The Quinjet flew silently, on a steady course. The white lights inside kept the atmosphere clear, without drama. Some people were checking the little they had managed to pack: ammunition, vests, straps, improvised tools. No one said much. Everyone knew they weren't as prepared as they should have been.
The constant hum of the engine was the only thing filling the air... until a doorbell rang. Short, of course. A cell phone.
Jackson already had his phone in his hand. He unlocked it immediately and read the message. His expression tightened, as if something had dug into his chest.
"Ruth woke up crying. She was screaming your name. She said something was wrong with you. She didn't want to tell everyone, but she was scared. Please take care of yourself. You promised to come for Christmas."
Jackson closed his eyes. The weight of the message sank into his chest.
Maverick watched him from the cockpit. His hands moved over the controls, but all his attention was on Jackson. He recognized that look. He'd seen it in the mirror far too many times.
"Always glued to that damn phone," he muttered, trying to sound casual. "What is it? Jealous girl waiting for an explanation?"
Jackson shoved the phone away. His knuckles turned white as he adjusted his glove.
"No?" Maverick tilted his head. "Then who? You look like you're heading to a funeral."
"It's private."
The words came out sharp.
Maverick knew that tone. He'd used it himself. It was the sound of someone drowning in secrets.
"Come on, brother." His voice softened. "We're flying into a mission that'll probably kill us all. Might as well share the weight."
Jackson exhaled slowly. When he spoke, his voice trembled.
"My mom wrote. Said Ruth... my little sister… had a dream."
The word "dream" came out heavy with fear.
"She woke up screaming my name. Crying like the world was ending."
Max lifted his head from his seat. His jaw clenched. Eagle, who looked asleep, stopped breathing in that fake, rhythmic way.
Jackson continued, the words dragging out of him like pliers pulling teeth.
"She gets dreams sometimes… says she sees things." His voice shrank, turning more vulnerable. "I don't know if I believe her. Maybe it's just everything she's been through. I don't know… I worry, you know?"
Silence spread like an oil spill. Max clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked. The mention of family hit him like a hammer.
Maverick let out a bitter laugh.
"At least you've got someone waiting for you back home." His smile looked more like a scar. "All I've got is a cactus I forgot to water back in 2005. It's probably dead. Or plotting revenge."
But the joke faded. His voice dropped to a rough whisper.
"I had family once. Parents. A sister. But after I came back from Afghanistan… when you come back changed from war, they don't recognize you. And you don't recognize them either. So you stop trying."
Max raised his head. His eyes were glassy. The conversation had hit something he kept buried.
"I only have my mom."
The words came out broken.
"It's always been just the two of us against the world. And now she's over there, stuck with those bastards, and I can't do a damn thing to protect her."
His voice cracked.
"If something happens to her… if I can't get her out… I'll have no one left to go back to."
The silence turned heavy. Electric. Charged with everything left unsaid.
Then Eagle spoke, without opening his eyes.
"I have someone too."
The words dropped like stones in still water. Everyone turned to him, surprised.
"Her name's Maria." A smile tugged at his lips. "Met her two years ago. Back when I was still serving with the Marines."
He opened his eyes. There was something in them none of them had seen before. Hope.
"She calms me. Makes me forget all this. The training. The missions. The constant fear."
He vaguely motioned toward the Quinjet, the mission, all the machinery of death surrounding them.
"I'm thinking of asking her to marry me. We even talked about having kids. Can you believe that? Me, a dad?"
Maverick let out a real laugh.
"You changing diapers. Now that's something I'd pay to see."
"Shhh." Eagle closed his eyes again. "I'm dreaming of her. Don't wake me till it's time to kill someone."
In the quiet that followed, each one held onto those images of home. Those faces waiting for them. Those reasons to stay alive when it was all over.
The silence lasted only a few seconds more… until Jackson frowned, as if something still didn't sit right.
"Speaking of phones…" he said, not turning around. "Any updates? Messages about your mom?"
