The fog hadn't lifted by morning.
Frank stood at the edge of the abandoned industrial yard, his boots scraping against the gravel, the echo of last night's confrontation still hanging in the air. The place was dead silent — just the slow hum of the wind whistling through rusted cranes and hollow containers.
A shell casing glinted in the dirt. He crouched, picked it up, turned it between his fingers.One of his own. Precise, measured — like the shot that sent the cartel running.
Near the tire tracks, he noticed something half-buried in mud. He brushed off the dirt — it was Zoey's ID badge. The corner was cracked, the photograph half-faded, but her eyes in it still carried the same stubborn light. He stared at it for a long moment before tucking it into his coat pocket.
His comm crackled faintly. He thumbed the switch.
Frank: "Miller to Command. Operation breached. Parker compromised. Requesting data containment."
Static. Then Colonel Ricky's voice, calm but cold.
