They landed just after three a.m. in the dead plains of South Sudan, where the air hung thick with silence and forgotten violence.
The black site known as Compound K had once been an old colonial fortress, buried in maps erased by international governments and protected by private militias too well-equipped to be mercenaries.
Now, Leon Virelli stood at the edge of it, boots kicking up dust, flanked by his elite Ghost Unit—men and women trained to disappear after they killed.
“Thermals show two dozen inside,” Viktor whispered beside him, his scope raised. “Armed. Light patrol rotation. No civilians.”
Leon lowered his binoculars and slid his silencer into place. “No survivors.”
They breached from the north wall.
Silent kills. One guard’s neck snapped. Another taken with a blade to the
