Luca deftly dodged Corondo's grip.
He pulled out the golden revolver that Valentino had given him, jumped nimbly from the plane, and glared stubbornly at Corondo.
"Good, you're a man," Corondo said coldly. "But remember this, Luca—never let the boss's cause be jeopardized because you're taken hostage. If you ever let yourself be captured, I'll have someone kill you."
A deadly glint flickered in Corondo's eyes as he locked gazes with Luca.
If Luca's eyes showed even the slightest trace of fear, Corondo would have stuffed him back into the helicopter without a word.
But his student didn't disappoint him. Luca met his murderous gaze steadily and replied in a calm voice,
"Understood."
Corondo smiled with satisfaction, patted Luca's shoulder, and said,
"Good kid. You've made my efforts worthwhile. Come with me."
Luca blinked in confusion.
"Go where? Aren't we defending our position?"
"The first rule of the special forces: offense is the best defense.
Besides, United Fruit's troops are trash."
United Fruit's private army in Central America hid within the region's vast banana and fruit plantations, helping local landowners suppress the laborers—men called "employees" but treated as slaves.
Some plantations were directly owned by United Fruit, where the "workers" were outright slaves. The company's main armed forces were stationed there.
Now, the entire force—three thousand men—had gathered in United Fruit's largest plantation in British Honduras.
The Central American operations were no longer led by the Dulles brothers, who had voiced dissent in the company boardroom. Their deputy, Bob Coste, had become the new regional chief.
At that moment, he turned to the American military advisor, Major René Bristone.
"Major, this is the entirety of United Fruit's armed strength in Central America."
René's adjutant scoffed.
"This is your so-called elite army that's supposed to dominate Central America? Those men over there are carrying Enfield 1853s! That's Civil War-era gear! I'm not even sure those things can still fire. They belong in a museum, not a battlefield."
Bob, however, showed no anger. He spoke evenly:
"It doesn't matter whether the weapons are old or functional. As long as the laborers in these plantations believe they can fire, that's enough."
René's tone grew sharper.
"But we're not fighting peasants this time. We're up against a company with real military blood.
Valentino was once a special forces commander in the Pacific—the kind that made people tremble at the mere mention of his name. His trusted lieutenant, Corondo, commands the Central American branch.
Do you think a man like that wouldn't have trained an elite force to guard his business interests?"
Bob shrugged.
"You've brought weapons, haven't you? Hand them out. Plenty of these men know how to shoot."
René's eyes narrowed.
"Before I came, headquarters told me that United Fruit allocates a million dollars every year for weapons and training in Central America. So tell me—where did that money go?
And don't you dare tell me it trained this bunch of toothless scarecrows. Look at those five men on the far west line—I doubt they could muster a full set of teeth between them! I'd be more worried that if we gave them modern weapons, they'd kill themselves before ever firing at the enemy!"
Bob didn't flinch at René's outrage. He sighed and said,
"No need to threaten me. That million? Our Central American office never saw a dime of it. And I don't care whose pocket it went into.
We're middle managers—paid to keep the business running. War is for the big shots back home. The profits won't reach us anyway.
My orders were simple: gather these troops and transfer command to you. That's my last task for United Fruit. I have a family—a wife and children. I'm staying far away from war.
I've already submitted my resignation. So, Major, this mess is yours now.
Oh, and one more thing—Central American governments have notified us that since both Valentino Company and United Fruit are American corporations, they'll support neither side."
With that, Bob dusted himself off, got in his car, and drove away.
René's adjutant looked at him helplessly.
"Sir, what now? You're not seriously thinking of leading this group of geriatrics and cripples against that Pacific demon, are you? We'll be lucky to get out alive."
Before René could respond, a strange whirring sound echoed nearby—not like gunfire, but more like the spinning blades of a motorboat.
As a seasoned CIA operative, René felt an eerie familiarity. His mind raced, and suddenly—he remembered.
Helicopters.
Oh no.
He turned toward the sound, praying silently that he was wrong.
But at the far edge of the horizon, seven or eight black specks were rapidly approaching.
"What's that?" his adjutant gasped.
"Helicopters," René said, voice trembling. "Intel showed that Valentino acquired Hisk Aircraft and Heeler Aviation—both companies specializing in helicopter design."
As the aircraft drew nearer, the machine guns slung under them glinting in the light, René murmured bitterly,
"Forget about surviving an assault on Valentino's company. We should be worrying about surviving this."
When the guns began to fire, the battle was already over.
The three thousand United Fruit troops had never even seen a luxury car, much less a helicopter.
At the first deafening roar, they screamed "Monsters!" and scattered like panicked birds.
Luca, rummaging through the crates of American-supplied weapons, muttered dryly,
"So this is war? It's over before I even fired a shot. You sent me here for this?"
Corondo scratched his head, equally baffled. He hadn't expected United Fruit's much-feared Central American force to collapse so easily.
