Page 53 of Zorro

“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.

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