The tunnels were pitch black, damp, and filled with the stench of rot and stagnant water.

Kane stumbled forward, his boots splashing through the filth. His shoulder burned, his breath was ragged, and every step felt heavier than the last.

Ghost took point, her silenced pistol raised, eyes scanning every shadow. Behind them, Doc kept a firm grip on Kane's vest, half-dragging him through the winding sewer.

They had escaped—but just barely.

And the hunt wasn't over.

Doc cursed under his breath as they stopped at a corner. He knelt beside Kane, yanking open his med pack.

Blood soaked through Kane's gear.

Ghost crouched nearby, her gaze flicking back toward the tunnel they had come from. If the mercenaries followed, they wouldn't have long.

Doc tore open a bandage. "Hold still."

Kane winced as Doc pressed the dressing hard against the wound. Pain flared up his arm, sharp and deep.

"You're losing too much blood."

Kane exhaled through his teeth. "No time."

Doc's expression hardened. "Then make time."

Ghost looked back at them, her voice sharp. "We have to move."

Kane forced himself to stand, gripping his rifle with one weak hand.

They didn't have a choice.

They pushed forward, deeper into the tunnels.

The air grew colder. The walls were slick with moisture, old pipes groaning somewhere in the distance.

Ghost raised a fist. They froze.

She pointed upward—toward a rusted grate. Above them, faint footsteps echoed.

The mercenaries were searching.

Kane clenched his jaw. They weren't out yet.

Above the tunnels, Kestrel stood in the ruined warehouse, staring at the open grate below.

Hawk knelt beside it, his thermal scanner flickering with faint heat signatures.

"They're still moving," Hawk muttered.

Viper crossed her arms. "We drop down, they'll hear us coming."

Kestrel was silent for a moment. Thinking. Calculating.

Then he looked at Hawk. "Flood them out."

Hawk grinned and reached for his radio. "You got it."

Somewhere in the city, a maintenance valve was being switched.

And deep in the tunnels below, the water started rising.

A deep metallic groan echoed through the tunnels. Then came the rush of water.

Kane barely had time to process what was happening before the cold surge hit his boots.

"Shit—move!" Ghost's voice was sharp, urgent.

The flow started as a trickle, but within seconds, it became a torrent. The water was rising fast, sloshing against their knees, then their waists.

Doc looked up, eyes wide. "They're trying to flush us out."

Kane gritted his teeth. Kestrel wasn't just chasing them—he was drowning them.

They pushed forward, forcing their way against the current. The tunnel sloped downward before twisting sharply left.

Bad. That meant the water would pool there.

Ghost turned to Kane. "We need an exit. Now."

Kane scanned the walls, his vision hazy from blood loss. Then he saw it—an old maintenance ladder leading up to a service hatch.

"There!"

Ghost didn't hesitate. She holstered her sidearm and leapt, catching the rusted rungs. The metal groaned under her weight.

She climbed fast, reaching the top within seconds.

She tried the hatch. It didn't budge.

"Locked."

Doc cursed under his breath. The water was up to their chests now, the current tugging hard.

Kane clenched his jaw. No way in hell they were dying down here.

Above ground, Kestrel listened to the distant rush of water through the grates.

He knelt by a manhole cover, one ear close. Faint echoes of movement. Desperate splashes.

They were still alive.

Viper glanced at him. "They'll drown soon."

Kestrel shook his head. "They'll find a way out."

Hawk smirked. "Then we'll be waiting."

Kestrel stood, gripping his rifle. He wasn't letting them slip away this time.

Below, the water hit Kane's chin. He braced himself against the current, forcing his body up the ladder.

Doc did the same, climbing with one hand while holding his medical pack with the other.

Ghost smashed the hatch with her elbow—once, twice.

Nothing.

The water was rising.

Kane looked up at her, his breath labored. "Move."

She hesitated for half a second—then dropped down a rung.

Kane drew his sidearm, pressed it against the rusted lock, and pulled the trigger.

Boom.

The shot echoed through the tunnels. The lock snapped.

Ghost shoved the hatch open. Cold night air rushed in.

Kane's arms were shaking. He had nothing left.

But they were out.

Ghost climbed out first, her gun sweeping the area. Clear.

She reached down, grabbing Doc and pulling him up. Kane was last.

By the time he was on the surface, his vision was swimming. His body was failing.

But they had escaped.

Ghost knelt beside him, gripping his vest. "Stay with me."

Kane's breathing was ragged. He nodded, barely.

Doc glanced around. "We need a new safe house."

Ghost's eyes narrowed. "And we need to disappear. Now."

Because in the distance—gunfire. Footsteps. The hunt wasn't over.

And Kestrel was coming.

The cold air hit Kane's soaked skin like a knife. His breath came in ragged gasps. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest—but stopping meant dying.

Ghost hauled him up by his vest, keeping him on his feet. Doc checked the wound—still bleeding, but manageable.

They had escaped the tunnels. But they weren't safe.

Footsteps. Fast. Closing in.

Ghost's head snapped toward the alley. Figures moved in the shadows.

