Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Recon Past
Victor laughed, a dry, mocking sound. "Oh? Who did you call? The local police? They're on my payroll. The FBI? They've been trying to pin something on me for ten years and haven't found a single shred of evidence. You're entirely alone, old man."
"I was never alone," I said.
At that exact moment, the front windows of Apex Combat Academy shattered in a synchronized cascade of safety glass.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Flashbang grenades rolled across the concrete floor, detonating with deafening, blinding white-hot fury. The entire gym plunged into absolute sensory overload—a high-frequency screeching sound echoing in the skulls of everyone present, accompanied by blinding strobe-like flashes that burned white light into our retinas.
Victor's men instantly panicked, dropping their weapons as they clutched their ears and stumbled backward into the heavy bags.
Through the smoke and haze, tactical boots hit the floor with military precision. Four figures dropped from the ceiling rafters, fast-roping down with the lethal grace of active-duty MARSOC operators. They wore unmarked black crye-precision gear, night-vision goggles flipped up on their helmets, and held customized HK416 carbines with suppressors.
"Clear left!" shouted a raspy voice through a comms unit.
"Clear right! Target secured!" shouted another.
Marcus crumpled to his knees, covering his head, while Victor stared in absolute horror as his armed guards were zip-tied, disarmed, and forced face-down onto the canvas in less than five seconds.
The lead operator stepped forward, his face obscured by a balaclava, but when he pulled it down, a wide, battle-scarred grin broke across his face. He walked right up to me, snapped a crisp, razor-sharp salute, and said:
"Master Gunnery Sergeant. Alpha Team reporting for duty, sir. Sorry we're late on extraction."
I returned the salute crisply. "At ease, Sergeant Miller. You're right on time."
I turned back to Victor, whose face had gone completely bloodless. The kingpin looked at the heavily armed, highly trained elite operators standing at my beck and call, and then down at his nephew, who was currently whimpering like a whipped dog.
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"Who... what are you?" Victor whispered, his voice trembling for the first time.
"I told you," I said, leaning in close so only he could hear. "I trained three thousand combat Marines. And some of them never stopped answering my calls."
