Page 54 of Zorro

Just raised a stopwatch and clicked it once. The faint tick echoed in Zorro’s head. “Breach stack.”

They didn’t question. They moved.

The BOPE team watched from the catwalk, eyes sharp and rapt, getting the rare benefit of SEALs in motion, in their element. No wasted movement. No chatter. Just practiced, patient violence waiting to be unleashed.

Zorro’s boots whispered across broken tile as he took point, D-Day just behind him, rifles up, barrels tracking the ceiling. Blitz and Buck sealed the rear. Professor stayed back at the exterior, eyes scanning the dark corners, tracking every shift of light and shadow with unsettling precision.

The first door waited at the end of the narrow hall. Paint chipped. Handle sweat-slick.

Joker gestured toward the warped metal at the far end of the corridor.

His voice came low. Deliberate. “Flash left. Hard right. Don’t get cute.”

Zorro adjusted his grip on the rifle. Didn’t look up. “Can’t help it, LT. It’s in the genes.”

There was a pause. Brief. Breath-held.

Joker’s voice came back cold. “You keep talking, I’ll carve the clever out of your DNA, Martinez.”

Behind him, D-Day muttered, “Better leave some. Man’s useless without his sass.”

A few chuckles. Quiet. Tight. Flat.

Zorro shifted forward, low and amused. “That’s not true. I’ve got cheekbones and trauma certification.”

Buck leaned in. “And a death wish.”

Joker didn’t acknowledge a word. “Go.”

They moved.

Zorro took point, his rifle sweeping the corridor. D-Day shadowed him close, Blitz and Buck covering the rear. Professor tracked them from the flank, eyes like glass, sharp, quiet, calculating.

The heat pressed in, thick and wet. It clung to Zorro’s skin, seeping through the seams of his plate carrier, turning his breath shallow. The air in the hall clawed. He blinked. Just for a second and felt her.

The memory of Everly’s mouth, hot, hungry, trembling, rose like steam under his collar.

The taste of her still burned in his chest. Heat on heat. Sweat on memory. Focus up.

The hallway narrowed. Lights buzzed overhead, casting long rectangles that sliced the shadows apart. This Long, narrow corridor was always and forever a perfect kill zone. No room to breathe. No room to fuck up. One mistake, and you don’t walk out.

The heat pressed in, soaking through his gear and sliding down his spine like sweat laced with static.

The stack flowed forward, carving the space in swift, practiced arcs. Professor, Blitz, and Buck split off to clear side rooms.

Zorro and D-Day surged up the middle. No hesitation.

The door was in sight.

Zorro pivoted to cover the angle, just a standard motion. But his weight shifted wrong. His heel struck the tile half a beat too wide. Not much. Just enough to throw his hips out of alignment. He had to plant harder than normal to recover. He knew better. Steps mattered. His footing was integral to frame, and frame was his survival. He corrected fast enough to fool most eyes.

But not Joker’s.

From the catwalk, that voice landed low and lethal. “You forget how to put one foot in front of the other, Martinez?” Zorro’s jaw locked. “Sloppy.” The word cracked in the hallway.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t breathe.

They hit the door hard. It gave with a shriek.

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