Kane barely managed to whisper, "They found us."

The alley was tight, walled in on three sides. A dead end.

The only way forward was through the street—too open, too exposed.

Ghost's grip on her rifle tightened. "We fight."

Doc exhaled slowly. "Outnumbered. Outgunned."

Kane steadied himself against the wall. His body was failing, but his hands were steady.

If they were going down, they'd go down fighting.

But before they could move—a voice echoed through the night.

Cold. Sharp. Calculated.

"Drop your weapons."

From the darkness, Kestrel emerged.

His rifle was slung low, his stance relaxed—but his eyes were locked onto Specter with deadly precision.

Viper flanked his right, Hawk on his left. Their weapons were up. Ready.

Ghost didn't flinch. Her finger hovered over the trigger.

"Not happening."

Kestrel exhaled through his nose—not frustration, not anger. Just patience.

"You're bleeding out," he said to Kane. "Your medic's out of supplies. Your sniper's running on fumes."

He took a slow step forward. "This fight is over."

Kane clenched his jaw. He hated that Kestrel was right.

Ghost lifted her rifle slightly—a fraction of a second away from pulling the trigger.

Kestrel's voice dropped. "You're good, Ghost. One of the best."

"But you can't stop us all."

The alley fell into silence.

The cold wind howled between the buildings. Specter was out of time.

Kane looked at Ghost.

She looked at him.

They didn't need words.

Ghost's grip on her rifle relaxed—barely.

A silent decision.

Kane exhaled. Slowly, painfully, he let his weapon slip from his fingers. It clattered against the wet pavement.

Doc followed. Then Ghost.

Fireteam Specter had been caught.

And now, they were prisoners.

Kestrel lowered his weapon, stepping closer.

His eyes met Kane's.

"Smart choice."

Hawk and Viper moved in, securing their weapons, zip-tying their hands.

Specter was captured.

And the Dictator was waiting.

The transport rumbled through the city's ruined streets, its tires grinding against broken pavement. Inside, Fireteam Specter sat bound, silent.

Kane's head throbbed, his vision swimming from blood loss. Ghost sat across from him, her expression unreadable, her eyes locked on Kestrel.

Kestrel, however, wasn't paying them any attention.

His focus was on Commander Ragos.

The Dictator's enforcer sat stiffly beside him, his uniform pristine despite the bloodstained chaos around them. His dark eyes were sharp, filled with quiet contempt.

The moment Specter had been captured, the power struggle had begun.

And now, it was boiling over.

"They're my prisoners," Kestrel said evenly, his voice calm but firm.

Ragos barely glanced at him. "You work for the Dictator. That means your prisoners belong to him."

Kestrel smirked. "That's not how this works."

The transport hit a rough patch in the road, jolting them all slightly. The tension inside was suffocating.

Ragos turned his cold gaze on Kestrel. "You're a mercenary, Kestrel. Hired muscle. You take orders."

Kestrel leaned back, unfazed. "I was hired to do a job. I caught them. That means I decide how they're presented."

Ragos scoffed, crossing his arms. "You think parading them into the palace yourself will get you favor? You overestimate your value."

Kestrel chuckled under his breath. "And you underestimate mine."

From his seat, Kane studied the exchange carefully.

This wasn't just an argument. It was a battle of power, of influence.

Ragos was a zealot—loyal to the Dictator without question. Kestrel, on the other hand, was an opportunist. He wasn't in this for loyalty—he was in it for leverage.

Ghost met Kane's gaze subtly. They were both thinking the same thing.

If these two kept clashing, there was a chance to exploit it.

Ragos exhaled sharply. "Enough of this." He pulled out his radio.

"General Zoric, this is Ragos. The prisoners are secure. Preparing for delivery."

Kestrel's hand shot out, gripping the radio.

The two men locked eyes.

The soldiers in the transport stiffened. Their hands moved toward their weapons.

For a moment, it looked like they might kill each other right then and there.

Then Kestrel released the radio.

A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face.

"Fine."

Ragos narrowed his eyes, watching him carefully. Waiting for the catch.

"But if you screw this up," Kestrel said smoothly, "it's your head on the line."

Ragos gave him a dark look, then pressed the radio to his lips.

"ETA to the palace—ten minutes."

The Dictator was waiting.

And Fireteam Specter was about to be dragged straight to him.

The transport rumbled on, weaving through the war-torn streets of the capital. Specter sat bound, silent, but their minds were racing.

They were being delivered to the Dictator.

No matter who claimed ownership—Kestrel or Ragos—it didn't change the fact that they were walking straight into the jaws of the beast.

Kane shifted his wrists slightly, feeling the tight zip ties dig into his skin. There had to be a way out.

But right now, all they could do was wait.

Across from Kane, Ghost kept her focus locked on Kestrel.

She knew men like him. Opportunists. Survivors. They followed power but never worshipped it.

That meant Kestrel had his own agenda.

Ragos, on the other hand, was a true believer.

The tension between the two men wasn't just ego. It was a war for control—a battle neither was willing to lose.

And that gave Specter an opening.

