Chapter 168
Raven
The words hung in the air for exactly two seconds.
Then Viktor exploded.
"This is YOUR fault!" He shoved Derek hard, sending him stumbling backward. "You and that fat bastard! I told you we needed speed, not—"
"MY fault?" Derek's face went purple. "You're the one who couldn't shut his mouth! Screaming at Mars like some psychotic drill sergeant—"
"Because he was USELESS!" Viktor roared. "Look at him!"
We all looked.
Mars was still in the swamp, thrashing in the murky water. Each movement drove him deeper into the mud, panic making his struggles worse. The wet, sucking sounds carried clearly across the clearing.
And Viktor and Derek? They kept arguing.
"You know what?" Derek's voice cracked. "Fuck this. Fuck you. We're done anyway—"
Viktor's fist connected with Derek's jaw.
Then they were on the ground, grappling like children, throwing wild punches that connected more with dirt than flesh. Somewhere behind them, Mars's desperate grunts grew more frantic.
This is almost too easy, I thought, watching the disaster unfold with detached amusement. They're writing their own elimination speeches.
"ENOUGH!"
Reeves's voice cracked like a whip. Viktor and Derek froze mid-swing, both panting, faces flushed with rage and exertion.
"Your teammate," Reeves said, his voice dropping to something cold and lethal, "is drowning in that swamp. And you two are having a fucking fistfight?"
Viktor scrambled to his feet, attempting to salvage some dignity. "Sir, we already failed the challenge. There's no point—"
"No point?" Reeves stepped closer, and even Viktor—six-three and built like a tank—seemed to shrink. "Your teammate is dying, and you don't see the point in helping him?"
Derek opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "He's... he's not really our teammate anymore. We're eliminated, so technically—"
"Technically," Reeves interrupted, his voice soft as silk and twice as deadly, "you just proved you don't deserve to wear any uniform. Ever."
The clearing went silent. Even the jungle seemed to hold its breath.
"What?" Viktor's face drained of color. "Sir, I—"
"You're done." Reeves gestured sharply. Two soldiers materialized from the treeline, moving with mechanical efficiency. "Permanent disqualification. Not just from this program—from any military service, contract work, or government security position. You want to know why?"
Viktor's mouth worked soundlessly. Derek looked like he might vomit.
"Because we don't just need operators who can fight," Reeves continued. "We need operators who won't abandon their brothers when the mission goes to shit. And you two?" He smiled without humor. "You just showed me exactly what you'd do under pressure. Congratulations. You failed the real test."
The soldiers grabbed Viktor and Derek by the arms. Viktor started to protest—"This is bullshit! We were set up! She—"—but they were already dragging him toward the jungle path.
"Get Mars out of there," Reeves ordered another team. "And get him medical attention. Unlike his teammates, he actually tried."
I watched the soldiers wade into the swamp, hauling Mars's mud-covered bulk onto solid ground. He was sobbing—great heaving gasps that shook his massive shoulders. Not from physical pain, I realized. From humiliation.
Poor bastard.
"Jesus Christ," Katya breathed beside me. "That's... that's his entire career. Gone."
"Brutal," someone muttered nearby.
I glanced at Ethan. He'd been silent throughout the chaos, but now he adjusted his glasses with one finger, a small smile playing at his lips.
"Fruit of your analysis?" I asked quietly.
"Predictable outcome," Ethan murmured. "This isn't just about selecting the best. It's about eliminating the worst. Different thresholds." He paused, tilting his head. "The truly incompetent get cut immediately. Those with salvageable skills but poor judgment..." Another pause. "They might be redirected to support roles. Logistics. Intelligence analysis. Positions where their specific talents can be utilized without risking team cohesion."
I felt a smirk tug at my lips. "And the ones who abandon teammates under pressure?"
"Permanent blacklist." Ethan's voice was matter-of-fact. "They're security risks. Liability factors."
Katya's eyes widened. "Wait. So this whole thing is also an extended psych evaluation?"
"Everything is a test," I said, earning startled looks from both of them. "The way we form teams. How we react to others failing. Whether we laugh at Viktor's showboating or recognize the red flags." I shrugged. "They're not just measuring our skills. They're measuring our judgment."
