Page 22 of Legacy's Destiny

Bandit’s voice broke the moment. “So, why does she call you Sparky, Cap?”

Deacon’s only response was a one-finger salute, drawing more laughter from his team.

Five miles later, with their backpacks concealed, Deacon, Ranger, and Bandit moved ahead to recon the camp.

Tucked deep within the jungle, the camp was concealed by a dense canopy of towering trees and thick undergrowth. The location was deliberate—miles from the nearest village with no clear trails leading in or out. The faint hum of insects and the occasional cry of distant nocturnal wildlife were the only sounds that could be heard.

The camp’s centerpiece was a communications shed constructed from corrugated metal sheets and wood that appeared to have been scavenged. Its walls were patched with camouflaged tarps, blending the obvious manmade structure into the jungle's greenery. A rusted satellite dish perched at an extreme angle on the shed’s roof, tilting skyward. Tangled wires snaked from the building to a portable generator that hummed faintly nearby.

Deacon moved as close to the shed as he dared, keeping concealed under the brush near an old vacant tent that lookedlike it had been decaying on its frame for at least ten years. He used his night vision scope and looked through the glass sheets making up the shed’s windows. The shed was cramped, with outdated radios and monitors cluttering a makeshift desk. Maps and documents covered the walls, and the faint glow of LED screens cast an eerie light through the scope. There was no human movement in the shed or at this portion of the camp.

Quietly and cautiously, he moved deeper into the camp. Not far from the shed, a cluster of bunkhouses formed a semicircle. The crude structures were little more than wooden shacks topped with tin roofs. Hammocks hung between the posts inside, and the air was filled with the stale scent of unwashed bodies and damp fabric. Snores seeped out of the open windows, and bodies pulled the hammocks tightly against the bolts fixed to the walls. Weapons leaned casually against the walls, while personal belongings—clothes, boots, and hats—were scattered across the bunks. A central fire pit lay cold and dark, its ashes dispersed from the last meal.

Around the camp, natural barriers of jagged rocks and thick bamboo made approaching undetected tricky. Camouflage netting stretched across key areas, obscuring the view from aerial surveillance. Deacon moved carefully and quietly. With no outpost or guard, he moved among the buildings to gather intel on how many were in the camp and what assets they had.

The surrounding jungle was a maze of thorny vines, giant ferns, and towering teak trees. Narrow trails, barely visible under layers of fallen leaves, hinted at well-worn paths used by the jungle’s smaller animals. A hidden watchtower, little more than a platform perched high in the trees, overlooked the camp, providing an ideal vantage point for guards. However, there were no guards on the platform tonight, and nothing indicated that the men inside the hammocks were on alert or awaiting the arrival of a delivery.

Deacon whispered in a low murmur that barely stirred the heavy jungle air, “Rendezvous at our camp.” Without waiting for a reply, he melted into the shadows, rejoining his team. The night was dense and suffocating, the humidity wrapping around them like a damp shroud. Even though they’d put distance between themselves and the camp, caution weighed heavily. He motioned for the team to huddle, their movements quiet, with only whispers of fabric brushed against the undergrowth.

“There are minimal weapons. No one on watch,” he said softly, his tone edged with skepticism. His sharp gaze flicked to Echo, her silhouette barely visible in the moonlight that filtered through the canopy. “I’m not sure this is the camp we’re looking for. The comm gear in that shack is ancient—practically museum pieces.”

Echo clenched her jaw, the faint crunch of her teeth audible in the stillness, and then swore under her breath. “Then we move to the next camp. I thought for sure this was the place.” The frustration in her voice was palpable.

Ranger leaned forward, his eyes glittering in the faint light. “Could be the Triad lets this place be seen for a reason,” he suggested, his voice rough with weariness. “A decoy.”

Deacon nodded grimly. “Makes sense. Click? How far to the next camp?”

“Twenty miles through the jungle to your northwest. You’ll have to skirt the mountain,” Click replied, his Boston accent thicker than usual—a clear sign he was running on fumes.

“Is going over the damn thing faster?” Deacon asked, rubbing the back of his neck where sweat trickled down in a slow, relentless drip.

“You guys are friggin’ insane, but yeah, it is,” Click answered, a wry edge to his words.

Deacon checked his watch. “Five hours until sun-up. We push on and get as close as possible before we sack out.” Hiscommand was met with gear rustling as the team strapped on their backpacks. He placed a steadying hand on Echo’s shoulder, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric of her shirt. “Can you hang?”

Her eyes narrowed, an edge of defiance flashing through the exhaustion. “Just watch me, Sparky.” The challenge in her voice was undeniable, and the corner of his mouth quirked up despite himself.

“Just checking,” he replied lightly, but his gaze held hers for a beat longer.

“But not on them?” she shot back, jerking her head toward the rest of the team.

Deacon glanced over his shoulder at his men, their postures disciplined despite the mission's physical toll. “I’ve worked with them for years. I know their limitations. I don’t know all of yours yet.”

His words hung in the air, and he saw the flicker of understanding in her expression before she pushed past him with a muttered, “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

The trek up the mountain was punishing. The rocky terrain grated beneath their boots while the humidity pushed down on them. The craggy fissures, devoid of clinging vines, allowed them to set a grueling pace. Echo stumbled more than once, her breath coming in quiet gasps, but she never stopped, earning subtle nods of respect from the men.

As they reached the summit, the faint lemon-yellow streaks of dawn painted the horizon. His muscles screamed with every step. His uniform stuck to him like a second skin. Descending into the jungle’s dense canopy, the air grew thick and heavy again, muffling every sound except their labored breathing and the rustle of leaves.

“Cap, the camp is three clicks ahead.” His operator’s voice broke the silence, startling Deacon. The team froze, their gazessnapping to him. He scanned their surroundings, noting the exhaustion etched into their faces. “Here. Hammocks up in the trees. High and hidden. I’ll take first watch.”

Deacon worked quickly, securing a sturdy spot for Echo’s hammock. “You’ll sleep in mine. I’ll take the empty one when I’m relieved.” He offered her his hand, pulling her into the branches. Her movements were sluggish, her eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue.

As she settled into the hammock, she murmured, “Think Bandit has some Band-Aids?”

“Why?” Deacon asked, leaning closer.

“Blisters,” she muttered sleepily, her voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing bad. Just ... don’t want them worse.” Before he could respond, her breathing evened out, and she was asleep, her face soft and unguarded in the dim light.

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