Ghost spoke first, her voice calm but deliberate. "How long do you think this will last?"

Kestrel's eyes flicked toward her. "What?"

"Your contract." She tilted her head slightly. "The Dictator isn't the type to keep loose ends around."

Ragos smirked at that. "She's right, you know."

Kestrel's expression didn't change. "You two must be real fun at parties."

Kane leaned forward slightly. "You know we're right." His voice was steady, despite the pain. "You're useful now. But the moment he doesn't need you—"

He dragged his bound hands across his throat.

Kestrel didn't react.

But he didn't dismiss it, either.

The transport slowed. The air inside turned heavier.

Through the reinforced windows, Kane could make out the twisted architecture of the Dictator's palace.

Dark stone. Barbed wire. Floodlights scanning the perimeter.

A fortress.

Ghost's breathing was steady, but Kane knew she was already calculating every possible way out. Not that there were many.

Doc exhaled through his nose. "This is bad."

The truck came to a full stop.

Doors unlocked. Bolts slid open.

Outside, boots hit the pavement—a dozen soldiers waiting. Armed. Ready.

The rear doors swung open.

A figure stood at the entrance. Dressed in military black, eyes cold as ice.

General Zoric.

The Dictator's right hand.

His voice was sharp, commanding. "Bring them inside."

Specter was pulled from the truck, rifles pressing against their backs. The soldiers weren't taking chances.

Ragos stepped forward, nodding to Zoric. "They're secure."

Kestrel, however, didn't move right away. His eyes flicked to Zoric, then to Ragos.

A silent battle was taking place. One that had nothing to do with Specter.

But Kane knew the truth.

Kestrel wasn't done playing his game.

And that meant Specter wasn't out of options yet.

They just had to survive long enough to find the right one.

The cold stone halls of the palace swallowed them whole. Every step echoed like a death sentence.

Kane kept his head up despite the blood loss. Ghost walked beside him, her expression unreadable. Doc was eerily quiet.**

They all knew the truth—this wasn't just imprisonment.

This was a spectacle.

The Dictator wanted to see them suffer.

And the worst part?

He would get exactly what he wanted.

Armed guards flanked them as they were led deeper into the palace. The walls were adorned with banners bearing the Dictator's insignia—black and crimson, like dried blood.

Every soldier they passed watched them like vultures, eager for the kill.

Ragos walked ahead, stiff and composed, basking in his victory. Kestrel, however, kept his distance.

He hadn't said a word since they entered.

But Kane noticed something.

Kestrel's eyes were moving—watching, analyzing.

He wasn't just playing along.

He was planning.

And that meant the game wasn't over yet.

The grand doors loomed before them. Two massive steel slabs, engraved with the image of a burning city.

A message. A warning.

The doors creaked open.

Inside, the Dictator waited.

Seated upon an elevated throne, he was an imposing figure.

Broad-shouldered. Wrapped in a dark military coat, adorned with medals from wars he had orchestrated.

His piercing gray eyes studied them as they were forced to their knees.

He did not look angry.

He looked amused.

Like a king observing his entertainment.

The room was silent.

Then the Dictator spoke.

"Fireteam Specter." His voice was smooth, deliberate. "I expected better."

Kane lifted his head slightly. "We expected worse."

Ragos kicked him in the ribs. Pain exploded through his side.

The Dictator chuckled. "Still defiant. Good."

He rose from his throne, descending the steps with slow, measured strides.

Each step carried the weight of absolute power.

The Dictator turned to Ragos. "You were responsible for hunting them down."

Ragos straightened. "Yes, sir."

His chest swelled with pride. This was his moment.

But the Dictator's gaze drifted to Kestrel. "And yet... it was Kestrel who captured them."

A subtle shift.

Ragos stiffened. Kestrel smirked.

The battle had begun.

"Kestrel is a mercenary," Ragos said quickly. "He follows orders. That's all."

Kestrel exhaled through his nose. "That's one way to put it."

The Dictator raised a brow. He knew what was happening.

Ragos had spent years securing his position, building his influence.

But now?

Kestrel had taken the glory.

And Ragos was desperate to take it back.

The Dictator turned to Kestrel. "You expect a reward?"

Kestrel shrugged. "I expect what was promised."

A dangerous answer.

The Dictator studied him for a long moment. Then he smiled.

"Perhaps."

Ragos' hands curled into fists. He was losing ground—and he knew it.

The Dictator turned his attention back to Specter.

"Your team has been a thorn in my side for far too long."

He motioned toward Ragos. "What do you suggest?"

Ragos didn't hesitate. "Execution. Immediate. Public."

Ghost didn't react. Doc barely blinked. Kane clenched his jaw.**

They had expected that.

The Dictator, however, seemed unimpressed. "Predictable."

Then his gaze returned to Kestrel.

"And you?"

Kestrel didn't answer right away.

He glanced at Specter, then at Ragos. Then he smirked.

"I say we use them."

Silence.

The Dictator tilted his head slightly. Intrigued.

"Explain."

Kestrel's eyes gleamed. He had the Dictator's attention now.

And that meant Ragos had just lost the battle.