Page 55 of Zorro

A black-suited tango burst through the threshold, helmeted, silent, and fast. Too fast.

Zorro’s first tap hit his shoulder. The second clipped chest. The man didn’t drop. He kept coming, a blur of fists and tactical black. Zorro felt the hit in his teeth. It rattled down his arm like electricity. He pivoted, dropped low, swept the leg.

The man hit the floor but recovered too quick, scrambling like he wanted blood.

Another silhouette surged behind him, D-Day’s problem now. Grapple. Elbows. Slam.

No words. No sound. Just bone, breath, muscle, violence.

Zorro slammed his target into the wall, plaster cracked, flakes raining. His cuff was fast, tight. Angry.

Behind him, D-Day finished his man with a brutal knee sweep and zip-tied him like he meant it. Zorro stepped back, pulse thudding in his neck. Chest heaving. He hit his comm. Zorro to Joker. Targets secure.”

“Copy that, Zorro. End-ex, end-ex.”

Zorro reached up. Unclipped the stopwatch from its anchor.

Click.

Joker’s voice echoed in the room from above, flat. Cold. Controlled. “Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles could’ve done that faster and cleaner.” Judgmental silence. “Slow on approach. Slow clearing the hallway. Too. Fucking. Slow.” Joker leaned on the railing. “D-Day on point. Let’s try to channel dangerous bunnies. Move.”

“Yes, sir. We’re on it,” Buck answered, too fast, too loud. Like he was trying to fill the silence before it cracked.

The hallway stretched long and hot.

Boots echoed.

D-Day muttered under his breath. Just enough for Zorro to hear, “What the fuck was that, Martinez?”

Zorro’s jaw tightened. The heat inside and out felt like a blast furnace. “Like you’re perfect, Nolan. Stop crowding my back.”

“Cut the fucking chatter,” Joker barked from the catwalk. “Stack. Goddamn it.”

“First run we’re working out the kinks,” Professor said from the back.

Zorro wasn’t so sure. They didn’t have kinks. Not at this level. He was going to chalk that up to a misjudgment in angle. “I might need a geometry lesson, Milo.”

Professor chuckled.

“Go,” Joker ordered.

They surged forward, and they did the same drill. But their rhythm was off, a stumble at the rear, a moment too slow when clearing a corner.

“Sloppy and slow.” Joker growled. “Run it again.”

They ran it again and again and again. Then with NVGs. Darkness cloaked the hallway like a second skin. Every sound doubled, tripled. Every boot scuff became a shout.

Zorro moved on reflex. Breathing. Shooting. Breaching.

But he was still off. Just a breath. One silhouette surged, and he double-tapped. Both rounds missed.

“Restack,” Joker said through clenched teeth.

There were shoving, arguments, and finger-pointing once out of Joker’s earshot. Low, menacing taunts, insults. As the morning progressed and the heat surged, tempers flared into the red, teamwork broke down, a brotherhood fracturing.

They rotated point, Zorro, D-Day, Buck, Blitz, Professor. Zorro lost count, now nothing but misery.

D-Day wrestled a mock-opponent to the ground, grunting, “Where’s your fucking off switch, LT? I swear, I’m gonna frag this whole building.”

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