They didn’t lose her in the storm. They threw her into it. The helicopter vanished above the clouds, swallowed by thunder and fire, leaving Lieutenant Eva Mercer tumbling through the dark. Lightning flashed across her visor, reflecting the truth she hadn’t wanted to see. This wasn’t an accident.

Rain hammered the fuselage, running down the glass in veins of silver. Inside 10 rangers sat strapped and silent, their faces pale in the strobing light. The mission was simple, or so command had said. Extract a local asset from Carz Ridge before dawn, but simplicity never survived the sky. Eva’s headset crackled with half-formed chatter. Clipped words drowned beneath static. She leaned toward the cockpit.

“Visibility?” she asked. The pilot’s jaw was tight. 200 ft and dropping. That wasn’t flying. That was blind faith with wings. Her gut whispered the same thing it always did before everything went wrong. Something’s off. She checked her harness again, then noticed it.

The buckle on her right strap hung loose as if someone had unlatched it and refassened it hurriedly. Her pulse sharpened. Maintenance error. Impossible. She had done the pre-flight herself. Something inside this bird wasn’t mechanical. It was human. A burst of gunfire cracked outside. Tracers carved red slashes through the clouds. The helicopter pitched violently left.

Someone screamed. Eva gripped the overhead rail, bracing as rounds tore through the tail housing. Warnings blared. The cockpit erupted. in chaos. “The tailrotor’s gone!” the pilot shouted. The bird lurched downward, spinning. Eva moved toward the side door, forcing her body against the centrifugal pull. If she could reach the emergency latch, then it happened.

A shove, sudden, deliberate. She felt fingers drive into her shoulder, pushing her outward. For half a heartbeat, she locked eyes with the man beside her, Sergeant Cole. His expression unreadable behind the strobe. Then the world inverted. The door gaped open. Wind exploded through the cabin. Eva was gone. They didn’t lose her.

They threw her. The sky consumed her. The storm became a living wall of water and noise, tearing at her limbs, spinning her into oblivion. For an instant, she glimpsed the helicopter above, trailing smoke and fire, a dying beast, and then it vanished into darkness. Training took over, body tight, head down, protect the core. The ground was somewhere below, invisible.

She twisted midair, trying to orient herself, but gravity was merciless. Wind ripped the breath from her lungs. The first impact stole the world. Rocks shattered against her armor. Pain burst through her ribs like lightning. She rolled instinctively, every muscle screaming. When she stopped, silence rushed in. A hollow, ringing void.

For seconds long, she lay still, tasting blood and rain. Her right arm refused to move. Ribs possibly fractured, but she was breathing, conscious, alive. She laughed once, a dry, bitter sound swallowed by the storm. If the fall couldn’t kill her, the mountain would have to try harder. She forced herself upright. The ridge stretched before her, a labyrinth of jagged stone and mud.

Each flash of lightning revealing cliffs that rose like teeth. The wreckage of the helicopter burned faintly somewhere above, a smear of orange through the rain. No radio, no backup, and someone up there wanted her dead. Eva tore the cracked harness from her shoulders and checked her gear. Sidearm dented but functional. Knife intact, compass gone.

She scanned the terrain, memorizing landmarks the way she’d been trained. shadow lines, drainage patterns, the rhythm of wind across stone. Pain followed every breath, but she kept moving downhill, using gravity as her ally. Each step slid through mud and shale. Each heartbeat echoed louder than thunder.

Somewhere behind her, someone thought the mission was over. They were wrong. As she descended into the ravine, the storm began to break, leaving a haze of mist and smoke curling between the cliffs. She found a shallow overhang and crouched beneath it, pulling her knees close, watching embers of the crash fall like dying stars. Someone had sabotaged her harness. That wasn’t chance.

That was intent, and intent meant betrayal inside her own unit. Lightning flared again, lighting the mountains in stark relief. Eva’s reflection stared back at her from a puddle. Mudsmeared, blood stained, eyes sharp with the kind of focus only born in freef fall. She threw me out. They’ll wish they hadn’t. The wind carried her words into the valley below.

