s pulse again and nodded.

“Let’s go.” Only then did Zorro shift, hooking an arm under the kid’s legs and another behind his shoulders.

With a grunt, he lifted him into a fireman’s carry and took off at a steady jog, weaving through wet brush and low ferns until he found a shallow depression behind a cluster of rocks.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was hidden. He laid Migs down, set up a quick plasma bag, then covered him with a camouflage tarp.

As Zorro cinched the tarp over Migs, the kid blinked up at him, blood smeared at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a medic?”

Zorro gave a nod, already checking for secondary bleeds.

Migs laughed weakly. “Figures. You treat dying like it pisses you off.”

Zorro flashed a grin, sharp and dangerous. “Damn right. Especially when it tries to take someone on my watch.”

Migs’s face smoothed out, serious now, clutching at Zorro’s vest weakly. “If I don't make it…tell my mom I was brave.” He swallowed. “Rosa Sampaio.”

“You’ve got more than a will to live, kid. You’ve got me, and I don’t let my guys die.” He tugged the tarp tighter over him. “So, you tell her yourself.” He rose and looked down. “Don’t move from this spot, wormfood, or I swear to God, I’ll kick your ass.”

Migs gave a shaky thumbs-up.

Zorro melted back into the brush, low and fast, sweeping ahead in silence. The dense, wet jungle pressed in close, humming with two-legged danger. He moved like a shadow, bypassing tangled roots and ankle-deep muck, eyes scanning for movement, ears tuned for the next breath, the next mistake.

Gunfire cracked in the distance. Return fire. BOPE was still alive.

Zorro reached high ground, crouching low, eyes locking on the battered outpost through the foliage, shadows moving, muzzle flashes lighting up the green. He keyed his mic.

“Visual on the objective. BOPE is still engaged. They’re barely holding on. We need to move, LT.” Zorro tapped his mic again. “LT, recommend we make contact with our BOPE commander before we breach.”

“Copy,” Joker replied. “You got him on comms?”

Zorro switched frequencies. “ BOPE actual, aqui SEAL Team Alpha. Estamos a caminho. Confirma posic?o e status. ” SEAL Team Alpha here. We’re en route. Confirm position and status.

A beat of static, then a clipped, Brazilian-accented voice came through. “ Alpha confirmado. Capit?o Leite. Aguardando suporte. Temos cinco feridos. Posic?o marcada. ” Alpha confirmed. Captain Leite. Awaiting support. We have five wounded. Position marked.

Five minutes later, Zorro’s wet, muddy team glided in with almost no sound.

Lieutenant Elias “Joker” Jackman, Andrew “D-Day” Nolan, Zephirin “Gator” LaBauve, Callen “Blitz” Berenger, Milo “Professor” Prescott, and Dakota “Bear” Locklear with his military working dog, Flint, moved through the trees like predators, every step calculated.

“Copy that, Captain. Help’s coming in hot,” Zorro said. He glanced toward Joker. “They’re ready.”

Gunfire snapped up ahead.

Zorro looked to Joker, who gave the nod. “Let’s go.”

The outnumbered, pinned BOPE unit hunkered behind the wreckage of a small outpost, nearly out of ammo. Zorro’s team came in hard, assaulting upright, every shot counting. Controlled bursts. Clean advances. The insurgents folded under the force, peeling off into the jungle.

It didn’t take long to mop up.

Zorro dropped to his knees beside the nearest downed soldier, his hands already moving, glove to neck, checking for a pulse. Then to the next. “Critical,” he called out. “I need a stretcher here!”

The jungle was steaming, the air thick with water. But it was quiet now except for the sound of Zorro's voice barking triage.

Later, after all the wounded were treated and BOPE’s ride was coming in hot, Zorro rose from his knees.

Mud streaked his face, his rifle was slick with rain and sweat, and his boots squelched with every step.

Ahead, what was left of the BOPE line reformed by black-clad operators checking weapons, waiting for their ride.

A tall man in a soot-darkened uniform turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Even soaked through, his bearing was unmistakable. Captain Rafael Leite, the kind of man who didn’t flinch when chaos came calling.

Zorro raised his hand in greeting.“A little far from home, aren’t you, sir?” he said with a lopsided grin. “Thought you might like some help from the red, white, and blue.”

Captain Leite arched a brow. “Ah, yes. Our fierce North American neighbors.” The team assembled behind him. He stepped out of the way for Joker to take the lead. Leite’s lips twitched. “We’ll take all the colors you’ve got and much obliged.”

Behind him, one of the younger BOPE guys muttered something in Portuguese that Zorro didn’t catch, but the laughter it earned told him they’d just been adopted, whether they liked it or not.

