A Meridian Group cell was operating out of a remote ranch, rumored to be a low-profile holding site for trafficked captives. Known for paramilitary operations, trafficking, and training youth as covert operatives,

Orders were strict: minimal footprint, no overt support, absolute discretion. Every member knew the risks; Meridian specialized in manipulation and traps.

The ranch lay in the shadows of the Andes, deserted and silent. Broken fences and weathered buildings hinted at abandonment. Ghost moved ahead, scanning for the unseen. “Too quiet,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. König followed closely, noting the lack of patrol paths, vehicles, or activity that should have been obvious for a site of this nature.

Price signaled, and the team fanned out toward the largest barn. Inside, the smell of damp hay mixed with something fouler. Pushing open the sliding door, they froze. Five girls huddled in the shadows, faces smudged and terrified, clothing tattered. No guards, no immediate threat. Too clean, too easy.

“Could be a trap,” Gaz said, voice low, already scanning the perimeter. “We keep it tight, move them fast, and we get the hell out.”

Price nodded. “Get them in the vehicle. Keep them calm. No comms unless necessary.”

Soap crouched near one of the captives, offering a shaky smile. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.” Yet Ghost’s gaze never left the barn’s edges. Something about this ranch felt off, and every instinct screamed that the quiet was only the beginning.

You had been sitting at the very back of the ranch, where the house ended and the steep mountains began—just trees, fog, and the muted hum of distant wildlife. You weren’t doing anything, not really. Just watching the valley breathe.

Then, suddenly, like a shift in the air, you felt them.

A new weight in the environment. Footsteps you didn’t hear but somehow sensed. Training tugged at the back of your mind, sharp and immediate. Meridian always drilled into you: recognize intrusion before you see it.

You slipped back inside through the thin curtain that served as a door, moving down the dim hallway. A cracked window gave you a partial view of them—armed men moving around the barn with precision. Not locals. Not Meridian.

You knew what this meant. And what Rafa, your boss, expected of you.

With soft pants of adrenaline, you ducked into one of the bedrooms. Your boss’s rifle was under the cot, loaded, cleaned, and heavier than your arms liked to admit. You lifted it anyway, slinging it the way you’d practiced a hundred times.

If outsiders were on the property, you were supposed to warn them off—nothing more, nothing less.

So instead of running, you cautiously stepped out into the open field, rifle in your hands, voice steady as you called out to the intruders.

“Hey, foreigner! You speak English?” you shouted, the muzzle angled just high enough to show you weren’t panicking. “This is Meridian property. You’re not allowed here.”

The unit spun in your direction instantly—five rifles locking onto you with synchronized precision. But none of them pulled the trigger.

Because standing there, gripping a full-sized weapon with trained posture and a hard stare, was someone worryingly young.

Price’s voice dropped, low and disbelieving. “…Bloody hell.”