Location: Guantanamo Bay
The moon hung low in the sky, casting pale shadows across the compound. The stillness of the night was shattered when the guard slid open the heavy steel door, and a piercing alarm erupted into the air, its shrill wail reverberating through the darkened halls. Instantly, the prisoners stirred. Their eyes snapped open, faces twisted in anger and frustration.
A cacophony of noise erupted as they began slamming their makeshift weapons—plates, metal cups, anything they could get their hands on—against the cold steel doors of their cells. The sound was deafening, a rhythmic battering that shook the very walls of the prison.
The guards, alert and on edge, reacted immediately. With military precision, they rushed to their positions, electrified batons in hand, ready to assert control. Their boots echoed through the narrow corridors as they pushed forward to contain the brewing chaos, their hands firm on their weapons, their eyes scanning the prisoners, waiting for any sign of rebellion.
But amidst the frenzy, one man stood unmoved.
Owen Vance was a figure of perfect stillness in the middle of the madness. The fury of the prisoners, the thundering of their fists against steel, the frantic movements of the guards—all of it unfolded around him like a storm he had weathered a thousand times before. He didn't flinch, didn't tense. He remained calm, his gaze steady, his posture unyielding.
Vance knew something that no one else in the chaos did: He didn't need to do anything.
The air was thick with tension, a volatile mixture of anger, fear, and impending violence. The prisoners' yells filled the compound, a wild chorus of despair and hatred for the men who had locked them away. The guards, their faces hard with determination, moved swiftly to contain the uprising. Their batons crackled with electricity, their boots pounding against the concrete floors as they stormed the hallways.
But amidst the turmoil, Owen Vance stood silent, his expression unreadable. He was like a predator, waiting for the moment to strike. Cyrus' agents moved like shadows in the chaos, appearing from nowhere, their eyes cold and deadly. They were a network of silent executioners, their presence an iron-clad promise that no one would touch their charge.
A guard lunged at Vance, trying to subdue him with an electrified baton. But before the baton could connect, an agent was on him, breaking his arm with a brutal crack. The guard collapsed in a heap, his cries muffled by the violence around him.
Vance continued walking, his stride calm, deliberate, as though he were strolling through a garden. His eyes remained fixed ahead, unfazed by the screams and the bloodshed around him. Another guard appeared in his path, a fierce glare in his eyes. He swung his baton at Vance's head, but Vance barely flinched, sidestepping with ease. A flash of silver caught the dim light of the hallway.
A guard, desperate and furious, tried to strike Vance with a knife, but Vance's reaction was swift and merciless. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisted it with a sickening snap, and drove his elbow into the man's throat. The guard gurgled, falling to his knees, but Vance was already moving. He pulled the man's knife from his hand and, without a moment's hesitation, slashed it across his neck.
Blood sprayed in a dark arc, staining the concrete floor. The guard's body slumped to the ground, his eyes wide with disbelief as life drained from him.
The chaos escalated.
Prisoners fought with ferocity, bashing the guards with whatever they could find. In the midst of the brawl, Vance's agents moved like ghosts, cutting down anyone who dared approach their leader. A guard ran at Vance from behind, trying to get the drop on him. But Vance's reflexes were faster. He spun around, his hand coming up with the knife in a lethal arc. The guard's chest split open, his blood spilling like a river onto the floor. The man staggered back, a look of shock in his eyes, before crumpling to the ground.
Vance didn't even look at him. He didn't need to.
As the bodies piled up, the air grew thick with the smell of blood and sweat. The sounds of screams, the crack of bone, and the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground created a symphony of violence. Yet Vance was unfazed, his movements fluid and controlled, as though he were walking through a nightmare that didn't touch him. His agents continued their work, cutting down any guard that dared to stand in their way.
A final guard, desperate and cornered, managed to land a hit. A sharp crack echoed as his baton connected with Vance's face, the shock of the blow sending a jolt of pain through his skull. For a moment, everything seemed to stop.
But Vance didn't hesitate.
His hand shot to his belt, pulling out a combat knife with a practiced flick. In a blur of motion, he slashed the man's throat, the blade slicing through flesh with brutal precision. The guard's scream was cut short, blood spurting from the wound as he collapsed onto the ground.
Vance wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, his expression still unreadable. He stood over the fallen body for a moment, as if contemplating the nature of life and death, before stepping over it, walking into the heart of the carnage.
The hall was now a massacre.
