Page 59 of Zorro

He keyed his mic. “Last run. Full blackout. No comms. Make it count.”

The kill house went dark.

Lights off. Night goggles on. Heat doubled. Sound collapsed to breath and fabric, the scuff of boots, the whisper of hands on concrete.

Zorro led the last breach with Buck behind him.

They moved like water through shadow, silent, automatic.

Afterward, when the lights came back up, when the final room was cleared and all targets neutralized, Joker stepped into the hallway, arms crossed.

“Not bad,” he said. “Next time, we do it with knives.”

Zorro leaned against the wall, drenched and gasping, ribs heaving beneath the plates. The hall shimmered with heat. Sweat stung his eyes.

Migs staggered past the end of the corridor, practically dragging his boots behind him. “I’m looking for a juice box and a soft place to die,” he muttered.

Zorro doubled over with laughter, the motion making his vest slide over his abs. “Congratulations, wormfood,” he choked out. “You’ve officially crossed over.”

From somewhere near the corner, Blitz piped up without lifting his head. “Kid, it won’t do you any good. LT will drink your juice box and resurrect you.”

D-Day groaned, face planted against the wall. “Are you sure you want to be around any of us with sharp objects, LT?”

“What are you talking about?” Joker said. “I could bribe you all with a juice box and still own you.”

Even Captain Leite let out a short, stunned laugh, like it had snuck up on him and escaped before he could stop it.

The sun baked the compound into a forge, turning gravel to heat shimmer and every steel rung into fire. The obstacle course coiled like a serpent, ropes, walls, tunnels, a ten-meter cargo net swaying like breath in the wind. A digital scoreboard blinked at the far end, every pair’s time lit up for all to see.

They ran in pairs, one BOPE, one SEAL. Stopwatch precision. Adrenaline-fueled wagers. Full-throated heckling from every corner. They ate it alive.

D-Day and Blitz went first, a hurricane of limbs and momentum. Dirt displaced, blood on their knuckles. Course record set before their sweat cooled.

Buck and Professor followed, calculated and quiet. Freight train and ghost. Missed the top score by half a second. Buck cursed. Professor didn’t blink.

BOPE answered with speed and grit. Their best pair didn’t just run it, they carved through it, precision so clean, it couldn’t be argued. The scoreboard leaned SEAL-heavy. But BOPE? They weren’t there to lose.

They were there to prove.

Zorro watched from the sideline, shirt soaked, cheering hard. Gunfire cracked in the distance. BOPE’s range. Sharp. Familiar. Migs flinched. His chin lifted, shoulders tight. Eyes scanning the course.

Joker’s voice cut through. “Martinez. Sampaio. You’re up.”

Zorro gave Migs a look that said nothing and everything. The kid nodded.

They started strong. Smooth over the wall. Rope climb. Dummy drag. Fireman’s crawl.

The steady gunfire continued—background noise to Zorro. But not to Migs. Mid-run, he flinched again. Stopped. Breath hitched. One knee locked. Zorro stepped in, quiet, close enough to block the sun.

“Migs. Breathe.” The kid was pale. Lost. “Look at me,” Zorro said, voice low. “That gunfire? That’s your team. Not the enemy.” Migs blinked. Zorro waited. “Count it. In…two…three…four. Out.”

A breath came. Shaky. But real. They stood. Together.

“Ready?” Zorro asked.

“Yeah.” The word was rough, but solid.

They ran again. Slower. Steady. Through the crawl, the log jumps, the last wall. No records. But together.

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