A promise written in thunder. Above her, faint through the fading rain, came the echo of rotor blades. Another helicopter searching, but whose? The storm finally began to break, but the silence it left behind was worse. Rain turned to mist, wrapping the mountains in a gray shroud that swallowed every sound.

Lieutenant Eva Mercer crouched beneath the overhang, her breath visible in the cold air. The fall that left her bruised and bloodied, her ribs screaming with each movement. But she was alive, and whoever had pushed her from that helicopter didn’t plan on that. She checked her sidearm again. One round chambered, two spare magazines soaked, but usable.

Her radio was dead, cracked down the side, the mission file gone. She wasn’t supposed to have made it this far. And that meant whoever had sabotaged her didn’t just want her off the bird. They wanted her erased. Someone up there had tried to kill her. Down here, she was going to learn who and why.

Eva pulled herself from the shelter and started downhill, following the faint scent of burning fuel. The wreckage had to be close. Every few meters, she paused, listening. The mountain wasn’t quiet. It was whispering. Dripping water, loose stones, the shift of wind through narrow canyons. To the untrained, it was noise. To Eva, it was information.

She reached a ledge overlooking a blackened slope. Far below, the twisted remains of the helicopter smoldered, a trail of smoke curling into the sky like a distress signal. Figures moved around the wreck. Five, maybe six, not rescue. Their formation was too tight, too efficient. These weren’t locals scavenging debris.

They were searching for something or someone. Eva’s heart thud at once, slow and heavy. They didn’t know she had survived the fall. Not yet. She slid down the ridge, keeping low, boots sinking into mud. The smell of fuel grew thicker, sharp, and metallic. The air was cold enough to bite. Her fractured ribs made every breath cost something, but she kept moving. measured, silent, deliberate.

If they were searching for a body, she would make sure they found the wrong one. From behind a cluster of rocks, she watched them. Their gear wasn’t standard issue. Black webbing, mismatched rifles, private mercs, not Taliban. That changed everything. Whoever had planned this had hired professionals to clean the evidence. It wasn’t just betrayal. It was orchestration.

One of the men kicked at the mud, shouting something in a language she didn’t recognize. Another gestured toward the cliff face she’d fallen from. They were methodical, sweeping the area with practiced eyes. Eva pressed herself flatter against the stone. She couldn’t take them headon, not yet. But she could learn.

Every movement, every insignia, every accent went into her memory. Intelligence was survival. A crack echoed in the distance. A rifle report. The Merks froze. Looking upward. Then came the unmistakable thump of rotor blades. Another helicopter. Lower. Slower. Closer. Its spotlight cut through the mist like a blade of light slicing across the valley. Eva’s pulse spiked.

She ducked beneath the ledge as the beam passed over her position. The helicopter circled the wreck, searching. She could hear faint chatter over its loudspeaker, English, distorted by the wind. Confirm no survivors. Burn the remains. Her stomach turned cold. They weren’t rescuing anyone. They were cleaning house. Command had already written her off.

Now they were trying to bury the proof. Flames erupted as the merks doused the wreckage with accelerant. The rotor wash whipped smoke into a black funnel. Eva watched the fire consume the last trace of her call sign. Falcon painted faintly on the tail of the bird. A lifetime of missions, trust, loyalty, gone in one manufactured blaze.

She retreated deeper into the rocks as the second helicopter lifted away. The mountain fell silent again, except for the crackle of dying fire. Alone, half injured, and now officially dead, Eva Mercer had one advantage left. The enemy believed the job was done.

She waited until the last sound faded, then climbed down to the wreck. Heat rolled off the twisted metal, distorting the air. She scavenged what she could. a flare, half a medkit, a broken compass, a survival knife. It wasn’t much, but it meant options, and options meant time. She looked toward the east, where the clouds were thinning, revealing jagged silhouettes of the ridge line.

