Page 3 of Zorro

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 posição 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. Capitão Leite. Aguardando suporte. Temos cinco feridos. Posição 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.”

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