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FLEETWOOD

IN THE YEAR OF 1957, DURING US CONFLICTS IN VIETNAM, THE FLEETWOOD GROUP WAS CREATED. THE AIM OF THE ORGANISATION WAS TO PROVIDE A CLANDESTINE SPECIAL OPERATIVE GROUP WHO WERE TRAINED IN TACKLING VARIOUS ISSUES AND INVESTIGATIONS. THE ORGANISATION WAS DIVIDED INTO 6 GROUPS OF 25 BASED WITHIN THE UNITED STATES.

THE HAWKS, FALCONS, EAGLES, OWLS, CROWS AND BLUEJAYS.

THE HAWKS, FALCONS AND EAGLES WERE FOCUSED AROUND CARRYING OUT COMBAT BASED MISSIONS. THE REMAINDER WERE TASKED WITH THE INTEL; ORGANISING MISSIONS AND GAINING INFORMATION WITHIN INVESTIGATIONS.

THE FLEETWOOD ORGANISATION HAS WORKED ALONGSIDE THE FBI, THE MILITARY, AND ALSO GOVERNMENTS IN NEIGHBOURING COUNTRIES TO HELP TACKLE ISSUES SUCH AS TRAFFICKING, DRUG RELATED CRIMES AND TERRORISM, AS WELL AS CARRYING OUT TARGETED KILLINGS. FOR THIS REASON, THEY WERE GRANTED PERMISSION BY THE GOVERNMENTS TO SET BASES IN NEIGHBOURING COUNTRIES. 85% OF THE MISSIONS CARRIED OUT SINCE 1957 HAVE BEEN DEEMED SUCCESSFUL. IF A MISSION HAS GONE WRONG, HOWEVER, THE GOVERNMENT DENIES ALL INVOLVEMENT TO MAINTAIN THE CONFIDENTIALITY.

THE ORGANISATION STILL STANDS TO THIS DAY, 45 YEARS ON.

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LEO

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08/05/2002 - 6pm

Sonora, Mexico

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This is just my average day in the office.

"Evacuation complete, Leo. Have you got eyes on the target?" My partner's strained voice crackles through the comms, cutting through the sound of consistent gunfire echoing around this decaying mansion.

"Yeah, I've got my eyes on him alright. 'Bastards hiding behind a desk." I murmur back to Carlos through the radio; index finger trained on the trigger, right side pressing against the pillar I'm using to shield myself. The warm spew of my blood trickling down my abdomen isn't enough to distract me from completing this mission.

Our mission is to kill off a sex trafficker, Eduardo Hernanza. We got word of his sex-ring 'El Lujuria' from the FBI last month. No matter how tempting it is to go straight in for the kill, you can't underestimate the defences these bastards have up.

They've been taking young, unsuspecting girls into captivity. Most of them are tourists who've taken the wrong route; hung out in the wrong area. Next thing they know, they're being drugged and auctioned off to some high rank cartel members.

This mansion is where they've been keeping them before they are 'sold'. It's unsuspecting from the outside. You'd think it was simply abandoned at some time in the 80s, hidden in the midst of a woodland area.

We've come in as a squad of four; me, and officers Tyrese Devlin, Thomas Lowe and Carlos Richards.

Our two drivers, Marcus and Seb are parked about 5 minutes southwest from our location. Our medics, Rosa and Elijah are also always in tow.

Devlin and Lowe have the task of securing the girls they discover and evacuating them before all hell breaks loose.

Once we've got the all clear from their side, it's down to me and Richards to finish off the job for good. Although, now that the whole of Hernanza's gang knows they're being apprehended; it's going to be a little more difficult.

Hernanza himself, on the other hand, is a fucking pussy in the face of danger. The way he's hiding behind that desk like a scared puppy is proving what a damn coward he really is.

"Stay in your position. I'll cover you." Carlos' voice crackles through again. In my peripheral, I can see him stealthily making his way across the mezzanine; avoiding incoming gunfire and returning it.

My gaze never strays fully from our target.

For the four years me and Carlos Richards have co-captained the Hawk team; this is the way our missions have always been. It's always narrowed down to us two when the finale of the mission is closing in on us. One of us covers, the other takes out the target.

