(4) Miguel Silva

(Any talk here is in Portuguese)

The man stepped toward Miguel, his frame just a shade taller, broad yet unassuming a gentle giant, Miguel mused, the thought flickering through his mind like a quiet revelation. 

The man's lips curved into a warm smile, genuine and disarming, as he extended his hand in a gesture of greeting. Miguel hesitated only for a heartbeat before meeting the gesture, his own hand clasping the man's in a firm.

"Hey, sorry for the short notice. I know the 1º BAC wasn't exactly eager to let you go, but we're really glad you managed to convince them. We're a bit short-staffed today, so your timing couldn't be better. We've just received some actionable intel, and you'll be taking the lead with the new guys. Let's get them up to speed quickly, we've got work to do."

******

And so, he found himself deep within the heart of the rainforest, where the air hung thick with humidity and the sunlight struggled to pierce the dense canopy above. The symphony of wildlife surrounded him chirping, rustling, and distant calls creating a cacophony that seemed both alive and watchful. Behind him, the others moved in silence, their footsteps barely audible against the soft, damp earth. Each step brought them closer to their objective, but then he froze. His hand shot up, a silent command that brought the group to an immediate halt. 

The air carried a scent that didn't belong a sharp, chemical tang that clashed with the earthy, organic smells of the forest. It was out of place, wrong. Without a word, he gestured sharply, sending two of his team to the left and two to the right. They fanned out like shadows, blending into the green, their movements slow and methodical . He remained still, his senses sharp, every nerve taut as he finally Started to move forwards engulfed by the forest

It wasn't until the forest abruptly gave way to a clearing that the truth struck him. The dense green walls of the rainforest fell back, revealing a sprawling field of coca plants, their leaves glinting fully in the harsh sunlight. The plants stretched out in unnaturally neat rows, cultivated, a stark contrast to the wild chaos of the jungle. Someone had been here, someone had planned this, nurtured it, hidden it. The intel had been right after all.

"Shit, police!" The shout ripped through the air, sharp and panicked, just before the first gunshots erupted. The jungle, once alive with the hum of insects and the calls of distant creatures, fell silent as the deafening crack of gunfire took its place. He didn't hesitate. And bolted forwards

Ahead, the scene unfolded like something out of a fever dream. A makeshift house, cobbled together from the bones of the rainforest, stood defiantly amidst the coca fields. Its walls were a patchwork of weathered wood and corrugated metal, as if the jungle itself had reluctantly allowed its construction. Around it, the ground was cluttered with equipment; barrels, generators, and stacks of supplies all signs of an operation far more organized than he'd anticipated. 

But it was the second floor that caught his attention. A figure moved behind the rusted railing, and the unmistakable silhouette of an old Soviet-style machine gun came into view. The sharp, staccato bursts of gunfire erupted, cutting through the humid air. He couldn't see his team, but the trajectory of the bullets told him everything he needed to know

"You. move and help them"

The man behind him nodded and left quickly 

He raised his weapon and fired a couple of quick shots toward the house, the sharp cracks of his rifle cutting through the air. 

Almost instantly, the machine gunner shifted focus, the heavy roar of the Soviet gun swinging in his direction. Bullets tore through the foliage, shredding leaves and sending splinters flying, but he was already moving. 

Ducking low, he slipped into the dense rows of coca plants, their broad leaves closing around him like a green curtain. The plants were tall enough to swallow his figure, their thick stems and overlapping foliage providing just enough cover as he moved swiftly and silently. The machine gunner kept firing, the rounds chewing up the ground and vegetation in a wild, unrelenting arc, but the coca field was vast, and he was just another shadow in its labyrinth. 

The faint *click* of an empty gun echoed through the clearing, and for a moment, relief washed over him. But it was short-lived. The sound of crunching sticks snapped him back to alertness. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground, pressing himself into the shredded foliage around him. The torn leaves and broken stems formed a natural camouflage, rendering him nearly invisible in the dim light. 

He held his breath as footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. A man walked past him, an AK slung in his hands expecting resistance, his eyes scanning the area but seeing nothing. The man was close, too close. In one fluid motion, he reached out, his hands locking around the man's ankles, and yanked hard. The man let out a grunt as he toppled forward, hitting the ground face-first. Before the man could even cry out, he was on him, one hand clamping over his mouth, silencing any attempt at a shout. The other hand drove a knife into the base of the man's skull, quick and precise. 

