Somewhere over the Arabian Sea, April 2027
The cargo plane flew dark no transponder, no lights, no flight plan. It was an old Ilyushin Il-76, bought on the black market in Karachi and repainted with the faded livery of a defunct relief agency. Inside the cavernous hold, the engines throbbed like a dying heart.
Jax sat on an ammo crate, sharpening a knife that was already sharp enough to split hairs. The rhythmic scrape of whetstone on carbon steel was the only sound besides the engines.
Across from him, Kenji “Oni” Sato cleaned a disassembled Type 89 rifle with the absent focus of a man performing religious ritual. Every part laid out on a tarp: bolt carrier, gas piston, magazine spring. His hands moved without looking, muscle memory deeper than thought.
Between them, wrapped in a ther