Max froze. Blinked. Looked at the floor like he'd just remembered he left the stove on.
"…Shit."
Jackson turned to him slowly. "What did you do?"
"The phone. The burner. I left it with Fitz to track it… and never asked for it back." Max ran a hand over his face. "It's still there. On his desk. Next to that little solar-powered dancing figure. I swear it was judging me."
Maverick looked at him from the controls.
"You've got to be kidding."
"I'm not kidding," Max said without looking up. "It was during all that chaos. Alarms, lights, Fitz screaming about phantom protocols… we ran out, and… I just didn't grab it. Slipped my mind."
Jackson pressed his lips together. Hard.
Maverick chuckled.
"It's official. We're rescuing your mom with zero direct contact. Bulletproof plan."
Max didn't answer. He just muttered quietly:
"I'm an idiot."
Eagle opened his eyes for a second, locked eyes with him. "You lost the phone. Pause. Not even a blink. And your mom."
Max shut his eyes, like the comment had punched him in the chest.
Maverick just shrugged, eyes on the horizon.
"Well… if you want to know how your mom's doing… why don't you ask her yourself?"
Max looked up, confused.
Maverick nodded forward.
"We're almost there."
And then they saw it.
Through the Quinjet's tinted glass, the building's silhouette emerged from the mist: a weathered concrete structure, four stories tall, with deep cracks like open wounds. The windows were either boarded up with old planks or shattered, and the metal towers on each side were rusted, tilted as if they might collapse at any second. Weeds grew over what remained of the machinery, slowly swallowing it whole.
Before his boots even hit solid ground, Jackson was already moving. He tightened his bulletproof vest, checked the straps, holsters, gloves. Every movement precise, fast—routine.
"Let's go over it," he said calmly. "The only ones with firearms are Eagle and me. Maverick's using blades. And you…?" He looked at Max.
Max lowered his head and gave a short shake.
Maverick let out a dry laugh. "Seriously? You came with no weapon, no plan… and no damn phone?" He looked at him like a lost cause. "You showed up almost naked, Max. What, were you planning to knock and politely ask them to give your mom back?"
Max didn't respond. He stared at the ground, uncomfortable, but straightened up soon after. The shame didn't last long. He took a deep breath and held Jackson's gaze. No weapon, no phone, not prepared—but he wasn't backing down. Not when his mother's life was at stake.
Jackson kept talking, ignoring Maverick's sharp comment.
"Then we'll split into two teams—"
"I see two at the gate," Eagle interrupted without turning. "Armed. Standing by the fence. Two more on the second floor, looking through the windows. And one on the fourth. Looks like he's got binoculars."
A brief silence followed.
"I think I have a clean shot on the two below," Eagle added, adjusting his scope.
Max didn't hesitate. "Take it."
Jackson confirmed with a nod. "If you have the shot, fire."
Maverick just gave a single nod.
Two dry shots. Sharp. Precise.
The guards on the ground dropped without a sound.
The Quinjet stayed silent as it descended a few meters away, landing on a clearing surrounded by low vegetation and scattered trees—just enough to conceal it without drawing too much attention.
Max and Maverick disembarked immediately. They ran low toward the entrance, alert for any movement. Eagle stayed back with Jackson, providing cover from a distance. His rifle scanned windows, rooftops, shadows.
On the ground, Max and Maverick quickly checked the bodies. No alarms, no active comms. They took the weapons and hid the bodies in the brush and scrap.
When they returned, Max wore a half-smile.
"He had cash," he muttered, showing some crumpled bills.
Maverick glanced at him, unimpressed. "Did you take his shoes too?"
"Relax," Max said, lowering his hand. "They also had two pistols and a pair of radios."
Jackson took one of the guns and checked the magazine. Then looked up at the group.
"Alright. We split up."
He knelt beside a fallen log and traced the outline of the building into the dirt. Quick strokes. Direct lines.
"Eagle covers us from the north hill. He has full view of the front. If he sees movement, he fires. No warnings. Clean shot, clean kill."