Leite squared his shoulders. “You’re the leader?”

Joker nodded once, rain dripping from the brim of his ball cap. “Lieutenant Elias Jackman, but you can call me Joker.”

Leite extended a hand, firm, no theatrics. “Captain Rafael Leite, BOPE. My men live because of yours. That is not something I will forget.”

Joker shook his hand without hesitation. “We had your six.”

Leite’s eyes swept over the team. Zorro mud-streaked, D-Day reloading, Bear crouched beside Flint, Gator scanning the tree line, Blitz cleaning his optics, Professor watching everything in silence.

“All of you,” Leite said. “We are in your debt.”

There was a moment of quiet where it was just rain, breath, and the slow, steady collapse of adrenaline.

Then Zorro smirked. “So…is that a yes to drinks in Rio?”

Leite huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “You come to Rio, the drinks are on me. Hell, the whole damn country might owe you one.”

Zorro pushed through the brush, boots slogging through the mud as he reached the shallow depression. The tarp twitched just as he crouched.

A shaky sidearm poked out first but aimed straight.

Zorro barked a laugh. “Easy, wormfood. You planning on shooting your savior?”

Migs exhaled and let the pistol fall back against his chest with a grunt. “Just showing you I’m still mission-capable, senhor .”

Zorro smirked. “You’re mission-capable of holding still and not bleeding out. That’s it.”

He peeled back the tarp and checked Migs’s pulse. Still strong. Better. “Pain?”

“Manageable,” Migs said. “Also, annoying.”

Zorro snorted.

Migs blinked up at him. “Can I shoot someone now?”

Zorro shook his head, amused and exasperated. “You can’t even see straight. You need a stretcher, a saline drip, and possibly a babysitter.”

“Can you make her pretty?”

“You’re definitely still alive, then.” He chuckled. “But, um, no. You’re not ready for that either. How about if you’re good, a juice box.”

“Make it two,” Migs called as Zorro waved in the chuckling evac team.

The target compound was nothing more than a cluster of tin-roofed shacks tucked into a jungle ravine, lit by a single generator that buzzed like a dying wasp. Smoke curled from a cooking fire. One guard walked the perimeter, AK slung low, half-asleep.

Amateurs.

Joker's voice came soft over comms, “In position. Execute on my mark.”

Zorro lay in the underbrush beside Bear and Flint, heartbeat steady, his rifle cradled in his arms. Ahead, two hostages sat bound and hooded beneath a canopy of canvas, one tall and wiry, the other hunched, her frame unmistakably female.

Ana Navarro and Henry Lucas.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He lifted his head. What the hell ? —

“Mark,” Joker said.

The jungle exploded.

Suppressors spat in unison. The perimeter guard went down without a sound. Blitz breached low and fast, clearing the entry shack. Gator and D-Day swept left, gunfire short, sharp, surgical.

Zorro sprinted forward, skidding beside the hostages. He tore off Lucas’s hood first. “We’ve got you,” he said, cutting his zip ties.

Then he turned to Navarro, her eyes wide, dazed but clear.

“ Doutora Ana?” he asked.

She blinked, nodded. “ Sim .”

He sliced her bonds. “We’re taking you home,” he said, just as the jungle behind them erupted with gunfire.

No hesitation between thought and action.

He dove, knocking Ana and Lucas beneath his body.

Pain flared, white-hot and brutal along his ribs on the left side, low and vicious, knocking the breath from his lungs.

He dragged both hostages down with him, covering them with his own body as rounds tore through the air overhead. His shoulder hit mud hard, vision swimming, but he shielded them with his body

“Contact! Left! Left!” Gator’s voice barked over comms.

His buddies did what needed to be done, shifting and rolling off the hostages just enough to put his back to them, weapon up, eyes sweeping the trees.

Navarro was staring at him, wide-eyed, stunned. “Were you hit?”

“Nah, just a scratch. Pinged off my vest. I’m okay.” Zorro gave her a crooked grin through the pain. “That one was for you. No charge.”

The SEALs took no more chances and spread out. In the distance, a chopper’s rotors sang. D-Day helped the hostages to their feet.

“Aw, no help for the hero?” Zorro said.

D-Day grinned, and Zorro was happy to see all the shadows gone from his friend. “You’ve legs.” He headed toward exfil.

There was that sound again, imperceptible, but it was the same sound he’d heard before the hostage rescue.

He scanned the area slowly through the gray gloom, and his eyes snagged on a scrap of cloth. He brought up his weapon and took a step.

“Incoming,” Joker shouted as gunfire lit up the night. Zorro dropped down immediately, but his attention was split. Someone needed him now. Not when this firefight was over. Right fucking now.