The Task Force had been dispatched stateside for once, an unusual op. Intelligence suggested a rogue militia was using the backcountry of New Mexico as a smuggling route, exploiting terrain that cut through Native American reservation lands. Ghost didn’t like it — not the terrain, not the orders, not the fact they were stepping on someone else’s ground without permission. But orders were orders.

The desert was quiet that night, only the hiss of wind through sagebrush and the crunch of Ghost’s boots as he scouted ahead. His mask kept the dust out but did nothing for the heaviness pressing down on him. He spotted movement before hearing it: a figure crouched low, bow in hand instead of rifle. A woman. She was watching them as if they were the intruders.

Before he could raise his rifle, she had an arrow notched, eyes sharp, unwavering.

Ghost froze, surprised by her steadiness. Not a civilian stumbling into danger — she knew exactly where she was, and exactly what he represented. Her eyes carried that weight: centuries of intrusion, generations who had learned to fight for every inch of their land.

“I’m not here for you,” he said quietly, voice muffled under the mask.

The militia’s gunfire cracked suddenly in the distance, echoing through the canyon. Both their heads snapped toward the sound. Without hesitation, she lowered her bow, muttering something under her breath.

Only she knew the land best. And they were over their heads with this terrain. Every turn and twist opened a million new ways and passages.