Katya straightened, determination flooding her features. "Then I need to do better. Show them I belong here."
There's that competitive spark, I thought with approval. She might actually survive this.
Reeves turned back to the remaining candidates, his expression granite-hard. "Let me make something crystal clear. Abandoning teammates—especially when they're down—is not a mistake. It's a character defect. And character defects get people killed." His gaze swept across us like a searchlight. "Anyone else want to show me who they really are?"
Silence.
"Good." He consulted his tablet. "Next team: Ethan, Katya, Martinez."
My heart didn't skip a beat. It never did.
But Ethan and Katya both turned to me, and I saw the same thought written across their faces: You first.
I raised an eyebrow. "I'm going last."
"Last?" Katya blinked. "But—"
"Pressure increases with each successful crossing," I explained calmly. "First person has the easiest job—just don't fall. Second person has more eyes watching. Third person?" I smiled. "Third person has everyone expecting them to fail. Because if the team makes it that far, surely someone has to mess up, right?"
Ethan studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Psychological pressure as the primary variable. Interesting."
"Plus," I added, "if I go last and you two fall, I can at least say I tried to carry dead weight."
Katya choked on a laugh. "Excuse me?"
"Kidding." I wasn't. "Mostly."
"I'll go first," Ethan said suddenly. He was already moving toward the log, his steps measured and precise.
Katya caught his arm. "Wait—are you sure? Do you have experience with balance training?"
Ethan paused. Adjusted his glasses. And for the first time since I'd met him, something sharp and dangerous flickered behind those mild brown eyes.
"I spent three years embedded with Mossad's intelligence division," he said quietly. "Part of my deep-cover training involved navigating rooftops in Tehran during surveillance operations. Urban environments. Narrow ledges. No safety equipment." He glanced at the log, then back at us. "Compared to crossing a two-inch ledge seventy feet above a crowded street at three a.m. while carrying signal intercept equipment?"
He smiled.
"This is a vacation."
Oh, I thought, reassessing him entirely. That's not just confidence. That's competence wrapped in nerd camouflage.
Katya released his arm, eyes wide. "Okay. Okay, yes. You go first."
Ethan stepped up to the starting position. Pulled out a small notepad—the one he'd somehow kept hidden during the search—and began scribbling calculations.
"What are you doing?" someone called out.
Ethan didn't look up. "Wind speed: six-point-three knots from the southwest. Log moisture content: approximately forty-two percent, indicating a coefficient of friction of point-six-seven. Optimal crossing velocity: one-point-eight meters per second. Ideal foot placement: four centimeters from centerline, alternating sides to maintain perpendicular force distribution."
The clearing went dead silent.
"Is he... is he actually calculating physics equations?" Katya whispered.
"For a log," I added helpfully.
Ethan tucked the notepad away. Rolled his shoulders. And stepped onto the log.
Then he ran.
Not walked. Not carefully balanced. Ran—full speed, feet striking the wood in perfect rhythm, arms loose at his sides, body angled forward at exactly the right degree to counteract momentum.
HEART RATE: 68 BPM
STRESS INDEX: MINIMAL
The log barely moved beneath him. He crossed the fifteen-meter span in under ten seconds, hopped off the opposite end, and turned back to face us with a small, satisfied nod.
"Acceptable," he announced.
The clearing erupted.
"What the FUCK—"
"Did he just—"
"That's not even fair!"
I started laughing. Couldn't help it. Katya was staring at Ethan like he'd just walked on water, and Reeves...
Reeves was smiling.
"Ethan," the General called out. "Analysis specialist, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ever considered a position in tactical planning? Movement prediction? High-risk infiltration route assessment?"
Ethan's expression didn't change. "I'm open to opportunities that utilize my skill set effectively, sir."
Translation: Make me an offer.
Smart, I thought, still grinning. He just proved he belongs here, secured a backup position, and made the rest of us look like amateurs. All in ten seconds.
Reeves made a note on his tablet. "Good work, Ethan. Katya—you're up."