ARROGANT CAPTAIN ASSAULTS A WOMAN IN A MILITARY MESS HALL—UNTIL A 4-STAR GENERAL DROPS TO ATTENTION AND UTTERS 8 WORDS THAT RUIN HIS LIFE!

“Marcus!” the man by the jet shouted, his voice echoing over the roar of the idling twin turboprops. “Get your useless ass over here! The perimeter sensors are resetting!”

Marcus Sterling broke away from General Vance’s grip with the hysterical, blind panic of a cornered animal. He sprinted toward the open hangar doors, his boots slapping frantically against the wet concrete.

“Viktor! Don't shoot! It’s me! Don't leave me!” Sterling shrieked, running toward the jet.

“Sterling, stop!” General Vance shouted, raising his weapon, but he couldn't fire without risking hitting the jet’s exposed fuel tanks.

Viktor Vance didn't smile. He didn't offer a hand.

As Sterling drew within ten yards of the jet’s boarding stairs, Viktor raised his submachine gun and leveled it straight at the captain’s chest.

Sterling froze, his feet sliding on the rain-slicked tarmac just outside the hangar threshold. His eyes widened in horrified comprehension.

“You’re loose ends, Marcus,” Viktor said through the howling wind and engine noise. “Your father’s burned. The accounts are frozen. You’re worth more to us dead than alive. A dead captain can’t testify in front of Congress.”

“No... Viktor, please! We were partners!” Sterling begged, raising his hands, his voice drowned out by the scream of the jet engines.

Viktor’s finger tightened on the trigger.

*CRACK!*

A single, high-velocity gunshot shattered the engine roar.

Viktor’s head snapped back violently. A red spray erupted into the misty rain, and he collapsed onto the tarmac like a marionette with its strings severed. The submachine gun clattered harmlessly against the asphalt.

Fifty yards away, standing near the nose gear of the C-130, Elena Cross lowered her sidearm.

The barrel was smoking slightly in the cold, damp morning air. She had fired from an off-hand stance at maximum effective pistol range, placing a hollow-point round cleanly through the mercenary leader’s temple.

Sterling stood entirely alone on the tarmac, drenched in the sudden downpour of rain, splattered with the blood of his former partner.

Behind him, the thunderous roar of three Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters rattled the hangar’s corrugated metal roof as they descended out of the low storm clouds. Heavily armed operators from the 75th Ranger Regiment rappelled down thick ropes onto the runway, their weapons instantly leveling at Sterling from every direction.

General Vance stepped out of the hangar, the rain plastering his silver hair to his forehead. He walked slowly up to the trembling captain.

Marcus Sterling fell to his knees in the puddles, his hands clasped over his face, weeping like a broken child. The rain washed away the coffee stains, the sweat, and the remaining shreds of his dynastic arrogance.

General Vance looked down at him, his face devoid of anything resembling mercy.