Dead and dying guards littered the ground, their blood staining the floor. The prisoners, some still in shock, others cheering at the carnage, looked to Vance like a god among men. His agents, equally as deadly, finished off the last of the resistance. The riot was over, and the world outside would never know the full extent of what had happened behind these walls.
Vance walked out of the chaos, the sound of his boots echoing in the silence that followed. His face was calm, bloodied but unbothered, his movements slow and measured. He was untouchable. His eyes burned with an intensity that promised nothing less than total destruction. There was no fear, no hesitation in him. Just a man, a killer, walking through the ruins of his own making.
The moonlight reflected off the blood that covered the prison floor, casting a pale glow over the field of bodies. Vance moved like a shadow through it all, his footsteps heavy with finality.
He was the storm, the reckoning, the harbinger of death. And nothing—nothing—could stand in his way.
Location: CIA HQ, Langley, Virginia
(Just before reaching the HQ)
There he was.
Resting on the hood of the car — eyes closed, hands folded behind his head. But he wasn't asleep. Never truly asleep.
Just… waiting.
The streets of Langley slid past, city lights flickering across his scarred face like ghosts. Calm. Still.
"Sir," the agent said, voice low. "We're here."
Vance opened his eyes slowly. No tension. No urgency. Just a cold calm.
He looked up at the towering building ahead, then cracked a small grin — half amusement, half menace.
Victory, he thought.
So close he could taste it.
And for a moment… he believed it was his.
He stepped into the headquarters. Silence swallowed the room.
Eyes followed him, but no one dared speak.
An agent approached. "This way."
Vance didn't respond. Just followed. His boots echoed faintly down the long hallway, each step deliberate — controlled violence wrapped in calm.
The agent opened the door.
Smoke curled through the air.
Cyrus Black sat behind a steel desk, the glow of a cigarette lighting up his sharp features. His eyes were unreadable. Calculating.
Vance entered. No words. No hesitation. He dragged a chair out and sat down — relaxed, like he had all the time in the world.
He waited.
The silence thickened.
Smoke filled the space between them.
Two predators.
One storm brewing.
"I want his head," Cyrus said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung in the air like a ghost. "As long as he breathes… our plan keeps bleeding. So tell me, Vance—what's your price?"
Vance didn't blink. His voice was low. Flat.
"I don't want money."
He leaned forward, eyes burning with something ancient and violent.
"I want his head."
A pause.
"Consider it done."
Cyrus grinned — slow and wicked, like a devil closing a deal.
"Good."
Outside, the rotor blades of the chopper thundered to life — cutting through the silence like fate itself.
Destination: The Alps.
Target: Jack Mayors.
One final hunt. The first step to reaching the target was Rake.
Location: The Alps (Coordinates provided by Rake)
The chopper blew the snow. He stepped down, fear spread. Agents in bikes and cars arrived. He asked them to go around in search for Jack. He headed down to the cabin…but Tyler was ready. He was seeing everything…he alarmed Jack who was on his way. But things wont go as planned. Vance broke into the cabin…Snow crunched under Tyler's boots as he stepped into the abandoned outpost — frost clinging to the walls, breath fogging in the air. He barely had time to draw before a shadow blurred across his vision.
Crack!
Vance's boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing against a rusted pillar. He rolled with the impact, came up fast, fists raised.
"Didn't expect you to come alone," Tyler muttered, wiping blood from his lip.
Vance smirked. "Didn't need anyone else."
They collided like freight trains—Tyler swung a hook, Vance ducked and countered with a savage elbow to the ribs. Tyler grunted, grabbed Vance's jacket, and launched him into a crate. Wood splintered.
Vance rose instantly.
Tyler charged—landing a combo of body shots, then an uppercut that staggered the assassin. But Vance recovered like a machine, headbutted Tyler, then caught him in a brutal takedown.
They rolled in the snow, fists flying.
Tyler slammed a knee into Vance's side.
Vance retaliated—drove his thumb into a nerve behind Tyler's collarbone. Rake shouted in pain. Vance twisted, flipped him, and mounted.
Crack! Crack! Two punches—one to the jaw, one to the temple.
Tyler's world tilted.
Vance stood, panting, towering over him. He looked at his bloodied knuckles, then back down at the man who had actually made him sweat.
"You're good," he said coldly. "But not enough."
He raised a knife—then paused. Smirked.
"Jack would want to bury you himself."
