Chapter 7 - The Strike at the Naval Station
The old naval station on the southern coast was a decaying relic of the Cold War—a sprawling complex of abandoned concrete hangars, rusted chain-link fences, and overgrown airstrips battered by salt spray and relentless coastal winds.
It was 2:00 AM under a moonless, starless sky.
A single private Gulfstream jet sat idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines whining against the damp night air. Surrounding the aircraft were twelve heavily armed mercenaries clad in matte-black tactical gear, their assault rifles held at the ready as they scanned the perimeter.
Inside the primary hangar, Dante Moretti paced back and forth across the concrete floor. He looked frantic, his expensive silk shirt stained with sweat, a thick leather briefcase filled with bearer bonds clutched tightly in his left hand.
“Where is the transport truck?!” Moretti roared at his chief of security, a towering ex-mercenary named Kaelen. “The pilot says we have twenty minutes before local radar picks up unauthorized flight vectors!”
“It’s coming, Boss,” Kaelen muttered, checking his wristwatch. “Relax. No one knows we’re here.”
Clang.
The sound of a heavy iron bolt dropping echoed sharply from the rafters high above the hangar floor.
Kaelen froze, raising his assault rifle toward the ceiling. “Did you hear that?”
Before Moretti could answer, the master electrical transformer box mounted on the exterior wall exploded in a shower of brilliant white sparks. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered violently twice, then died, plunging the massive hangar into pitch-black darkness, illuminated only by the pulsing red and green strobe lights of the idling jet outside.
“Defensive positions!” Kaelen shouted, his voice cutting through the echoing silence.
The twelve mercenaries scattered into the shadows, their night-vision goggles clicking softly as they swept their weapon sights across the vast, empty space.
From the upper gantry crane walkway thirty feet above, a small, agile figure dropped silently onto the top of an empty shipping container with barely a whisper of sound.
Aurelio Mendoza crouched in the darkness, wearing a matte-black tactical vest and carrying a modified submachine gun secured across his chest. He didn't fire. He didn't make a sound. He simply pulled a small digital jammer from his pocket and activated it, cutting off all external radio communications between the hangar and the outside world.
Down below, Kaelen swept his flashlight beam across the floor. “Sweep the upper catwalks!” he ordered two of his men.
The two mercenaries began climbing the rusted iron ladder leading toward the gantry.
Aurelio waited until the first mercenary’s head crested the platform level. With fluid, explosive speed, Aurelio stepped out of the shadows, delivered a devastating heel-kick to the guard’s chest, and sent him tumbling backward off the ladder into the darkness below with a heavy crash.
The second mercenary swung his rifle around, but Aurelio ducked beneath the barrel, drove his elbow upward into the guard's throat, and disarmed him in a single, practiced motion before sweeping his legs out from under him.
“Contact on the gantry!” the second guard managed to gasp into his comms before Aurelio rendered him unconscious with a swift strike to the temple.
May you like
Panic rippled through Moretti’s remaining security detail.
“Flush him out!” Moretti shrieked from the center of the hangar, clutching his leather briefcase like a lifeline. “I want him dead! Bring me his head!”