The struggle was brief, almost silent. He stayed low, his breathing steady, as the man's body went limp beneath him. Slowly, he withdrew the knife, wiping the blade on the man's shirt before scanning the area again.

He moved again, crouching low as he edged closer to the house. A quick glance through the coca plants revealed the machine gunner slumped lifelessly against his weapon, the threat neutralized. As he advanced, the rest of his team emerged from the sea of green, their movements synchronized, their faces set with grim determination. The building loomed ahead, its ramshackle walls now the final barrier. 

A carriage sat at the side of the house filled to the brim with leafs above it on the second floor was window, he noted it but moved on

But the sound of voices, too many voices, spilled out from behind the door. It was chaos, a cacophony of shouts and orders. A direct assault would be suicide. He paused, his mind racing, then reached for the mask hanging at his side. The rest of the team followed suit, their silent understanding passing in a glance. They didn't need words; they had trained for this. 

One of them moved to the side of the building, where a window offered an opportunity. With a swift motion, the glass was shattered, and a canister was tossed inside. It hit the floor with a metallic clink, hissing as it released its contents. The voices inside turned to confusion, then panic, as the gas filled the room. Violent coughing erupted, followed by the sound of bodies stumbling, crashing into furniture, desperate for air. 

The door burst open, and figures spilled out, clutching their faces, gasping and retching. They barely had time to register what was happening before the team descended on them, swift and merciless. One by one, they were forced to the ground, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, their protests cut short by the sheer efficiency of the operation. 

With one of his team keeping watch over the groaning men outside, the rest moved in. A flashbang was hurled into the room, its blinding light and deafening roar adding to the disarray. They swept in, weapons raised, clearing the space with practiced precision. AKs lay scattered on the floor, abandoned in the chaos, alongside men who were still coughing, doubled over, or unconscious—those who hadn't made it out in time. 

Amid the confusion, a door at the back of the room flew open. A figure darted through it, moving fast, desperation evident in every stride. He didn't hesitate. Shouting to his team to secure the room, he took off after the fleeing figure, his boots pounding against the wooden floor before he burst back into the open air. 

The humid jungle swallowed him as he sprinted into the coca fields, ripping off his mask as he ran. The plants whipped against his arms and face, their broad leaves slapping him as he pushed through. Ahead, the figure was weaving through the rows, trying to lose him in the green maze. But he was faster, more determined. The chase was on, and he wasn't about to let this one get away.

Adrenaline surged through him like a live wire, sharpening his focus and driving him forward. Every muscle in his body burned with purpose as he tore through the coca plants, his eyes locked on the fleeing figure ahead. Each time the man vanished behind a tree or dipped into a shadow, he picked up the trail, a snapped branch, a footprint in the soft earth, the frantic rustle of leaves. The signs were everywhere, betraying the man's panic. 

He was close. Close enough to hear the man's labored breathing, the occasional stumble as desperation made him careless. The jungle seemed to conspire against the fugitive, its tangled undergrowth and uneven ground slowing him down. 

The gap between them narrowed. He could almost reach out and grab him. Almost. 

The forest suddenly opened up, revealing a rocky ledge that dropped sharply into a crystal-clear pool below, fed by a roaring waterfall that cascaded down the side of the cliff. The fugitive was sprinting toward the edge, clearly intending to leap, but he wasn't fast enough. With a burst of speed, Miguel closed the distance and launched himself at the man, tackling him to the ground just feet from the ledge. 

The two of them tumbled across the rocky surface, a tangle of limbs and grunts. The fugitive thrashed wildly, desperation fueling his strength as he clawed at Miguel's sidearm, trying to wrench it free from its holster. Miguel gritted his teeth, blocking the man's hands with one arm while driving his other fist into the fugitive's ribs. The blow landed with a satisfying thud, knocking the wind out of him. 

Seizing the moment, Miguel flipped the man onto his stomach, pinning him down with a knee to his back. The fugitive struggled, but it was no use. With practiced efficiency, Miguel yanked a zip tie from his belt and secured the man's wrists behind his back. The fight was over. 

Breathing heavily, Miguel stood, dragging the man to his feet. The fugitive glared at him, chest heaving, but there was no defiance left—only defeat. Miguel glanced back at the waterfall, the pool below glistening in the sunlight, and allowed himself a small, grim smile. The mission wasn't finished, but this part, at least, was done.