Eagle nodded silently, already back on the scope.
"Max and Maverick go in with me through the front door. No detours. We take the first floor, secure the area. Check hallways, eliminate anyone inside, and locate the access to the upper levels."
"What about the radios?" Maverick asked, already clipping his to his belt.
"We tune to a different frequency. Just to stay in touch with each other. Any interference, total silence. No improvising."
Jackson stood up. Looked at the building. Then at the sky.
"We've got five minutes before someone notices those two guards are gone. We do this fast and clean."
Everyone nodded.
They crossed the dry terrain in tight formation. Jackson in front, Maverick to his right, Max behind. Every step was precise. Silent. Their boots avoided twigs, loose stones, anything that might give them away.
The entrance was less than twenty meters away. A double door, old, rusted metal. One side hung crooked, barely attached to its hinges. Someone had forced it open, and no one had bothered to fix it.
Jackson pressed to the frame and raised three fingers.
Two.
One.
They entered.
Beyond the door, a short, narrow hallway. Peeling walls, stale air. To the left, almost immediately, a second door—old wood, with a small window covered from inside with taped paper. There. The guard's station.
Jackson raised a fist. Total silence.
Behind that door, voices. Two men. Speaking quietly. One mentioned checking a signal. The other loaded a weapon. They heard the metallic click of a bolt sliding into place.
Jackson signaled. Maverick moved forward. Took position by the door. Max followed, copying his stance, though his fingers trembled slightly.
Jackson took the other side. Looked at them both.
Three.
Two.
One.
Maverick slammed the door open.
The first man turned but didn't react in time. Maverick drove an elbow straight into his throat. The man dropped to his knees, gasping.
The second raised his weapon, but Jackson was already on him. He grabbed his neck, slammed him against the wall, and knocked him out with a single, clean hold.
Max entered right behind. Fast, wide-eyed.
Both bodies were on the floor. No blood. No screams. Just a faint groan from one of them, unconscious.
Max swallowed. He was still pointing his weapon, even though it wasn't necessary anymore.
"Are they alive?" he asked.
"Yes," Maverick replied, crouched, searching their pockets. "For now."
He found a radio and handed it to Jackson.
"On. Channel's clear."
Jackson turned down the volume, adjusted the dial. Only static.
"They haven't been reported yet," he murmured. "But we're not getting another clean entry like this again."
And with that, they left the booth.
The hallway continued straight, flanked by closed doors and walls stained with damp. Some sections were partially lit by old lamps that flickered at random. The silence was heavy. Only their steps—controlled and dry—filled the space.
"The next room could be occupied," Jackson murmured, checking each door as they passed. "Unit 01B. Direct entry. No fallback."
They approached a door left slightly ajar.
Jackson pressed to the frame. Listened carefully.
Nothing.
He signaled.
Maverick took position. Max moved in behind him. His breathing wasn't as ragged now, but the gun still felt heavy in his hands.
Jackson pushed the door open carefully.
It was a small unit—like something for tech personnel. A single room with a mattress on the floor, a chair, a small table with a radio on top, and remnants of cold food in disposable containers. An open backpack lay against the wall.
It looked empty.
They entered in order.
Jackson checked the far-left corner. Maverick went to the table. Max covered the entrance.
And then he saw it.
A figure crouched behind the furniture. No more than five feet in front of him.
The man rose fast, eyes wide, radio already in hand. His fingers were on the button. He was about to speak.
Max didn't think.
He shot.
The recoil shook him. The sound exploded in the room with a sharp crack.
The guy dropped backward, slamming into the table. The radio flew across the room. A utensil rolled across the floor.
Max still had the gun raised. Finger locked on the trigger. Arms tense. Heart pounding against his ribs.
He stared at the body. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Not because he was frozen—but because something in his mind had gotten stuck in that moment.
The radio, the guy's hand, his finger on the button. Over and over again.
Jackson crouched by the man, checked the device. "He didn't get to speak," he said quietly. "But the shot echoed through the whole damn floor."
