Page 56 of Zorro

From the end of the corridor, Joker’s voice drifted, bone dry. “Do it clean and I’ll sign the paperwork.” Zorro’s breath caught. Joker wasn’t mad. He was disappointed. That was worse.

“Five-minute break.” Joker barked. “Hydrate and get your shit together.”

Zorro leaned against the wall, sucking air, sweat pooling along his collarbone. Buck dropped beside him.

“This is fucking humiliating,” Buck panted, “What the fuck is wrong with all of us?”

“I don’t know,” Zorro wheezed. “I wish Bear was here.”

“I’m not sure even he could help,” Buck muttered.

“I hate you all,” D-Day amended, flopping against the opposite wall.

Professor appeared from the shadows like some pale-eyed ghost, notebook in hand. “You all sound like you’re dying.”

Zorro grimaced through his sweat. “Give it to us straight, Professor. Are we going to survive Joker’s private hellscape?”

Professor looked up, all quiet menace. “Statistically? One of you is going to cry.”

Buck wiped his forehead. “That’s gonna be Blitz. He stubbed his toe earlier and swore like his soul was leaving his body.”

“I heard that, asshole,” Blitz called faintly from down the hall. “I hope your next room has bees.”

Zorro’s laughter cut sharp through the heavy air. He stared at the peeling wall across from him, chest heaving. His vision narrowed to sweat drops on cracked tile. He could feel his pulse in his teeth.

Then Joker’s voice cut through. “One more run.”

Groans echoed like thunder.

But they moved.

Zorro pivoted left, cleared his corner, muzzle tracking. He was still too slow. He told himself it was fatigue, but he knew better. He was off.

He couldn’t shake the vision of Everly, distressed, crying, alone and dealing with something that had caused her to go silent. It was eating him alive.

Twenty seconds later, they flooded the room like a wave of wolves, Zorro low and fast, D-Day tight on his six. Buck peeled right, Blitz slid left. Tangos in the corners.

“Clear,” D-Day snapped, glaring at him. He grabbed him by the vest strap. “If you fuck up one more time!”

“Me? Everyone is fucking up,” Zorro ground out, his breath loud in his ears, sweat cutting a clean line down his temple, his plates already hot as hell against his spine.

Above them, Captain Rafael Leite stood with his arms folded, watching the American SEALs tear through each other, his eyes shuttered. His uniform stuck to his back. His face, however, remained unreadable.

“Run it again. I can do this all day,” Joker said.

They moved. Same hallway. Same angles. But now D-Day took point.

He dropped a flashbang at the threshold. The hiss-crack-bang rattled Zorro’s sternum, but he moved on reflex.

They surged in. D-Day was supposed to go right. First guy always went right. Zorro went left. Or tried to.

Too late.

They collided hard. Zorro’s rifle jammed against D-Day’s side. D-Day stumbled into his arc. The stack shattered. His finger was on the trigger. Standard grip.

The jolt forced the pad of his index finger down. Crack! Sick realization twisted his gut. The blank discharged, deafening in the tight room. Echoing off the walls like a real shot.

D-Day flinched. Blitz swore from behind. Even the BOPE operators above tensed.

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