Page 58 of Raven

“Bingo,” Cyclone said, lifting his scope. “Unmarked vehicles. Armed guards. You seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Mercenaries,” Raven growled. “Russian gear. Iranian boots. Someone is paying a lot to keep this quiet.

“Do you think our guys are inside?”

“We're about to find out,” I said.

We retreated into the hills, lying low in a narrow cave with a clear vantage point. I unfolded a battered map and laid it over a rock. I pointed to a back entrance, less guarded but trickier terrain. “I wonder where that old guy came up with this. Not that I care, I’m just grateful he had it.”

“We go in tomorrow night,” I said. “I want eyes on that place for at least six hours before we move. If they’re in there, we get them out. If it’s a trap…”

“We spring it anyway,” Cyclone said with a crooked grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I leaned back, pulling out the photo Beatrice had tucked into my bag before I left, a picture of us laughing, her hand in mine. I stared at it for a long moment. I’m so lucky to have found Bea, the only woman I have ever loved.

“Hold on, Beatrice,” I whispered. “I’ll return.”

* * *

The canyon was cloakedin shadows, the moon hanging low behind the jagged ridgeline. Cyclone and I crept along the ravine, dressed in black tactical gear, faces painted, rifles silent and ready.

The route took us through narrow gullies and across rock ledges no wider than a boot. Every movement was slow and precise. Below, the compound was lit by dim perimeter lights and the occasional flash of a guard’s cigarette.

I touched my earpiece. “Do you see anything?” I whispered.

“Five on the roof. Two are patrolling the east fence. I count eight on the inside, but we’re blind in the north wing,” Cyclone replied.

I nodded. “We’ll enter on the west wall. You take the high. I’ll go low.”

Cyclone took off toward the rooftop, melting into the night like a shadow. I circled wide, dropping to my stomach as I crawled beneath the first perimeter wire. I reached the wall and waited, heart pounding in rhythm with the silence around me.

Click.

The charge on the back gate blew softly, just enough to break the lock without alerting the guards. I slipped inside, staying low as I moved past the storage room and toward the hallway where the SEALs’ last signal had pinged.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and sweat. Concrete walls, dim lights, and a faint hum of generators in the background. A man snored somewhere nearby. I moved like smoke—silent, lethal.

I found the first locked room halfway down the corridor. The keypad was old and worn down.

Click.

I swung the door open and froze.

There, sitting on the floor, hands zip-tied and bruised, were three of the SEALs. One of them looked up, his face going slack with disbelief.

“Raven?”

I moved in fast, cutting their restraints. “Quiet. Where are the others?”

“Two more. One’s hurt bad,” the team leader whispered. “North wing. We think they’re trying to sell him off—to someone. They separated him an hour ago.”

I cursed under my breath and tapped my mic. “Cyclone, I need you at the north corridor. Now. Two more Seals hostiles are in the medical room.”

“Copy that. I’m already moving.”

Gunfire erupted above—short bursts, silenced. I didn’t flinch.

“You move when I say go,” I told the SEALs. “Keep low, follow the plan. I’ll come back with the others.”

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