Chapter 39: My Own Rambo

Maddie

He just nodded, grabbed his rifle, and checked his silenced pistol. He strapped on a knife, its blade catching the last vestiges of light. He was ready. He looked like a phantom, a creature of the night, perfectly at home in the encroaching darkness. Soon I was going to have to trust him with everything, including my life. He looked like Rambo…my Rambo.

The walk was grueling. The ground was uneven, littered with loose rocks and thorny shrubs. The moon, a thin sliver in the sky, offered scant illumination. We moved like shadows, our footsteps barely disturbing the silence. My leg, still aching from the tunnel collapse, screamed in protest, but I pushed through it. Pain was a familiar companion.

"We're here," I whispered, pointing to a dense thicket of mesquite and tumbleweed. The smell of damp earth and decaying wood grew stronger. The low, rhythmic hum of a generator, barely perceptible, confirmed Miguel's presence.

We parted the thorny branches, revealing a crumbling, moss-covered stone archway. A rusted, half-submerged metal plate, almost invisible, marked the true entrance. "This is it. The waterwheel housing. The mill proper is just beyond this wall."

Jack shone a penlight, its beam cutting through the gloom, revealing a narrow, stone-lined passage. It smelled of stagnant water and old machinery. "Dark and tight," he muttered.

"My specialty," I replied, a grim smile on my face. "Follow me. And watch your step. The floor can be uneven."

We moved through the passage, the hum of the generator growing louder, accompanied by the muffled thud of footsteps and the low murmur of voices. They were inside. And they had no idea we were coming.

We reached a small, cramped antechamber. A rusted metal ladder led up to a narrow, grated opening. Light, a faint sliver, spilled from above. I peered through the grate. The main processing floor. Miguel's men, a dozen or so, were scattered, patrolling. Miguel, a hulking silhouette, stood in the center, his back to us, barking orders.

"Twelve men. Two lookout posts on the upper level, four patrolling the main floor, two near Miguel, two guarding the main entrance, two outside," I whispered, counting them. "Miguel always keeps a tight circle. He values loyalty, but trusts no one."

"And our entrance?" Jack asked, his breath warm on my ear.

"Through that vent," I pointed to a large, rusted ventilation shaft running along the wall, connected to the main room. "It'll take us to the upper level. From there, we can move through the catwalks, unseen. We'll pick off the lookouts first."

"Risky," he said again, but this time, there was a glint of excitement in his eyes.

"It's how I work," I responded, my gaze fixed on Miguel. "They think they're hunting me. They think I'm a victim. They're about to find out what a Dark Rose truly is." I see the faintest smile on Jack's lips. Perhaps this was the beginning of mending, of finding a different kind of truth in this desert of lies.

I pulled a small, sleek device from my pocket, no larger than my thumb. It was a sonic emitter, one of my father's toys. "This will create a high-frequency distraction. Just enough to draw attention away from the vent for a few seconds. I was holding onto it in case of an emergency. Now is the perfect time to utilize it."

With a flick of my wrist, the emitter pulsed, a sharp, high-pitched whine slicing through the air, immediately drawing the attention of the men below. Jack and I scrambled up the ladder. A faint, almost imperceptible whine filled the air, cutting through the generator's hum. One of Miguel's men, closest to the vent, cocked his head, then moved away, curious.

"Now," I said, and pushed the rusted vent cover open. It moved with a low groan, but the sound was masked by the whine of the emitter. We squeezed through, entering the cool, dusty air of the mill's upper reaches.

The catwalks were narrow, rickety. Below us, the machinery loomed like skeletal giants, casting long, shifting shadows. The air was thick with the scent of old oil, dust, and something else – a faint, metallic odor that turned my stomach. Blood.

"Lookouts first," I whispered, pointing to two figures silhouetted against the broken windows, their rifles trained on the main floor. "You take the one on the left, I'll take the right. Silenced shots. No mistakes."

Jack nodded, already moving, a ghost amongst the shadows. I watched him, a professional, precise, utterly focused. He moved with a brutal elegance that fascinated me. He was a weapon, yes, but one with a conscience, however buried.

I raised my pistol, steadying my breath. My target, a burly figure, shifted, scanning the room below. He never saw me. The silenced shot was barely a whisper. He stiffened, then crumpled, sliding silently to the ground. Almost simultaneously, I heard the soft thud of Jack's target.

Two down. Ten to go.