He reaches my side unscathed and crouches down behind the pillar with me. Shots fire all around us; blasting out the curved edges of the column.

"You mapped a way out?" I question, keeping my scope leaning steadily against the edge of the pillar.

"Lowe said there's a window on the third floor. Second room on the right. Ladder leads down to the ground. They've secured the girls in Seb's van and he's driving them to the safe-point, Elijah is with them. Marcus' van is still in the same location southwest, that's our getaway."

As he's muttering the getaway plan; his attention shifts to the train of blood dripping down the side of my abdomen. "Fuck, you hit?" He grimaces, looking back down his scope.

"Not a bullet. Ka-Bar. Luckily the bastard stabbed me right in my tactical vest; took the brunt of the force."

Carlos sighs and shakes his head. "Nothing lucky about getting stabbed, Leo," he mumbles, placing his finger in position over the trigger. "I'm waiting for that prick to stick his head up from behind that desk and make a run for it. You ready to cover me?"

"Don't ask such stupid questions." A grin creeps across my lips as I lower my eyes to the modified scope. Carlos swiftly shuffles to a different position and waits for our target to make a wrong move.

My focus is on taking down as many of his allies possible. Drawing attention to myself takes the focus off of Carlos, giving him a golden opportunity to end this mission. Bullets fly out of my assault rifle with precision; the noise deafening to anyone who isn't used to this line of work.

Dipping back behind the pillar and reloading my gun, I can see a tuft of Eduardo Hernanza's black hair; peeking out from behind the desk on the ground floor as though he's debating what to do.

"His head is in sight, Carlos. Take the shot!"

With most of Hernanza's allies cleaned out from the lower floor; I wait in anticipation to see Carlos' bullet hit our target square through his forehead.

Nothing happens.

This is taking much longer than usual; and time isn't a luxury we can afford in these situations.

"Carlos! The fuck are you waiting for? Take the fucking shot!" I hiss at him, peeling my eyes away from my scope to see what the problem is. The problem I am faced with is one that I was not anticipating in the slightest.

His helmet is cracked and the back half of his brain is splattered out on the wooden floor behind us. His body, no longer supported by the pillar; tips backwards into the gory mess. Every memory he had was now nothing more than a bloodied pile of pink mush.

Just across the mezzanine is a member of Hernanza's gang, reloading the shotgun in his hand. I throw myself sideways as he fires at me, grabbing Carlos' rifle from his lifeless hands as I do so. My aim naturally finds it's way to his head as I pulled the trigger, sending him crumpling to the ground before he could take a second shot.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

My focus returns to Eduardo, who is now making a run for it below. Positioning the rifle as efficiently as possible, I take a few shots. One or two definitely hit his head as he skids to the floor, motionless.

Turning back to look at Carlos' corpse, my jaw clenches, chest tightens. The blood pouring out of my abdomen seems to intensify as I can practically hear my pulse racing in my ears. I had him covered. I was meant to have him covered.

Fuck. Fuck. This is my fucking fault.

Chaos erupts on the lower floor as more of Hernanza's group arrives and discover him on the floor with his brains rearranged. My own brain is screaming at me to retreat as soon as fucking possible. Sweat is pouring down the back of my neck as I look at Carlos' dead body. There is no way of me getting his body out of here. In a final desperate attempt, I lean down and snap the dog tag from his neck.

Blood, mixed with adrenaline, is rushing through every single inch of my body; now gushing out of my abdomen and down my leg. With one hand plugging my stab wound, the other is using Carlos' rifle as a goddamn walking stick. I approach a staircase on my right, my feet practically limping ahead of me.

"Window on the third floor. Second room on the right. Ladder leads down to the ground."

Carlos' escape route rings through my mind as I sprint with my best effort up to the third floor; hot blood now spilling down my fingers. This stab wound is a whole lot deeper than I thought, it pierced right through my vest.

The only inches of light in the corridor are through the cracks of boarded up windows. The second room on the right is guarded by an rickety, wooden door that I manage to splinter with a shove of my shoulder. There's only one window in the room, accompanied by a bed with a corpse rotting in it. Somebody we didn't save in time.

