Chapter 33 - Chapter 33

Driving toward the docks, Miguel gripped the steering wheel, his mind running in overdrive. Fighting the unknown wasn't exactly his idea of fun, but it was part of the job. The trick was turning the "unknown" into something he could deal with—hopefully before it blew up in his face.

Intel was everything. Screw that up, and even the simplest mission could go from "in and out" to "who's writing the obituary?" Miguel had seen it happen in Frank's memories more times than he wanted to admit. One time, a mission went sideways just because someone didn't count the rocket launchers correctly. Hard to argue with math when it's aimed at you.

As the docks came into view, Miguel had to admit his plan wasn't exactly award-winning. It was rough, rushed, and held together by sheer optimism. His AI was grinding away in his head, trying to access cameras or sensors in the area, but it wasn't getting far. Whoever locked the system had clearly put some serious effort into it.

"Of course," Miguel muttered under his breath. "Why make things easy when you can make them impossible?" The encryption was ridiculously good, like the kind of thing that made even thinking about hacking it a headache.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, Miguel," he said, mostly to himself. "You've done stupider things before… probably." With that, he pressed on, hoping sheer determination would get him further than his half-baked plan.

Miguel parked the car just outside the docks, his eyes scanning the dimly lit expanse ahead. Stacks of shipping containers cast long shadows under the faint glow of the few overhead lights, but most of the area was shrouded in darkness. The silence was unnerving, and Miguel knew all too well that it wouldn't last long.

He slipped into the shadows, his neural AI already interfacing with his visual overlay, marking potential access points. A terminal sat a few meters away near the fence, its small monitor glowing faintly. Miguel approached cautiously, keeping to the darkness.

Sitting down at the terminal, he hooked in his custom interface, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as the AI initiated a probe. Within seconds, the system pushed back hard—layers of encryption unravelling like a digital fortress guarding its secrets.

"Of course," Miguel muttered, leaning back slightly. "Can't just be simple, can it?"

The AI chimed in. "Security protocols are military grade. This will require some time to bypass."

Miguel sighed, running a hand over his mask. "Alright, let's see how smart these guys really are."

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as he worked to crack the system. Every time he thought he'd made progress, another layer of encryption sprang up, blocking his path. The complexity of the coding suggested whoever set this up wasn't just a run-of-the-mill hacker—they were professionals, maybe even government-funded.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the screen blinked, and Miguel was in. He let out a low exhale. "That's more like it."

Camera feeds began populating the screen, showing various angles of the dock. Most of the areas were empty, but as Miguel cycled through the views, he spotted movement. Armed guards patrolled the grounds in pairs, their weapons slung across their shoulders. High above, snipers were stationed on elevated platforms, their rifles scanning the area below.

Miguel's eyes narrowed as he analysed the layout. His AI flagged at least a dozen hostiles, but none of them seemed to stand out as a leader. That part would have to wait.

"Alright," he muttered, syncing the feeds to his neural interface. The AI's voice sounded in his head. "Visual data synchronized. Hostile positions updated in real time."

Miguel smirked. "Good. Let's get to work."

Phase one: Snipers first.

Miguel moved silently through the shadows, keeping his profile low as he made his way toward the first sniper. The man was perched atop a stack of containers, his rifle sweeping the area below. Miguel scaled the containers with practiced ease, his movements fluid and deliberate.

The cold steel of the container pressed against his gloved palms as he climbed. Each step felt like a balancing act between haste and stealth. He reached the top and paused, crouched low, watching the sniper for several seconds. The man's focus never wavered, his eyes glued to the sights of his rifle. Miguel crept forward, his movements slow and calculated. The moment came—a single, fluid strike to the base of the neck, and the sniper crumpled silently.

Miguel scanned the unconscious man's face with his AI. "Nothing notable," the AI reported. "Contracted mercenary, no federal or military ties."

Miguel nodded to himself. "One down."

He repeated the process with the other snipers, taking them out methodically and ensuring they wouldn't cause trouble. Each scan came up with similar results—mercenaries, hired hands, nothing that indicated a larger connection. Yet the precision of their patrols hinted at strict coordination, a detail Miguel filed away for later.

Phase two: Identify the enemy.

Miguel found one of the patrolling guards and waited until the man passed by his hiding spot. With a quick, efficient strike, he brought the guard down and dragged him into the shadows. The man's comm device crackled faintly, a voice on the other end asking for a status update.

Miguel muted the device and knelt down, scanning the unconscious guard's face. "Let's see who you are," he muttered.

The AI processed the data and displayed the results. "Ex-Army Ranger. Current affiliation: CIA. Field operations."

Miguel exhaled sharply. "CIA? That complicates things."

He scanned the guard's equipment, noting the standard-issue gear and comms. Everything pointed to a government operation, not some rogue mercenary group.

Miguel moved quickly, repeating the process with the remaining guards. Each scan revealed a similar story—military backgrounds, federal ties, all pointing to an organized operation. The gear was standardized but bore no official insignias, an intentional move to keep affiliations ambiguous.

"This just keeps getting better," Miguel muttered as he disabled the last guard. The docks felt emptier now, the absence of movement eerie. Still, his instincts warned him that the calm wouldn't last.

Phase three: Find the head honcho.

With the perimeter clear, Miguel made his way to the center of the operation. A large, open area surrounded by shipping containers stood at the heart of the dock. It was too quiet, and Miguel's instincts screamed that something was off.

He stepped into the clearing, his senses on high alert. The faint hum of distant machinery blended with the lapping of waves against the dock. Suddenly, the docks exploded with light as powerful spotlights flicked on, blinding him momentarily. Miguel raised a hand to shield his eyes, his other hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.

A faint sound—the soft scrape of boots on gravel—reached his ears. He turned slightly, trying to pinpoint the source, and there it was. Giselle's voice cut through the cacophony of noise and light like a knife.

"Drop it!" a voice barked from somewhere in the blinding light.

Miguel froze, his hands slowly rising above his head. His mask concealed his expression, but beneath it, his mind was racing. He knew this was only a meet-and-greet even though the entourage was a bit overwhelming.

"Well," he muttered under his breath. "This is awkward."

From the shadows, a man emerged.

"Mr. Miguel," the man said, his tone calm but laced with a quiet menace. "We've been expecting you."

Miguel tilted his head slightly, his mask hiding the flicker of confusion in his expression. "Funny. I don't recall RSVP-ing."

The man stepped closer, the harsh light now illuminating his face. He was clean-shaven, with sharp features and an unnerving intensity in his piercing blue eyes. There was a meticulousness to his appearance—salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed, his tailored black suit pristine despite the rugged setting of the docks. Every detail of his presence screamed precision and authority, a man who planned for every contingency. Miguel took in the subtle bulge of a concealed weapon beneath the man's jacket, the faint outline of a comm device in his ear. This wasn't just anyone. This was someone who lived and breathed command. And of course he looked like Kurt Russel, thus giving him the idea of whom he was facing.

"We have much to discuss," the man said, his voice steady with a twinkle of joking somewhere concealed in that.

Miguel didn't lower his hands, but he let out a low chuckle. "You sure know how to make a guy feel welcome."

The man's smile widened. "Glad you felt that way kid. Welcome, Mr. Miguel. Let's talk business."

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