Maverick exhaled sharply. "Perfect. Anything else you wanna set on fire?"
Max lowered the weapon. Slowly at first. Like his body wasn't responding. He was breathing—but like someone trying not to choke.
Jackson approached, not abruptly. His voice wasn't harsh, but it wasn't soft either. "Your first real shot," he said, looking him in the eye. "And you didn't miss."
Max didn't respond. He just swallowed. Still staring at the guy. Like he wasn't convinced he was dead yet.
"It wasn't a simulation. And that hits harder. But you did what you had to do." A pause. "It's done. Keep your head in the game."
Max finally nodded. Not quite steady. But present.
Jackson gave his shoulder one firm squeeze. Then turned away.
The radio was still active.
And then a woman's voice came through—clear, sharp, with a tone that allowed no room for argument.
"What was that?"
A short pause.
"Sounded like a gunshot," replied another voice, younger. "First floor. Near the south access."
"Who's moving down there?"
"No one, ma'am. All teams in position."
Silence.
The first voice returned, lower now, but direct.
"I'm going down. Carrillo and the new kid, with me. We check and clear. If someone's touching what they shouldn't be... I want them on the ground."
A click marked the end of the transmission.
Jackson set the radio aside.
"They're coming," he said. "Three. And the one in charge isn't coming to ask questions."
Maverick moved instantly, knife in hand. "How long?"
"One minute. Maybe less."
Jackson looked at Max. He no longer saw him trembling.
"You ready?"
Max nodded. This time without hesitation.
"Yes."
Jackson nodded back.
"We stay. There's shadow here, visibility. Advantage."
Then, without raising his voice, he gave the order: "Eclipse."
The team scattered at once.
Maverick slid toward the column on the right side of the entrance. Jackson returned to the shelving unit, half crouched. Max crossed to the overturned file cabinet, right by the threshold, without a sound.
No one needed instructions. The formation was already set.
The door opened without a noise.
First in was a woman in her thirties. Athletic build, fitted combat gear, short braids pulled back. She held a curved blade in each hand. Took two steps in, barely crossing the threshold.
Jackson lunged from his position behind the shelf, just left of the entrance. He intercepted her with a sideways slash aimed at her torso.
She blocked it instantly with one blade and twisted her wrist, countering swiftly with the other. The slash came straight for his side. Jackson twisted just in time—the blade barely grazed his neck, just above the vest. One centimeter higher and he'd be bleeding.
Maverick attacked from the opposite side, hidden behind a crumbling column near the entrance. He lunged with his knife toward her abdomen.
She turned without hesitation, deflected his attack with the handle of one blade, and landed a diagonal cut with the other that ripped his sleeve. Blood welled instantly—thin and quick.
The woman didn't retreat. She advanced steadily, stepping past the threshold and taking the center of the room.
Behind her, two more figures crossed the entrance. One was as wide as a door, shaved head, thick neck. The other, thinner, had a radio dangling from his harness and eyes wide, trying to keep up.
They didn't get farther than two steps.
Max sprang from behind the overturned file cabinet, right beside the doorway. He launched himself at the younger one, grabbed him by the torso and slammed him into the hallway wall. The impact echoed dryly through the concrete. The kid struggled, tried reaching for something on his belt, but Max drove a punch into his gut, then another straight to the face.
The big guy was already on him. He grabbed Max's arm with brute strength and lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing. Max fought back. Drove a knee into his ribs—then another. The man didn't flinch. While holding him, he planted his other hand on Max's neck, squeezing until breathing turned painful.
Max drove his elbow into the man's jaw. Once. Twice. On the third, the grip loosened.
He landed on his feet. Breathed deep. No time to think.
The kid came at him again, this time with a short knife. Max twisted, dodged it by inches, and countered with a punch to the nose. He heard the crunch.
He turned just in time to see the brute swing down with a heavy blow. Rolled aside—the hand brushed his shoulder.