Using the butt of the rifle to crack down on the windows wooden panels; I get a glimpse of the greenery outside. A sharp contrast to this hellhole.

With another whack, the glass shatters. Behind me, I can hear voices echoing through the labyrinthian corridors of the mansion. The ladder hangs just outside the window; and I waste absolutely no fucking time sailing down it.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, I'm running with a limp again. Glancing down at my compass, I'm heading southwest into the greenery like Carlos said.

This is not normally how my missions play out. I'm not usually sprinting away. I'm not usually leaving behind my partner. I'm not usually sweating from every single pore on my body and panting like a dog.

This assignment was supposed to be a walk in the park compared to some of the missions I've been on.

I don't know how long I've been sprinting until a familiar black SUV appears into my line of vision. Marcus, our driver, sees me coming and opens the door immediately for me to climb into the backseat. Rosa, our medic, doesn't hesitate to help me rip off my tactical vest so she can assess the damage to my abdomen.

"Drive Marcus, just fucking drive!" I yell at him through gritted teeth. His eyes are like saucers; looking at me like I've just said the most obscene comment known to man.

"But, Richards..?" His mumble comes out laced with complete disbelief. Even Rosa stops tending my wound for a second too look up at me. My head shakes slowly. They both know exactly what that means.

Without a word, Marcus presses his foot down on the accelerator.

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09/05/2002 - 2pm

Phoenix, Arizona

Redhawk Base

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Commander North picks up Carlos' dog tag that I laid out in front of him. His hands suddenly slam down on the desk; sending his pens jumping a little from the impact. His gaze, cold enough to freeze lava, eventually rests on my face.

If looks could kill, I'd be in a similar position to Carlos right now.

"You are sitting here, telling me we lost Officer Richards on that mission? Don't fuck around with me, Leo." He snarls at me, his signature purple, jagged vein bulging above his eyebrow in frustration.

"Why would I fuck around about my co-captain dying?" My voice comes out a little more matter-of-fact than intended, staring at my Commander with a blank expression on my face. In response, he heaves out a sigh, pinching the space between his eyebrows and shaking his head.

It takes him a few seconds to compose himself before looking up at me again.

"You know better than anyone how valuable Carlos Richards was to the Hawks. Jesus fucking Christ, he managed to assassinate Taro Vasquelez on a solo, and now he's gone down with a single fucking shot?"

He hisses; unable to mask his growing frustration, although he's right. Alongside myself, Carlos was the best officer in the Hawk group. The pair of us worked seamlessly together for years. Going through the archives of successful missions from 1998-2002; we can claim the majority of them as our own.

As fucked off as I am, Richards was going to die at some point. Just like I am. Working within the high stakes of a special op group; there's no way you're going to come back alive from every mission until you retire. Especially not when you're assigned to the same degree of missions as me and Carlos have been.

Despite all this, the guilt is still wrenching in my chest. He had been like a brother in some strange way.

The Hawk squad is one of 6 sister special-op groups. We're run by an organisation called 'Fleetwood'. The Hawks (my squad) are one of the three combat groups. We tend to get dealt the dirtiest hand of missions. Twenty-five officers pair group. Two captains, one Commander.

It's not uncommon for the Commander's to swap and change ops between groups depending on the mission. It's also not uncommon for ops to die on certain missions. With us being a completely confidential organisation, our families can't even know exactly what happened. As fucked up as it sounds; when we join the group, we're all assigned a 'cause of death'.

If we get killed, our 'cause of death' is what our families are informed. My 'cause of death' is a fatal car crash in Queensland; since that's where my folks think I am right now. If they have any idea that I'm working as a special op and not 'travelling and gaining military experience' like they think I am, my Mom will flatline.

Basically, to work in our group, you either have to have no will to live, or be a suicidal motherfucker. I, for one reason, have no real will to live. I'm not suicidal, but the thought of my own death has never particularly worried me.

How some people get a rush from snorting coke, I get a rush when I'm fighting for my life. I think when you've worked with us for that long, you learn to stop worrying so much about dying. The more you overthink, the less likely you are to get the job done.

Commander North finally calms down from his breakdown, resting one of his worn down hands; that have carried out God knows how many assassinations, on the desk before looking up at me yet again.