He marched the man back to the house at gunpoint, his grip firm and unyielding. When they reached the line of zip-tied captives outside, he kicked the back of the fugitive's knee, sending him sprawling into the dirt with the others. The man groaned but didn't resist, his spirit thoroughly broken. 

Miguel stepped inside, confident his team had cleared the building. The ground floor was empty, the air still thick with the acrid smell of gas and sweat. But it was the scene upstairs that stopped him in his tracks. He pushed open the door to the second floor, and his breath caught in his throat. 

Stacks upon stacks of cash were neatly arranged in towering cubes, each one a testament to the scale of the operation. Millions. Maybe tens of millions. The sheer volume was staggering, the kind of money that could change lives—or destroy them. But what struck him next was even more jarring. Several of his own team members were there, their hands busy stuffing wads of cash into their pockets, their gear, anywhere they could fit it. 

The room fell silent as they noticed him standing in the doorway, for a moment, no one moved. The weight of the situation hung heavy in the air, the stacks of money now a symbol of greed and corruption.

The tension in the room was palpable, a silent storm brewing as the men exchanged glances, dangerous, calculating looks that spoke volumes. Miguel didn't need to hear their thoughts to know what was coming. They were weighing their options, figuring out how to silence him, how to make his death look like an accident or a casualty of the mission. But he wasn't about to give them the chance. 

His hand moved subtly, unclipping a flashbang from his vest. Behind his back, he pulled the pin, his fingers gripping the safety handle as he took a deliberate step to the side, edging closer to the window. His voice was calm, almost conversational, as he said, "Lads, let's not do anything stupid."

But they were already moving, hands reaching for weapons, eyes narrowing with intent. In one fluid motion, he hurled the flashbang into the center of the room and launched himself out the window. The glass shattered as he tumbled through, the world spinning for a split second before he hit the thick cushion of coca plants below. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but he rolled with it, scrambling to his feet just as the flashbang detonated upstairs. 

"AHHH FUCK"

The blinding light and deafening roar erupted from the building, followed by shouts of confusion and pain. Shots rang out, bullets slicing through the air, skimming past him as he sprinted into the dense forest. He didn't look back. He couldn't. The adrenaline coursing through his veins drowned out everything but the need to survive. 

"WE CAN'T LET HIM GET AWAY"

The jungle swallowed him whole, its shadows and foliage offering fleeting sanctuary.

They were gaining on him, their footsteps pounding against the earth, their shouts growing louder. He could feel the heat of their pursuit, the danger closing in. And then it happened—a searing pain exploded across his back as a bullet hit him. The impact sent him stumbling, his body rolling across the ground before he forced himself up in one fluid motion, gritting his teeth against the pain. 

He knew where he was going. The irony wasn't lost on him, he had chased a fugitive down this very path not long ago. That man had hesitated, had failed to make the leap. But Miguel wouldn't. He couldn't afford to. 

The rocky ledge came into view, the waterfall roaring beside it, the pool below glistening in the sunlight. Without breaking stride, he hurled himself off the edge, the world spinning as he plummeted toward the water. The impact was cold and jarring, the force of the fall driving him deep beneath the surface. 

He stayed under, his lungs burning as the water muffled the chaos above. The *wizz* of bullets cutting through the air lost their power as they hit the water, their trajectories slowing and veering wildly. They danced above his head like harmless fireflies, but he didn't move. He stayed submerged, his body drifting with the current, his mind focused on survival. 

And so he stayed there 

The seconds dragged on, each one stretching into an eternity. His chest burned, desperate for air, but he forced himself to wait, counting the beats of his heart, listening for any sign of movement above. They were out there, waiting to gun him down the moment he surfaced. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. But as the seconds ticked by, his body began to betray him, trembling violently, his muscles screaming for relief. Just as he felt his resolve waver, a sudden, brilliant blue light enveloped him. The water around him surged, pushed outward as if by an invisible force, forming a shimmering sphere that pulsed with energy.

For a moment, he floated in that strange, otherworldly glow, the world around him shifting and warping as he gasped for air. Then, in a sharp, blinding flash, everything changed. 

The water was gone. The weight of the lake vanished. He found himself standing in a dense forest, the air thick with the scent of earth and pine. Around him, four figures stood in somewhat of a circle