Max readied himself. Two against one. And no more room than this damned hallway. He took two steps back, brushing the opposite wall. Breathing hard, fists raised. The younger one was wiping blood from his nose, staggering but still up. The brute didn't bother talking—just kept coming.
A straight punch. Max ducked, felt the air graze his head. He answered with a shot to the ribs—but it was like hitting a column. No reaction.
The kid came from behind. Max twisted just in time, dodged by centimeters, and drove his knee into the kid's gut. He doubled over. Max took the chance—grabbed his head with both hands and slammed his forehead into his own knee.
A clean strike.
The body dropped immediately, motionless.
Max had no time to process it.
The big guy was back. A wall of muscle and rage that filled the hallway in just two steps.
Max moved on instinct. Pushed forward, closed the distance, and drove a knee into the man's stomach.
He absorbed it, grunted… and caught Max by the arm like it was nothing.
Max tried to break free, but the guy already had him. He lifted him with ease and slammed him against the hallway wall. The impact knocked the wind out of Max.
The world vibrated for a second.
Max swung a punch at his face. Another. The third barely made the man flinch.
He threw Max to the floor on his back.
Pain. Dust. A ringing in his ears.
Max rolled, dodging a heavy stomp. Crawled toward the unconscious kid's body, used it for leverage and stood up.
The brute charged again. Max pressed to the wall, let him pass, and shoved him hard from behind. The man staggered, crashing into a splintered doorframe.
Max grabbed a fallen lamp and smashed it against his shoulder.
The brute growled, furious, and tackled him. They hit the ground—Max underneath.
Fists rained down like hammers. Max raised his arms to shield himself, but each hit hurt. He thought his bones might crack.
He glanced to the side. The kid's radio. A file cabinet. A piece of broken metal frame.
He reached it. With effort. With fury.
Spun and slammed it into the brute's temple.
The man stumbled back, dazed.
Max didn't think. He surged forward with what strength he had left, slammed into him, and they hit the ground again.
This time, Max struck first. Not once—but five times in a row. Face. Neck. Nose. Until the man stopped moving.
He stayed on top of him, breathing like he'd never learned how.
The body lay still. The hallway in chaos. His own blood mixing with the other's.
Max hadn't won by strength. But he was alive.
And that was enough.
He turned toward the half-open door. Took two steps, barely peeking inside. The scene etched itself into his mind like a snapshot.
Jackson was on his knees, one hand on the floor, the other raised uselessly. In front of him, the woman. Unshaken. Holding a blade mid-swing, aimed for a horizontal slash to the neck.
Maverick was nowhere to be seen. Gone.
Max reacted without thought. Just felt that sinking pit in his gut, that sharp fear.
He reached into his pants. The pistol was still there—the one he wasn't supposed to use. Didn't want to use. If he fired, the whole building would know there were armed intruders. Everyone would know. But if he didn't—Jackson wouldn't get up again.
No time for doubt.
He drew the weapon. Aimed.
Fired.
The first shot hit her shoulder. It staggered her.
The second hit her chest. The blade fell first. Then she did.
Jackson didn't move.
Max lowered the gun, eyes wide, breath shattered.
And then Maverick appeared from the side—bloodied, breathless. He took in the scene in silence.
The body. Jackson. Max.
He didn't blame him. Didn't say a word.
He just looked at him.
And then, from above—voices exploded. Shouts. Footsteps pounding across different floors.
There was no turning back now.
---
Shameless Note from a Shameless Author 😎
WHAT. A. CHAPTER. 😤No lie, this one was an absolute blast to write. It's got everything—feels, action, chaos, laughs, tears, and maybe even a fistfight or two. Basically, the emotional rollercoaster you didn't know you needed. 🎢
Over 3700 words of pure content for y'all to enjoy today.Seriously, chapters like this remind me why I love doing this whole messy, magical storytelling thing.
As always, if you wanna show some love, drop a comment, leave a review, hit me with your thoughts, or toss a few power stones my way 💎—it really keeps me going and helps me stay hyped to write more.
See you soon... if I survive the feels. 😮💨🔥