**
The Alps were breathless.
The world was painted white—snow clinging to jagged cliffs, trees frozen in place like grave markers, and silence that cut deeper than any blade. Jack Mayors stood at the edge of a narrow mountain path, breathing steadily, eyes scanning the ridgeline ahead. The GPS pinged again. Coordinates. Tyler's last known location.
A cabin lay tucked between two frostbitten pines in the distance—half-buried in snow, quiet, no smoke from the chimney. Jack's instincts scratched at him.
He moved slow, steps calculated, boots crunching lightly in the snow. His black jacket blended into the fog-thin veil of falling flurries. The Ducati rested nearby, parked just off the road. He approached the door, gloved hand tightening on the grip of his sidearm. No signs of life. Just a dead silence…
And then—
Crack.
The sharp echo of a rifle round snapped through the mountainside. The snow behind him exploded, a clean impact mark just inches from his skull. Jack ducked.
Two more rounds followed, fast, precise. He rolled behind a boulder. In the distance—headlights. Two armored SUVs tearing down the slope, barely gripping the icy road, kicking up snow like a storm had been unleashed.
Jack bolted for the Ducati.
Tires roared. Snow churned.
He fired the ignition—engine screamed.
The Ducati leapt forward, tires clawing the ice. He didn't look back. Didn't need to. He could feel them closing in.
The chase had begun.
**
"He's here… isn't he?" Vance's voice cut through the cold like a blade.
Tyler lay broken in the snow, blood painting the white ground beneath him. He coughed, spat crimson, and forced a bitter smile.
Vance crouched beside him, the muzzle of his silenced pistol inches from Tyler's temple.
"Well," he whispered, "I guess it's time the sun finally sets on you, Rake."
He cocked the pistol. Cold metal clicked.
"Any last words?"
Tyler dragged in a breath, blood on his teeth.
"He'll come for your head."
Two shots rang out — sharp, controlled, echoing into the frostbitten silence.
Smoke drifted from the barrel.
Vance stood up. Eyes cold. Unflinching.
He looked down at the body, took the drive saying, "This is mine." then turned and disappeared into the mist, leaving behind only silence and snow.
Alpine Deathrun.
Jack heard it…he rushed.
The bike flew through the switchbacks like a missile—leaning into turns with surgical precision, every movement sharpened by instinct. Jack shifted his weight, dodging patches of black ice, his breath fogging in the air, wind slicing across his face.
Behind him, the SUVs hunted like machines—no hesitation, no errors. One clipped the inside of a turn, skidding but correcting with brutal grace. Their windows were blacked out. No faces. No names. Just shadows with a purpose.
Jack pulled a tight curve—rear tire skidding out, catching grip again.
The first SUV pulled alongside, a rifle barrel emerging from the passenger window. Jack didn't flinch—just leaned, letting the bike hug the curve. The shot went wide. He pulled the Glock from his holster, aimed with one hand while balancing the bike with the other, and fired twice into the wheel arch.
Sparks. Skid. Nothing.
Bulletproof. Reinforced.
The SUV slammed into him from the side. Jack gritted his teeth as the bike wobbled, nearly tipping over the edge of the cliff. He twisted violently, letting the impact carry him. The back of the bike slammed into a snowbank, and with a single move, he used it like a ramp.
Airborne.
The Ducati soared over the road, twisting in the air like a beast unchained, and crashed down ahead with a violent bounce. He didn't stop.
The Kill Within the Steel
Up ahead: a tunnel. Narrow, carved into the side of the mountain. Only one way in, one way out.
He timed it.
Braked.
Turned the bike sideways into the road.
As the second SUV came screaming behind him, he jumped.
Mid-slide, Jack launched himself from the seat—slammed his boots into the door of the SUV, kicked it open with his whole body's force. The wind roared past him. He yanked himself inside mid-movement, landing in the back seat.
Two men turned. No words. No fear. Just motion.
The one in the passenger seat reached for a weapon.
Jack was faster.
He reached up—grabbed the sun visor above the passenger's head. Ripped it down, exposing the metal spine within. In a blink, he snapped it back and drove it into the side of the man's neck. No hesitation. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed the window. The man slumped forward.
The driver didn't flinch.
He swung the vehicle hard left—forcing Jack to slam against the side door. Jack reached forward, wrapped his arm around the dead man's torso, and pulled the body between him and the driver. A human shield.
