• Prologue
    May 8, 2019

    “Predator to Reaper, how copy, over?”
    “This is Reaper; I read you loud and clear send traffic, over?”
    “Roger that, target building is in site just two kilometers from your current position, please advise, over?”
    “Copy that, Predator, target building is in site, proceeding north toward Purple Penguin.”
    “Roger that, I’ll meet you there, out.”

    It was a rainy day in West Virginia. The grass in the green fields was a mixture of mud and rain puddles. Surrounding the fields were large patches of lush forests where birds could be heard and occasionally a deer was spotted. The heavy rain made visibility hard, but this was an advantage to the two FBI agents; with less visibility, it allowed them to reach their objective with less detection. Their mission was simple: recover a pair of stolen files on a small farm in the middle of nowhere that was suspected of being used for drug cartels. Once retrieving the files, secure the “package,” the suspected leader of the drug cartel working there, and evac from the area before the local police could storm the building; it was just another day on the job.
    Reaper began crawling in the wet, muddy grass in his ghillie suit he had made during his first tour of duty in the Marine Corps. He had served as a foot soldier during the war on terror, and again when there was the second Cuban missile crisis in 2016. But all of that changed when first born died in birth. He couldn’t stay in the military; he had to leave to care for his ailing wife. Now he served as an FBI agent on the home front, and this is where he ended up. He crawled slowly toward the dirt crossroad; inch by inch, making sure that none of the guards saw him. Occasionally he would have to stop to let a patrol pass by, or when he got lucky, he’d be able to stealth-assassinate a guard that was taking a smoke; the only trouble Reaper had was the dogs. These dogs weren’t your ordinary house dogs; they were big, mean, and were trained to smell out blood and fear. Reaper hated dogs, and everyone chance he got he killed the vermin. He eventually reached the crossroads after forty-five minutes of agonizing mosquito bites, mud kicked in his face, and dodging huge patrols. He looked through the scope of the same M14 he had kept after being a sniper for the Marines. After twisting a lone guard’s neck, he held his position and waited for his partner, Predator. “This is Reaper to Predator; I’ve reached Purple Penguin, what’s your status, over?” An eerie silence fell over the crossroads. Rain and sweat now rolled down in Reaper’s eyes, and he was getting irritated by his shirt constantly sticking to his chest. “Reaper to Predator; what is your status, please respond, over,” again, no reply. Crap, Reaper thought, what if he got caught?
    Several more minutes went by, and then, a rustle in a nearby bush. Reaper slowly sat up from his position and peered through the rain to make out the figure on the other side of the road.. “Frost,” he whispered; no reply. “Frost,” he said a little louder this time, and still no reply. Reaper brought his rifle up to bear and pointed it toward the bush. Answer the counter sign, he thought, come on...come on....
    “Everest,” Predator said. Reaper let out a sigh of relief and lowered his gun. “Thought I’d have to come looking for you again, what took you so long?”
    “Got caught up in traffic, a lot of patrols in my sector.” Reaper ran across the brown dirt road toward his partner. “Just glad you made it, now to business. The barn isn’t too far from here, just a few more feet of this and we’ll have our feet dry.”
    “Oorah, let’s move out, but let’s not split up this time.”
    “Oorah,” Reaper said, and then the two laid back in the prone position and began their trek toward the barn.