The hum of black engines fills the Langley tarmac before sunrise. One by one, the government SUVs line up in formation, all matte, all unmarked. Then comes the sound—low and predatory—of something faster. A custom Aston Martin DB11, black on black, glides into the convoy and stops at the head. Doors hiss open. Carter Hayes steps out.

Six foot three. Broad shoulders under a slate-gray tactical jacket. The kind of build that says military before the badge ever does. His presence hits like gravity—no words, just control. The agents standing near the cars straighten without thinking.

“Morning, boys,” he says, low and rough like gravel dragged through honey. His voice carries the weight of command without the effort.

“Didn’t know you were back from Zurich,” says Agent Brooks, one of the CIA handlers.

“Didn’t plan to be,” Carter replies, sliding his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. “But when both agencies start losing people in the same city, I take that personal.”

There’s a pause. The younger agents exchange looks. Everyone’s heard the stories—the joint missions, the closed-door deals, the quiet promotions that followed explosions no one could explain.

Carter Hayes isn’t just another name on a payroll. He’s the one they call when the op’s gone bad and they still want it to end clean.

Brooks gives him a smirk. “Heard you bought another house.”

“Not bought,” Carter corrects. “Built. Up north. Lake view. Space to breathe.” He checks his watch, a sleek Omega that costs more than most people’s cars. “You should come up sometime. Bring bourbon.”

“You think we can afford your kind of bourbon?” laughs Miller, one of the FBI field techs.

Carter grins, finally—just a sliver of warmth through that sharp, trained exterior. “You can afford the drive.”

The men laugh, tension breaking. That’s the thing about Hayes—he doesn’t have to raise his voice. He doesn’t need rank or medals. He walks in, and rooms calibrate themselves around him.

Inside the briefing hangar, the lights dim as the map flares onto the wall. The operation is codenamed Red Harbor—joint taskforce, international leaks, high stakes.

“Hayes, you’re point,” the director says.

Carter slides his hand into his pocket, eyes on the satellite display. “How much pushback am I getting from Interpol?”

“Enough to make it interesting.”

“Good,” he says simply, rolling his sleeve once to glance at the scar on his forearm—a memory from Kandahar that never quite faded. “Wouldn’t want it to be easy.”

The agents around him—Rossi, Cooper, Miller, Kane—watch him work. He’s calm, methodical, detached in a way that feels surgical. He’s the kind of leader who doesn’t ask for loyalty, he earns it.

“Cooper,” he says, snapping a file open. “You’re eyes. Kane, you’re air.” He turns to the new recruit at the end of the table. “And you—what’s your name?”

“Davis, sir.”

“Drop the ‘sir.’” Carter’s tone is even, not harsh. “You keep your head down, listen, and don’t try to be the hero. There’s only room for one of those.”

The team laughs, even Davis, who catches the edge of a grin from the older agents.

Later, in the locker room, Carter’s gear sits lined up like ritual—pistol, knives, watch, gloves. Everything polished, placed. His reflection in the mirror looks back steady, jaw tense, eyes too clear for someone who’s seen what he has.

Brooks steps in behind him. “You ever sleep, Hayes?”

“On planes,” Carter mutters, loading a mag. “Keeps the nightmares short.”

Brooks chuckles. “You could retire, you know. With your money, hell—you could buy the Bureau.”

“Yeah,” Carter says, smirking. “But then who’d clean up after you?”

He slaps a mag into place, holsters his weapon, and stands. The leather jacket goes on over the Kevlar. He walks out like he owns the place—because in some ways, he does.

The agents follow him to the helipad. The rotors spin, wind whipping across their faces. Carter gives a nod, the signal that ends conversations and starts missions.

“See you on the other side,” he says, and climbs aboard.

From above, the compound shrinks to dots of light on steel.