Page 57 of Zorro

Zorro recovered fast but the damage was done.

A flash of movement in Zorro’s peripheral. Two fast, helmeted tangos took advantage immediately.

They slammed forward, pinning both of them against the wall. Rifles trapped. Arms locked.

Muscle memory kicked in.

Zorro twisted, jammed his elbow into the mock tango’s chest with brute force, knocking the man off balance.

D-Day lashed out, knee, elbow, fist, fast.

Zorro ducked a savage right hook, felt the pressure snap past his cheekbone.

It was controlled chaos. Barely.

It should never have happened.

Breathing hard at the savage attack, Zorro used the stock of his rifle to clip the side of the tango’s helmet, knocking him away. When he was clear, he pulled his sidearm and blasted out several shots.

Then he turned to D-Day, who was up against the wall, his throat in the man’s grip. Zorro slammed the butt of the rifle this time into the back of the man’s head. He released D-Day and Zorro jumped on him. He lost focus, lost his fucking mind. He’d discharged a weapon on his teammate. He was the medic. The safeguard, and he might’ve just fucking shot his brother. He pummeled the guy, his fists flying, his fury unchecked, his vision tunneled. D-Day and Blitz pulled him off. He fought them.

Suddenly, Joker was there in the room. “All of you to the command center and sit your asses down until I tell you to move. Hydrate. Goddamn spectacle. We’re going to have a chat once everyone has cooled down. Move your asses now!”

The five of them entered the command center, chugging water. The BOPE guys were there, sympathy on their faces. The air conditioning felt so good, it made Zorro shiver, but it couldn’t cool the fire of shame in him.

“Hey, guys,” Migs said. “Everyone has a bad day.”

Joker walked in. “But when SEALs have a bad day, someone dies.”

Zorro’s gut twisted, and he looked over at D-day. The guilt was written all over his face. “It was my fault. I went the wrong way. Z isn’t to blame.” Suddenly everyone was talking at once and all four of them were taking all the blame and protecting him, covering for him.

Zorro looked at Joker. He was watching again, only this time, there was a sparkle in his eye. Zorro sat up straighter. This wasn’t about chain of command. It wasn’t about a reprimand, or even the Navy. This was Joker, the man, teaching a lesson about loyalty the only way he knew how through fire and friction. That only made Zorro angrier. He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to reflect. He just wanted to burn clean in what Everly had stirred in him.

Joker had a different view, and Zorro knew damn well they had just experienced the equivalent of log PT by a master tactician.

“You did that on purpose. You pushed us so hard we would break.”

“I just lit the fuse that was stuck in the dynamite after that run. Now the four of you can’t stop covering for Zorro. That’s what is embedded in you. The brotherhood. I just showed it to you.”

Captain Leite looked at Joker. “Ah, my friend, a true leader on and off the battlefield.”

Joker said nothing. Just watched his men, eyes steady, his silence speaking volumes. Pride was carved into every line of his face. Leite turned back to the BOPE operators, his voice steady. “We’ve learned the lesson as well. Team over ego. Rhythm over resentment. Silent correction over spoken reprimand.” He looked at Joker again, this time not as a visiting peer but as a fellow warrior. “We are honored by your SEAL doctrine. By you, as a leader. By your men…as the embodiment of what special forces truly means.”

Across the crowd of BOPE operators, murmurs rose. Nods passed from man to man. A few reached out with quiet shoulder squeezes and shared understanding.

Not for what the SEALs had done. But for what they were.

Men who put on their tactical black, stood shoulder to shoulder, and moved not for glory, not for medals, but for each other. For the hearts that all beat as one warrior.

“Okay, that’s enough schoolhouse rock,” Joker bit out in full LT voice. “Let’s get back at it, and this time, let’s fucking teach these guys how to do a kill-house right.”

“Hoo-yah!”

A sweltering hour later, the SEALs moved like ghosts, fast, brutal, efficient. Beside Zorro, Migs leaned against the wall, arms loose but eyes tight. His jaw twitched with every flash, every shout, every door slammed open.

Zorro caught his eye for half a beat before turning back into the next stack.

Joker, beside Leite, exhaled like this whole exercise was about to get personal.

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