Somewhere beyond those peaks lay the extraction point, and maybe the truth. The wind shifted, carrying faint echoes. Voices far above, faint but unmistakable. Male, clipped, tactical. A search team. They were moving down slope. Eva tightened the strap on her vest, forced air into her aching lungs, and started climbing toward higher ground. Pain blurred the edges of her vision, but she used it to stay sharp.

Every inch of this mountain wanted her gone. So did the people hunting her. But she was done being the prey. At the top of the ridge, through the mist, a red flare burst in the sky. Three quick flashes. The signal pattern for target located. And it wasn’t hers.

Eva froze beneath the ridge as the flare burned above, staining the mist blood red. Three flashes. Standard confirmation signal. Target located. Her first thought, they found the wreck. Her second, no, they found something else. Her fingers tightened around the knife hilt. The mercenaries hadn’t fired. That meant the target was alive. Someone else had survived the crash. Maybe a pilot. Maybe one of her own.

The thought flickered like static through her mind. hope or bait. If someone survived, she had to reach them first. If not, someone had left the perfect trap for her to walk into. The mountain above her was slick and treacherous, carved by years of freezing wind. Every foothold was a gamble, every stone a potential betrayal.

Her ribs burned, her left arm throbbed, but she climbed. Pain was no longer a warning. It was proof she was still in the fight. Halfway up, she stopped, pressed her back against the stone, and looked toward the horizon. The second helicopter was gone. The fire at the crash site had died to glowing embers.

Only the flar’s fading light pulsed through the mist. She remembered the shove, the flash of recognition in Cole’s eyes before she fell. Sergeant Michael Cole. Quiet, competent, unshakable. She had trusted him for years. He’d shared rations with her in dead zones, patched her wounds after firefights. He couldn’t have, but he had. Her breathing sharpened. She wanted to know why.

Money, orders, fear. Betrayal rarely came clean. It came layered in excuses and silence. The ridge flattened into a plateau, a field of wet rock glinting in the moonlight. From here she could see a faint campfire below, a circle of figures around a tarp. Their silhouettes moved with discipline.

Two stood guard, one knelt inspecting a body on the ground. Through the haze, she caught a glimpse of the uniform camouflage. same as hers. She sank to one knee, pulled the scope from her damaged rifle, and used it like a moninocular. The body’s arm was exposed. Her patch, same unit. Her heartbeat thutdded. It was Corporal Rain, the youngest in the team.

Smart, fast, never careless, but he wasn’t moving. She watched one of the mercenaries drag his body into the open. Another spoke into a radio, his tone casual. Package confirmed. Send retrieval. The woman’s gone. The woman. Her. They had proof of her death, which meant someone had ordered it and was waiting for confirmation.

Eva’s pulse steadied. This wasn’t random. The Mercs weren’t scavengers. They were cleanup. Private sector soldiers tied to someone in command. She remembered fragments of the mission briefing before takeoff. New coordinates. A sudden reassignment. A name scribbled on the order she didn’t recognize. Colonel Garan.

A ghost in the chain of command. She mouthed the name like a curse. Garan. Below the MKs began breaking camp. The flare had served its purpose. They’d found the remains, confirmed their kill, and now they’d vanish into the fog. But Eva wasn’t about to let them disappear into the fog. She slid down the opposite side of the ridge, low and quiet.

Each step was a negotiation with gravity, each breath measured. At 30 yards out, she could hear their voices clearly. English, South African, one maybe Serbian, professional, detached, joking about the bonus for the job. Eva waited until one strayed from the group, a tall man adjusting his pack.

In a blur, she was behind him, a hand over his mouth, knife across his throat. Quick, silent, efficient. She caught his body before it hit the ground and eased it behind a boulder. Her mind wasn’t cold. It was focused. Anger was a weapon, but discipline was sharper. She scavenged his radio, twisting the dial until a signal cut through the static.

Voices: Alpha team status report. Burn site confirmed. Proceed to relay point Bravo 7. She memorized the coordinates before switching it off. Bravo 7 lay northwest toward the ridge that shielded the extraction zone. That’s where the answers were. Someone at Bravo 7 was expecting to hear she was dead.

