"Owen, I heard from Nikki that you might be running into some trouble over there. Need a hand?"
In the darkness, Owen was on a call with Swagger. Lately, Omega Team—formerly the Rapid Response Team—had been working alongside other units for joint training exercises. Not all six squads, A through F, had been fully formed yet, but A, B, and C were operational and gradually developing combat readiness. Every day, they trained together to build cohesion.
Swagger had just finished a round of exercises and was checking in with Sweetheart, their intelligence liaison, when he happened to hear about Owen's recent unusual behavior. Concerned, he called to see if something was up.
"It's nothing—just a small matter. How's training going on your end?"
This wasn't the kind of situation that warranted deploying Omega, and even if it did, Omega wasn't Owen's private army. If things truly got out of hand, he still had McCall—who, before becoming CIA, had been special forces. Owen wasn't short on firepower.
"Not bad," Swagger replied. "The troops have solid military skills. They just need more time working together. That said, a few guys stood out—I think they might be good candidates for the main team."
"Oh? If they impressed you, I'm curious. Tell me."
Swagger didn't throw around compliments lightly. "There's this guy called 'Diviner.' Came out of GROM, the Polish special ops unit. Simon brought him in. He's a sniper spotter and damn good. We paired up a few times this week—clicked right away. I think he's worth considering."
Owen immediately knew the "Simon" he referred to was Simon Riley—aka Ghost. In the old Rapid Response Team, some called him Ghost, others used his name. Just like Ghost always called Owen "Cowboy," while others stuck to "Owen."
If Swagger spoke that highly of Diviner, he had to be exceptional. Swagger had been a top Marine sniper before retiring—he'd only left after losing his spotter and brother in arms. A good spotter wasn't just a lookout—they were the sniper's eyes, ears, and everything outside the trigger pull. For someone to earn Swagger's praise, their skills and chemistry had to be impeccable.
"Alright. I'll check him out when I get back. If he passes, we'll add him to the core team."
The old Rapid Response Team hadn't included a designated spotter because their numbers were so small. Swagger had always worked alone. But now that they had the resources, it made sense to build out a full team properly.
"There's another one," Swagger continued. "Codename 'Night Owl.' Support gunner for Bravo Team. Simon and the others speak highly of him."
"Sounds like you've been scooping up real talent lately," Owen quipped, intrigued. If Ghost and the other veterans were vouching for this Night Owl guy, he must be something special. Owen made a mental note to schedule evaluations for both new candidates once he returned.
Suddenly, in the darkness of the mountain road ahead, headlights flared.
Owen's expression sharpened. "Alright, gotta go. Show's about to start."
"Got it. Catch you later," Swagger replied, knowing Owen was about to engage in the real business.
Owen picked up his binoculars and peered toward the source of the lights.
He was positioned on a slope overlooking "Crocodile" Billy's shipyard repair facility. Billy had built it far out on the edge of Reville—go a few more miles and you'd be outside town limits. Perfect for drug processing.
Owen had learned the location easily enough and had arrived early to set up an ambush.
There was only one road in or out, so all he had to do was wait. Now, down the winding highway, a convoy of vehicles approached. Judging from the lights, they had both cars and motorcycles—and quite a few people.
He scanned the terrain again. The place was remote—perfect. No one in town would hear a firefight out here.
…
Outside the shipyard, Billy and his two thugs waited nervously at the front gate. These weren't just any gangsters. These were Wanderers—once the underground kings of New Orleans. Even if they'd lost some power since, they were still way above Billy's weight class.
The convoy rolled up, with motorcycles in front and back, cars and pickups in the middle. They stopped just ahead, headlights glaring into Billy's face, blinding him.
"Hey, Keel! This is a bit much, don't you think?" Billy shouted, shielding his eyes. He thought he recognized Keel on one of the lead bikes.
It was Keel—but he didn't respond. Instead, he jogged over to one of the cars and spoke to someone through the window. "Boss, that's him. That's the mutt Billy."
A moment later, the headlights switched to low beams, revealing a large man with a thick beard stepping out of the vehicle, moving with deliberate, heavy strides.
"Where is he?" the bearded man asked in a gravelly voice. "Take us to him."
Billy's face twitched. "No—I can't go. I need an alibi. I'll give you the address and you can handle it yourselves. But I suggest you take him back to New Orleans before doing anything. Stirring up trouble here wouldn't be wise—"
"Hahahaha!"
The whole group burst into laughter. To them, Billy was just a bumpkin thug trying to play in the big leagues. What could this town's law enforcement possibly do? Even if the sheriff showed up, they didn't care.
"Fine," said the bearded man. "Give us the address. We'll handle it. And don't worry—we'll take care of that other family you mentioned too. As for Brock… stay out of it. He's not your problem."
Billy nodded, though regret was already gnawing at him. The Wanderers were a bit too strong for comfort. He was starting to worry they might decide to kill him afterward to tie up loose ends.
But before he could say another word—BANG.
A single gunshot rang out. Billy's head snapped back, a hole between his eyes, and he crumpled to the ground.
"F**K—WHAT THE HELL?!"
"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"
"IT'S AN AMBUSH!"
Panic exploded among the Wanderers.
Another burst of automatic fire followed—more bodies dropped.
"TURN OFF THE LIGHTS! GET TO THE BUILDINGS!" someone shouted as the chaos unfolded.
The show had begun.
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