Chapter 18: The Minefield

Once Anchor came back, we were all nearly done eating and drinking. I glanced at my watch—less than fifteen minutes since Bolt fired the first shot, and less than seven minutes of actual fighting. Aside from Buzz's leg wound, the rest of us were untouched.

I turned to Castor. "Go swap Nox back in for food, keep your eyes open."

Castor dragged himself out of the water, looking like he'd rather stay swimming.

Anchor, halfway through his rations, nodded at me. "This "mouth"—think I can get him talking? Let me give it a try."

I nodded. "Reaper, Castor—head count, now."

"Hey, friend from Europe, time to clean up the battlefield!" I called.

Reaper and Castor took flashlights and started sweeping for enemy bodies. Our European partner tagged along, stripping the enemy of weapons, ammo, and kit.

I pulled out the map he'd handed me earlier, studying it closely. Extremis HQ had to be just ahead—somewhere along this underground river. That much was fact. But we knew nothing else: no coordinates, no internal layouts, no troop counts, nothing about their firepower or sentries.

Hopefully, Anchor could get answers out of our "guest."

"Twenty-seven bodies," our partner said, stunned, counting the weapons. "Two full squads, thirteen men each, plus a commander. Why the hell would they use thirteen-man squads? Superstition?"

I was thinking the same thing. I started counting up the bodies in my head—trying to estimate just how many real shooters this Extremis outfit had. Intel said the local government didn't even acknowledge the group existed—so who knew how the European negotiated for us to operate here.

But right now, what mattered: "Is Extremis getting covert support? If not, maybe there's only eighty of them. If they're state-sponsored, could be two, three hundred—or more."

Marching into the unknown—intel always classified as "A- "type. A for the most critical missions, "-"for intel accuracy. Ghost Squad always got the top-tier assignments, but never the top-tier intel.

A few minutes later, everyone was re-arming, re-checking, ready to move out.

I called Anchor aside and whispered, "Watch that Eurpean, Protect him at all costs."

He looked puzzled, but nodded.

I brought the European over. "You stay close behind me—relay orders if I need you."

He seemed thrilled—snapped a salute. "Commander, your command just now was…incredible! It was like a ballet, or an action movie—"

"Thanks," I cut him off.

He grinned, a bit embarrassed.

Why keep the European safe? If Extremis really had local government backing, we might be up against a whole nation. With an this European soldier on our side, we'd have at least some bargaining chip.

We moved out in force—no more swimming, we marched along the south bank. Bolt and Nox fanned out as point men, each a thousand yards ahead, scouting both flanks.

The going was easy, no resistance. Around 8 p.m., Bolt came running back. "Up ahead—a minefield!"

I felt…complicated. We were close, and honestly, some part of me hoped we wouldn't find Extremis. Not fear, exactly—but not excitement, either. Just something gnawing inside.

"Nox see the same thing on his side?" I asked.

Bolt wiped sweat off his brow. "Yeah, right along the riverbank."

"Show me," I said.

We walked the next half-mile up, river on one side, dark cliffs looming overhead. Nox was somewhere out in the dark across the water.

"Should we try swimming past the minefield?" Bolt asked.

I studied the rushing current, then the minefield. "Could be even worse in the water. God knows what's under there."

"How the hell do we clear mines in this darkness? Even if we do, how do we mark 'em?" Bolt asked.

I clicked on my flashlight. "Go get everyone."

He nodded and jogged off.

I swept my light along the banks—those enemy squads made it through, so there had to be a way across.

The cliffs were too sheer to scale. Nowhere to sneak past.

The rest of the team arrived fast.

"What kind of mines? Any pattern? How wide's the field?" Anchor asked.

I shook my head. "No idea. Yet."

"Let's start probing. They've gotta be in some kind of pattern, or nobody could get through," Anchor said.

"Fan out. See what you can find. I'll go check on Nox." I dove into the river.

The water was ice-cold, current strong. I tried to touch bottom—no luck. I swept my light along both banks—nothing.

Nox helped haul me out. "You got mines too?"

He nodded. "Same. No pattern."

"Any tracks?" Reaper asked.

Nox shook his head.

"Alright, back across."

Nox and I swam back. I gathered everyone.

"Here's the deal—there's gotta be a hidden path across this minefield. We just haven't found it. We can't go by the riverbank, and underwater could be worse."

Nobody said anything.

"We go back. Find where those 27 guys came out—wherever they left footprints, that's our entrance. That's how we get in."

"Copy that," everyone replied.

So we doubled back, hunting for tracks. When we came through before, we'd kept all lights off for stealth and speed, and probably destroyed any prints that were there.

Everyone was scanning the ground, inch by inch. But it was all rock—hard to spot anything.

Time crawled. My nerves were fraying.

"Bro, maybe they came in through the river?" Buzz called out.

I wasn't sure. Gut said no, but I couldn't rule it out.

"Check it anyway—you and Castor, hit the water."

Buzz and Castor nodded and dove in.

"Maybe we just clear the mines," Anchor said.

"Keep searching. If we strike out, then we try it your way."

"What are you looking for, Specter?"

I was running my light along the cliff face when I heard a soft voice from the ground.

I looked down—my beam caught a pale face, green eyes, sitting there, looking up at me.

I ignored her, kept searching. Snow showed up whenever she wanted—just another hallucination. I still didn't know what she meant to me, or why she haunted me.

I pressed on, and suddenly, I felt…something. A faint warmth.

"Feel hot, don't you?"

I glanced over—Snow was there, perched on the rocks.

"Yeah. It's hot," I muttered.

"What's hot?" Anchor asked, the others pausing.

"You guys feel the temp go up?" I asked.

Nobody answered. I scanned the air, the water, the cliffs.

Buzz and Nox popped their heads up, signaling—all clear, nothing found.

I crouched, inching forward, searching the ground for prints.

But nothing. I doubled back, my gut still itching. At the spot where I felt that faint heat, the sensation was gone—normal now.

I called Buzz over. "Walk this stretch real slow."

Buzz looked confused but did as told. He walked, back and forth, again and again.

Finally he stopped at the "warm" spot. "Right here—something's off."

"What?" I pressed.

"The ground. It's wrong." He knelt, sweeping away the river rocks.

"See this?" he said, holding up a smooth stone. "Where it's buried, it's totally dry."

I checked. He was right—everywhere else, the rocks buried in soil were damp. Here, dry as a bone, top and bottom.

That meant only one thing—these stones weren't part of the riverbank. They'd been laid here—by hand.