Instead, they were about to hear from her directly. The wind howled as she moved through the canyon. Her shadow flickered across the rocks, small against the immensity of the mountains. Every echo sounded like pursuit. She didn’t stop. Fatigue clawed at her, but there was no room for it. Survival wasn’t just endurance. It was forward motion.

When dawn finally touched the peaks, she found the path that led toward the relay. Tire tracks, bootprints, the faint smell of exhaust. The mercs had passed through hours ago. She crouched, studying the tracks like scripture. Seven sets, moving heavy. One had a limp. Another dragged a case. Radio equipment or weapons crate. She followed. The terrain shifted from stone to clay, slick with frost.

Her boot slipped twice, but she steadied herself with her knife in the dirt. The pain in her ribs was constant now, but pain meant clarity. It kept her in the moment, rooted in survival. At the mouth of the next ravine, she saw movement. A small drone hovering, scanning. She ducked into a crevice as it passed overhead, its camera worring softly. It didn’t see her.

She waited until it disappeared over the ridge before stepping out again. The trail led her to a valley floor scattered with the remnants of a small camp. Tents, burned crates, a metal case half buried in mud. She approached cautiously, scanning for movement. Nothing. Inside the case, ration packs, medical gauze, and a folder sealed in plastic. She tore it open. Inside, a manifest.

Operation Hollow Wing. Her name crossed out in red. Beside it, one word, terminated. Her jaw clenched. They hadn’t just thrown her out of a helicopter. They’d erased her from existence. Above her, thunder rolled again, too rhythmic to be weather. Helicopter blades. A new one, heavier. The mountain wind carried the sound straight toward her position.

Eva ducked behind the wreckage, gripping her weapon, eyes fixed on the sky. The chopper crested the ridge, black silhouette cutting through the clouds. No insignia, no rescue. They were coming back. The side door slid open midair. And standing inside, hands gripping the rail, was Sergeant Cole. The helicopter hovered over the valley, its rotors tearing the fog into spirals of dust and rain.

Lieutenant Eva Mercer pressed against the stone wall, breath held, heart hammering beneath her vest. Through the swirling mist, she saw him, Sergeant Cole, standing in the open doorway of the aircraft. The man who had shoved her into the storm. The sight hit harder than the fall itself. Cole leaned out with a pair of NVGs, scanning the terrain like a hunter checking traps.

No panic, no guilt, just methodical calm. He wasn’t looking for her body. He was confirming a job. He hadn’t come to search. He’d come to make sure she was gone for good. Eva’s hand hovered over her sidearm. Every muscle screamed to end it right there. One clean shot. justice from a distance. But she knew better. The wind was unpredictable, the light unstable.

She’d only give away her position. Survival demanded restraint, and restraint demanded focus. Revenge could wait. The chopper descended, its skid slicing through the mist until they hovered just meters above the ground. Two mercenaries jumped out first, rifles up, scanning the rocks.

Cole followed, signaling toward the burnt wreckage below. His voice carried through the storm. Check the perimeter. If she’s not here, finish the sweep. Eva slid behind a half- buried crate, using the broken metal to shield her from view. The downdraft whipped dust into her face, stinging her eyes. She forced her breathing to slow. One mistake, one noise, and it would all be over. From her pocket, she pulled a flare.

Not to light the way, but to create chaos. She twisted the striker and tossed it across the ravine. The red blaze hissed to life, spitting smoke and sparks. The mercenaries spun instantly, shouting. Cole barked in order, “Go! Move!” Ava moved the opposite direction, crawling up a slope slick with mud.

Her body protested every motion, but the adrenaline drowned out the pain. When she reached the ridge, she turned and watched as the mercs gathered around the flare, their silhouettes sharp against the glow. They thought they were hunting her, but the hunt had already flipped. A single suppressed shot cracked through the fog. One of the mercs dropped.

