Page 52 of Zorro

One locker door was cracked slightly open. Inside, tucked between two meticulously stacked uniforms, Zorro spotted a photograph. A happy couple. Arms wrapped tight, sun in their eyes. His mouth went dry at the ache it generated. Could that ever be him…and Everly? The thought came fast. Uninvited. So sharp it nearly cut him. He felt sick with hope. Closing his eyes for a moment, he exhaled through his nose and worked at centering himself. Pull it back. Tuck it down. Don’t want what you can’t fix. If he couldn’t fix it…was it really his? Did he even deserve it?

Tactical equipment hung in ordered ranks along the walls, helmets, ballistic vests, communication headsets, and rows of carefully maintained weaponry. Every single piece of gear seemed to whisper readiness, preparedness, professionalism.

Zorro stepped deeper into the room, silently noting the level of meticulousness. The quiet murmur of Portuguese commands floated from an adjacent briefing area, orderly and calm, a reminder that these men operated with the same disciplined efficiency he and his brothers lived by. A young operator glanced up, gave him a crisp nod, professional acknowledgment passing easily between men who understood the weight of responsibility each carried.

As he looked around, taking in the quiet strength that permeated the place, Zorro felt an odd sense of comfort. Here, in this unfamiliar yet deeply familiar environment, he understood the truth clearly. Warriors everywhere spoke the same language, carried the same burdens, and shared the same resolve.

In this state-of-the-art Brazilian compound, he knew without a doubt, they were among warriors.

Zorro turned his head. The sound of boots on polished concrete was the only warning.

Captain Rafael Leite entered the ready room with all the presence of a man used to war, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and utterly unhurried. He wore black fatigue pants, a tactical T-shirt that bore the faint scarring of sun and sweat, and a subdued unit insignia was heat-pressed just above the heart.

He stopped just inside the doorway. His gaze swept the room once, taking in the relaxed but watchful posture of the SEALs. Zorro watched him cross the threshold, noting the way the BOPE officers straightened instinctively, the way even Joker’s posture shifted.

Joker stepped forward and extended a hand.

“Captain Leite,” he said, voice low and steady. “We appreciate the invitation.”

The captain’s face shifted, a rare smile breaking through the severity of his bearing.

“Rafael, please, Joker. We will benefit from both of our perspectives, no?”

Joker nodded. “Yes. We’re already impressed by your setup. Let’s see what our guys can do together.”

Leite motioned them toward the rows of chairs flanking the central table. A 3D overlay of Rio’s tactical map glowed softly beneath the lights, casting green and amber shadows across their faces.

“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.

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