"I need to be alone to think for a little while, Leo. Go and take some time to recover from that stab wound. I'm devastated about Richards, yet I'm pleased you were all able to complete the mission. The girls you rescued have been handed over to the FBI. They're helping to track down their families."

After giving him a quick nod, my hand extends towards the doorknob.

"Leo, wait-"

My head snaps back around quickly. North walks around his desk and takes my wrist with his aging hand. Opening my hand up in a natural reaction, he lowers down Richards' dog tag into my palm.

"We can't give it to his family because of the confidentiality. He would have wanted you to keep it."

With an appreciative nod; I close my fingers around the metal chain and walk outside.

The claustrophobic heat of the suns rays hit me like I've stepped off of a plane in Kandahar. As refreshing as it is to be back in a familiar place that isn't a labyrinth littered with lawbreakers; it would be a little more rejuvenating if my partner hadn't fucking died.

"Leo?"

Hearing my name pulls me out of my thoughts; head swivelling to see the familiar, beaming face of Jed Nolan. Jed is a blonde, blue eyed special-op with the physique of a ballet dancer. He joined when I was 23, four years ago. Although he looks unsuspecting, he can disarm an explosive faster than anyone I've ever seen.

"What a surprise, I thought you were off duty today. Weren't you meant to be busy getting it on with that barmaid from the local town?" I grinned at him.

Ops have to have fun too, y'know? Relieves the stress a little.

"I already did, Commander called me on duty." He replies with a dramatic sigh, returning my gaze with an inquisitive expression and tilting his head like a dog. "What about you? I thought you were still 'gonna be out on that mission with Richards and the others." He questions. My reply is a sigh before I say anything.

"Yeah, I was. We landed back this morning."

"So, where's Richards? I've seen the others. Haven't seen him around yet."

Jed's head swivels around like he's expecting to see Carlos emerge from the shrubbery that surrounds our base. His confused gaze rests back on me.

"Dead." The word drops off of the end of my tongue like a weight. 'Richards' and 'dead' don't sound right together.

I swear to God this man's eyes pop out of their sockets. He hangs his head low in respect, continuing to trudge alongside me.

"Holy shit.." He murmurs after a minutes silence. "I just had it in my head that Richards was practically invincible, didn't see him going out so suddenly; especially on a mission that would've usually been a walk in the park for you guys."

My head moves up and down in agreement. He's right, Richards did seem invincible. Then again, I guess nobody actually is; no matter how much they seem it. I pat him on the shoulder, patience wearing thin because of this whole mess of a situation.

"Yeah, I know bud. I'll see you later."

Before he gets the chance to reply, I stride off and towards my cabin; with no intention of speaking to anyone else. Leaning against the door once I'm inside; a long, exasperated sigh escapes my lips.

My radio is the only thing drowning out the thoughts I have. My feet automatically pace me towards my bathroom. Ice cold water always works the charm when I'm stressed, which isn't often. I splash it onto my face, scraping some of it back into my ragged hair. My tired, brown eyed gaze meets my own in the mirror behind the washbasin.

I look like I've been exhumed.

My hands find the hem of my shirt; pulling it off after noticing my stab wound has started to bleed through its gauze, despite the stitches. Peeling off the blood sodden remnants, the jagged stitches are visible on my abdomen.

That's another scar to add to the ever-growing collection.

Pulling open one of the drawers, I get out my supplies. A bottle of antiseptic and some pain killers - not exactly a professional first aid kit. One time, my drunken mind thought it would be a good idea if I poured half a bottle of vodka onto a slash in my arm. Let's just say, North was not impressed.

Complete waste of alcohol.

If you're wondering why I don't just go to the medic, it's because if I go there for every single goddamn time I had an issue with my injuries, I'll be fucking living in there.

Pinned up on the wall near my bed is a photograph of me and Richards after just completing our first successful mission together. Both holding up our guns with ridiculous expressions on our faces like we've just graduated college. My lips curling up into a small smile, I wrap the chain of his dog tag around the pin.

As far as my idea of a successful partnership goes, nobody can replace Richards. I also don't think mentally I'll be able to accept anyone 'replacing' him.

It just doesn't sound right.