Looking north, he murmured,
"I wonder how the fight in America is going… We're nearly done here.
Luca, stay behind to secure the Valentino estates. I'm heading back to the States."
Luca's eyes narrowed.
"You're doing something big—and leaving me out?"
"This one's not for you, Luca," Corondo said, chambering a round in his pistol. "Stay alert here."
Ignoring the pleading eyes of René and his adjutant, Corondo fired twice—bang, bang.
The second rule of the special forces: never show mercy to the enemy.
United States, Blue Ridge Mountains near Lynchburg.
A dark autumn night cloaked the forest in pitch-black.
Martin Remington of the DuPont family's private army lowered his night-vision scope—about the size of a small cake—and whispered to the man beside him, Rubin Eriksen, a paratrooper recently transferred from the Korean Peninsula.
"We've confirmed the sentry positions and headcount. No change from our previous recon. Everyone's in camp—except those sent to guard the world's richest man."
Rubin Eriksen was a decorated paratrooper from the European front—a man who once single-handedly wiped out an enemy company deep behind their lines.
He never respected this so-called "Pacific Devil" named Leo Valentino. In fact, he'd been itching to face him in combat.
But the war ended too soon.
Afterward, suffering from PTSD, Rubin chose not to escape war—but to embrace it. He requested deployment to the Far East, predicting another conflict there. He was right.
Now, he finally had a chance to return home—and to challenge the legendary commander himself.
As for legality? Rubin didn't care. He'd stopped valuing his own life long ago.
He also held the DuPont family's militia in contempt. To him, men who'd never seen blood weren't soldiers—they were sheep. And a lion doesn't hunt with sheep.
"You don't need to get involved," Rubin said coolly. "We'll handle this."
"You don't need support?" Martin asked.
"Just guard the perimeter. Inside, you'd only get in the way."
Martin frowned, but shrugged.
"Fine. Not like I'm eager to die. Good luck, then."
Rubin grinned. "We won't need luck.
Once we finish here, I'll deal with the Pacific King himself."
"Yeah, sure—keep dreaming," Martin muttered as Rubin vanished into the darkness.
As arrogant as Rubin was, Martin still thought: Compared to Leo Valentino, you're a child playing soldier.
"Let's move out," he told his men. "Since those hotshots don't need us, we'll head to the Lynchburg Hotel. That's where the real fight will be."
He waited for a reply—but heard none.
Sensing danger, Martin spun around—only to see a masked figure, a gleaming knife, and the last words he ever heard:
"Hello."
The last thought that crossed his mind was trap.
Unaware of the annihilation of the rear recon unit, Rubin and his hundred elite soldiers crept closer to the camp from four directions.
They'd already taken out thirteen known sentries—and four more hidden ones.
It was deep night now.
According to intel, the five hundred men in camp should be fast asleep.
That was why Rubin dared to attack with just a hundred men.
He and his deputy silently eliminated the two sentries on the watchtowers. Then, gazing at the rows of barracks, Rubin smiled grimly.
Night was the best time to harvest lives.
He waved his hand. The men split into four squads of twenty-five, each heading for a barrack door.
The doors were locked from the inside. Forced entry was the only option.
Rubin didn't hesitate—he ordered them to breach.
As the doors burst open, grenades flew inside—four barracks at once.
The explosions tore through the camp like thunder, flipping entire buildings.
Rubin's grin widened in the firelight. No one could survive blasts like that.
But as he prepared to regroup and march toward the Lynchburg Hotel, he frowned.
The barracks had been obliterated—yet no bodies, not even scraps of flesh, were thrown out.
That made no sense. The men had gone inside. Where were they?
Then, from the darkness, came a faint whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
Instinct kicked in before thought. Rubin dove flat to the ground—
—and only then did his brain register the sound.
M20 rocket launchers. U.S. military standard issue.
The second volley hit before he could curse. Explosions thundered through the forest—brighter, louder than the grenade blasts.
The very walls they'd climbed over became their coffins.
On the surrounding ridges, rocket tails streaked like falling stars.
Rubin had survived the first wave only by instinct—but under such relentless firepower, there was no escape.
At the same time, similar events unfolded—
In Nevada's Lake Tahoe.
In California's Menlo Park, at the Valentino Estate.
In the outskirts of Miami, Florida.
And at Lynchburg's Valentino Hotel—
Leo stood on the balcony of his suite, red wine in hand, watching the distant mountains erupt with light.
Moments later, came a knock.
It was Joseph. He didn't enter, only called through the door:
"Boss, it's done. I'm going to finish the last one."
Then his footsteps faded down the hall.
Inside, three women stirred awake from the explosions, gazing at Leo in confusion.
Grace murmured sleepily,
"What's… done?"
Leo smiled faintly.
"Nothing. Since you're all awake—let's continue."
He dropped his towel and dove back into the warmth of their waiting bodies.