Infiltrating

The rocks shift beneath your boots as you descend, slow and deliberate, one hand on your rifle, the other brushing the ground for balance.

Above you, silent and still, your mother lies in wait. You know she’s watching every inch of your movement through her scope. One breath too fast, one sound too loud, and her finger is already half-tensed on the trigger. But only as a last resort.

Her rifle has no suppressor.

If she fires, the compound will light up like a funeral pyre.

So for now, it’s all on you.

The wind is soft tonight. Just enough to cover the scuff of your boots, just enough to carry the faint hum of a generator inside the compound.

You keep your body low, creeping along the ridge that leads toward the back of the old oil facility. The sniper tower looms ahead—rusted, weather-beaten, bolted together.

You inch forward through brush and sand, heart pounding, sweat dripping down your spine despite the cool desert air.

Your target is seated lazily at the top of the tower, legs kicked up on the railing, his rifle balanced across his lap like a toy.

He doesn’t see you.

He doesn’t hear you.

You stop behind a stack of crumbling oil drums near the base of the tower and breathe deep through your nose.

You unsling your blade.

No gun. Not yet.

You start to climb the ladder. Each rung creaks like it’s trying to betray you, but you pause between every movement, holding your breath, body pressed close to the frame.

Closer.

Closer.

The sniper shifts in his chair, scratching the back of his neck.

You freeze.

Wait.

He relaxes again, humming something low and off-key.

You move.

Now you’re just below the platform. One more rung and you’ll be at his feet.

You tighten your grip on the blade, steel pressed to your thigh, breath held, muscles tight.

Now.

The final rung groans under your weight as you rise.

The sniper doesn’t hear you.

You step onto the platform, silent. One arm wraps around his neck. The other drives the blade clean between his ribs, angled up, under.

His body convulses once. A wet gasp. No scream. You hold him there—cheek to cheek—until the last twitch leaves his limbs.

Only then do you lower him gently to the floor of the tower, eyes scanning the compound below.

You quickly strip him of his radio and sidearm, stash the body behind a broken maintenance panel, and throw a stained tarp over the pool of blood already seeping through the floorboards.

Then, just as slow as you came, you climb back down—each movement clean, controlled, deadly.

Your boots hit dirt.

You don't pause.

You move around the outer fence line, low and fast, weaving between debris and rusted storage tanks. The compound is mostly quiet. No chatter, no laughter, just the hum of the generator and the occasional clink of metal settling into itself.

First guard: near the east wall, leaning against a drum with his back to you, smoking.

You grab him from behind—blade into the side of his neck, hand over his mouth. He struggles. Briefly. You hold him until he slumps, warm blood soaking your wrist. You drag his body into the shadows beneath a collapsed scaffold.

Second guard: pacing near the admin building. He turns just as you reach him. Too late.

The knife slips under his chin, silencing the shout before it forms. You guide him down, gentle as a lullaby. His eyes stare up at the stars, unblinking.

You leave him there. Time’s moving fast now.

You move silently toward the admin building, boots skimming the dirt, heart hammering behind your ribs like a caged animal.

Just as you cross a rusted pipe, a sharp crunch behind you—gravel underfoot.

A guard. Too close. Too fast. He turns. Sees you. His mouth opens.

You throw the knife.

It catches him in the throat mid-breath. He staggers back, gasping, clawing.

You lunge forward and crash into him with your full weight, hand over his mouth as you bring him down hard. The sound of his **** is lost under your momentum, the soft thud of flesh and bone against earth.

You retrieve your blade, wipe it once on his shirt, and keep moving.

The admin building is just ahead—small, one level, warped sheet metal and shattered windows boarded with old crates. You drop to your belly, crawling through brush and sand until you reach the wall. You slide up beside a shattered slit in the paneling—just enough to see inside.

And what you see nearly stops your heart.

Norah. Tied to a chair. The same one from the photo.

She's slumped forward, ****—or worse—her arms limp, her face swollen beyond recognition. The blood dried against her jaw is fresh. Her body—bruised, dirt-streaked, barely covered in torn fabric.

And worse—them. Men. Laughing.

One of them—zipping his pants—says something to the other in slurred Russian.

The words are lost under the thunder in your skull. Everything boils.