The driver accelerated, slamming into the bike left behind. Metal screamed. Rubber burned. The tunnel lit up with madness.
Jack planted a boot on the dead man's shoulder, pushed off, and vaulted into the front seat—barely avoiding a knife slash aimed at his chest. The driver struck again. Jack blocked it with his forearm, countered with a savage elbow to the side of the skull.
Crack.
Another hit. The knife dropped. Jack grabbed it mid-air, and with an efficient thrust—finished it.
Silence Again.
Jack sat alone in the SUV now—breathing, stained with blood, the tunnel light slipping across his face as the vehicle skidded to a halt.
The other SUV passed the entrance, looking for him. Missed.
Jack stepped out. Snow fell again. Cold. Quiet.
He looked toward the ridgeline.
They knew he was here.
But Tyler was close.
And whoever these bastards were…
They'd brought the storm to the wrong man.
Jack stepped away from the SUV, the crunch of his boots swallowed by the wind. The cold bit deeper now, but he didn't feel it. His blood was fire.
The second SUV had vanished around the next bend—but it would be back. They didn't lose targets. Not men like him.
He walked toward the cliff edge slowly, his breath calm. Scanned the world below. Nothing but snow, silence, and somewhere out there—death.
He turned.
Just in time.
The second SUV came charging back down the slope, angling for impact. Snow erupted beneath its tires as it barreled down the incline like a tank, engine howling through the whiteout.
Jack sprinted—back to the Ducati. Still alive. Still hot.
He mounted fast—tires screamed against the snow.
The chase was alive again.
Road of Blood
They tore through alpine roads that weren't meant for speed. Hairpin curves, blind turns, sheer drops on one side, jagged cliffs on the other.
Jack zipped between frozen trees, ducking under branches, swerving past fallen rocks. Behind him, the SUV refused to let go. Unrelenting. Calculated.
Bullets pinged off stone beside him—semi-auto bursts coming from the back seat of the SUV now. He didn't flinch. Just leaned low, gritted his teeth, and cut across a logging trail leading deeper into the forest.
Visibility dropped. Trees closed in. It was a hunter's maze now.
Jack gunned the throttle.
The bike roared as he hit a slope—airborne again, gliding over a trench of half-buried logs. He landed hard, skidding, controlling it with raw instinct.
Behind him, the SUV followed—barely clearing the gap.
The Final Blow
Ahead, the trail ended. A steel bridge. Narrow. Frosted over. One lane. No rails.
Jack accelerated, straight into the charge.
He looked back—calm, surgical.
As the SUV entered the bridge, Jack dropped a magnetic mine he'd pulled from under the seat. It clinked once against the metal surface—and stuck.
He was already gone by the time the light blinked red.
Boom.
The entire bridge erupted in flame and twisted steel. The shockwave rolled over the mountaintop, shaking snow from the trees like thunder made physical.
Chunks of burning rubber and glass sprayed into the ravine.
Silence fell again.
Jack's bike rolled to a stop on the other side. He stepped off, looked over the edge.
Nothing left.
No names. No survivors. No glory.
Just the snow swallowing all sins. He holstered the pistol. Checked the clip. One bullet left. Then walked toward the cabin which was broken down.
He walked inwards.
Boots echoing through the hollow silence. Fingers clenched. Heart burning.
But it was too late.
The blow had already been struck.
But something wasn't right.
Jack's eyes scanned Tyler's body — broken, lifeless… but not random.
His hand… it wasn't limp.
It was pointing.
Deliberate.
Jack followed the direction, boots crunching lightly over shattered glass and blood-smeared floor. The wall ahead looked ordinary. Cracked. Aged.
But then… he saw it.
One brick, just slightly out of place.
Subtle.
Jack pressed it.
Click.
A small compartment opened with a quiet hiss, dust puffing out. Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, was a black data drive — marked with a single red dot.
Another secret. Another step in the war.
Jack clenched the drive in his fist.
Tyler's body lay still — blood cooling in the snow, eyes closed like he'd finally found rest.
Jack didn't kneel. Didn't cry.
No mourning. Just a promise.
A silent vow, forged in the shadows of betrayal.
To end Owen Vance.
Not for justice.
For revenge.
No words. No victory.
Just another battle etched in blood.
Another step in a war far from over.
And miles away, Vance smiled.
He knew Jack would come.
Back to where it all began.
Because some wars don't end in treaties.
They end in fire.