You are late

The humid night air hung heavy over the jungle, the scent of metal and blood thick in every breath. The reinforced squadron, twenty men strong, moved in silence—predators in the dark. Only the low hum of their night vision goggles accompanied them as they neared the last known coordinates of the supply camp.

Captain Alvarez raised a clenched fist. The line of soldiers behind him froze immediately. He crouched, scanning the treeline ahead. A clearing. Still. Quiet. Too quiet.

He motioned with two fingers—advance, weapons ready.

The squad moved like shadows, fanning out with caution honed through months of combat. As they approached the clearing, the bodies came into view—first one, then another, and another. Limbs at unnatural angles. Faces frozen in terror. Pools of blood soaked the earth, glistening black in the faint moonlight.

"Targets down," murmured Sergeant Cruz, his voice a whisper in the comms. "But… these aren't ours."

Alvarez knelt beside one of the fallen. A rebel fighter, judging by the uniform and insignia. His throat had been cut—one smooth, clean slash. The kind of cut made with surgical precision, not in the heat of battle.

Then they saw the rest. A dozen bodies scattered in a half-moon pattern across the forest floor. No bullet holes. No signs of a firefight.

All killed in silence.

"Jesus…" whispered Private Ramos. "What the hell did this?"

No one answered. They didn't need to. The silence spoke volumes.

They pushed forward, adrenaline spiking, nerves stretched tight. The closer they got to the supply camp, the heavier the air became, as if the forest itself mourned what had happened here.

The outer perimeter of the camp came into view—barbed wire torn apart, sandbags overturned, crates spilled and broken. And more bodies. Dozens more. Some were friendly, identifiable by their uniforms. Their bodies were riddled with bullet wounds. They had fought—died defending the camp.

But the others... The rebels had died differently.

Their bodies were found farther from the defenders—many with the same precise throat slashes. Some had fallen mid-step, weapons still raised. Others looked like they had tried to flee, only to be cut down in motion.

Captain Alvarez stopped at the edge of the camp and scanned the field of death.

"There's a pattern," he muttered. "Every enemy is at least ten feet away from an allied corpse. Someone hunted them after the squad fell."

"Or during," Cruz added grimly. "Someone moved through the battlefield like a ghost."

As the squad entered the ruined camp, their boots squelched in the blood-soaked dirt. The lights were all dead, the generators either disabled or destroyed. In the green glow of their goggles, every shadow felt like it could come alive at any moment.

Then came the real horror.

Inside the inner perimeter—blind spots behind tents, corners shielded by crates—more bodies waited. The kills were even more surgical here. Single slashes. A stab to the heart. One rebel had both wrists severed, his weapon dropped feet away. Another was slumped against the comms post, eyes wide open, tongue protruding from a crushed windpipe.

"What kind of monster did this?" asked Yates, voice cracking.

"Not a monster," Alvarez said quietly. "A professional."

They reached the central storage area where the main supplies were stacked. Here, the bodies piled higher. A desperate last stand. Signs of struggle were everywhere—bullet casings, blood trails, shattered crates.

And yet… none of the supply crates were missing.

Alvarez blinked. That didn't make sense.

"They didn't take anything…" he said aloud.

"Sir," one of the scouts called from behind a stack of crates. "Movement."

In an instant, rifles turned, safeties clicked off. The soldiers formed a defensive arc, eyes locked on the shadows.

Then something moved. A blur. Silent. Effortless.

Before anyone could react, the figure stood behind Captain Alvarez, one arm raised, the edge of a bloodied combat knife glinting just beside his neck.

Every weapon turned.

"Don't," came a calm, hoarse voice. "You're late."

The squad froze, every finger tense on the trigger.

The figure's breath was ragged. Blood clung to every inch of his body—his uniform torn, his boots soaked. But his eyes… they were focused. Cold. The eyes of a man who had stared into hell and walked back out.

"The supply squad was almost wiped out," he rasped. "I alone survived. I alone hunted the rebels."

A pause. No one dared speak.

"Mission complete," he finished. "Requesting first aid… from medic unit…"

Then, like a statue collapsing, he dropped. No resistance. Just a lifeless fall onto the blood-drenched earth.

"Medic!" Alvarez barked, snapping out of his daze.

The squad moved in. Carefully. Cautiously. A few still had their rifles up. This could be a trick. But the medic was already at the fallen man's side, checking his pulse, prying open his vest.

"He's alive," she confirmed, voice filled with disbelief. "Barely. Stab wounds… multiple lacerations… probably hasn't eaten in days. He's running on fumes."

"He did this running on fumes?" Ramos muttered, eyes darting around the carnage.

Alvarez knelt beside the man, looking closely for the first time. He didn't recognize him from the camp registry. But the markings on his uniform were standard. Supply division. Rear echelon.

No rear unit soldier was trained for this.

"What's his name?" he asked.

The medic checked the torn ID tag still hanging from the chest rig. "John Wayne."

"Wayne?" Alvarez frowned. "Wasn't he the kid the general assigned to the rear crew last week? Said something about good scores on simulations?"

"I guess he wasn't just good," muttered Cruz. "He was lethal."

Alvarez stared at the bloodied man lying unconscious before him. He didn't look like much—just another soldier. But the battlefield told a different story.

This wasn't a defense. It was a hunt.

Whoever this John Wayne was, he hadn't just survived. He had slaughtered an entire rebel ambush force, by himself, using nothing but his wits, his blade, and an iron will to live.

And he'd won.

The camp was drenched in death, but it still stood. The supplies were untouched. Every single crate accounted for.

"You're telling me this was one man?" Yates said quietly. "One guy did all of this?"

Nobody answered. They didn't need to.

As the medics lifted Wayne onto a stretcher, the squad gave him space, half in reverence, half in fear. The silence stretched long into the night as the reinforcements loaded the remaining supplies and prepared to extract.

As they retreated into the jungle, back toward the forward operations base, Alvarez found himself glancing over his shoulder more than once—not because of fear of the enemy…

But fear that something like him might still be watching.

The evac helicopter thundered overhead just before dawn, its blades scattering leaves and dust as it touched down. The squad loaded the wounded first—Wayne among them, barely conscious but stable. His body told a story of a hundred fights in one night. His mind? That was still a mystery.

Before the doors shut, Alvarez stepped in beside him.

Wayne's eyes cracked open. Just a sliver.

"You did all that alone?" Alvarez asked.

Wayne's lips twitched. Almost a smile.

"No choice," he whispered. "Too slow."

Then he passed out again.

The doors slammed shut. The bird lifted off.

As the sun finally rose over the jungle canopy, casting golden light on the battlefield far below, the soldiers left behind stood in solemn silence, staring at the aftermath.

They had come to reinforce a camp.

They found a legend.