The others fired wildly into shadows that weren’t there. Ava kept low, circling behind them like smoke on the wind. Precision over power always. Cole crouched beside the fallen man, radio in hand. She’s alive. Confirmed. Repeat. Falcons alive. Her pulse froze. He wasn’t surprised. He’d expected it. That meant her fall hadn’t been a mistake.

It had been part of a plan. Through the static, another voice replied, “Distorted, cold. Proceed to phase two. Capture, not kill. Command wants her breathing.” The words chilled her. They didn’t want her dead anymore. They wanted her contained. Operation Hollow Wing wasn’t a mission. It was an experiment.

She was the variable that refused to die. Cole stood, scanning the ridge line. Copy that. Phase two underway. He gestured east. The team began moving with military precision. Rifles raised, eyes slicing through the fog. Ava slipped away through a narrow trench carved by runoff. Mud soaking through her sleeves. The walls pressed tight on both sides.

She moved like a ghost through the dark, steady and silent. Above the helicopter spotlight swept the rocks, hunting, she reached a small basin littered with twisted steel and broken crates, remnants of an old Soviet bunker. The air smelled of rust and fuel. She ducked inside a collapsed section, crouching low, heartbeat sinking with the rhythm of the storm.

She pulled the stolen radio from her pack, twisted the dial until a faint signal bled through. Bravo 7, this is command. Confirm extraction route. Coordinates locked. There it was, the name again. Bravo 7. The same coordinates listed in the manifest she’d found earlier. If they wanted her captured, Bravo 7 was where the cage waited.

She traced the bearings on her compass north by northwest about eight clicks through steep terrain. That’s where Cole was heading. That’s where the answers were buried. The sound of the chopper drew close again, echoing off the cliffs. Ava crouched deeper into shadow, clutching the radio tight.

Through the crack in the bunker wall, she saw a light flare against the rocks. Then a familiar voice broke the silence. Falcon, you are always hard to kill. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. The words sliced through her composure. His voice carried that same command tone he’d always used in the field.

The one that sounded like leadership until you learned what it was really made of. Lies. He kept speaking. You want answers? Bravo 7. Come find them. Or stay here and bleed out. Your choice. The helicopter rose, circling once before vanishing into the fog. The silence afterward was worse than the noise. Eva exhaled slowly, forcing control back into her limbs. It was bait, yes, but bait tied to truth.

Whoever ran this operation wanted her alive long enough to see the endgame. If Bravo 7 was the trap, she’d walk straight into it, just not the way they expected. She slung a rifle, adjusted the cracked scope, and looked north. The storm had thinned into a cold drizzle. Each step toward that ridge would be a risk, but waiting meant surrender.

She checked the sidearm, chambered around, and started walking. The mist swallowed her form until only her silhouette remained, scarred, limping, unbroken. Then faint through the static of the radio came a voice she hadn’t heard since the fall. Falcon, if you hearing this, they lied to us all. Eva stopped dead in her tracks.

The voice belonged to Rain, the corpal she’d seen dead hours ago. For a moment, Eva thought she’d imagined it. The radio hissed. Then the same voice returned. Faint, broken, but unmistakable. Falcon, this is Rain. If you’re alive, listen carefully. Bravo 7 isn’t what you think. Her pro titan. Corporal Rain had been dead. She’d seen his body.

Yet here he was, whispering through static, his voice carried on a frequency that shouldn’t exist. Command set us up,” he continued. “Every word fractured by interference. We were never meant to extract anyone. We will the test.” The signal snapped to silence. If Rain was alive, then the line between truth and illusion had just blurred beyond recognition.

Eva gripped the radio tighter, scanning the rising as if the mountains themselves were listening. The wind had died down, leaving the valley too quiet. Every echo of dripping water, every crunch of gravel beneath her boots felt amplified. The trail to Bravo 7 cut through a narrow gorge lined with dead trees and rusted fencing.

Old war debris lay half buried in the dirt. helmets, cantens, shell casings corroded to green. The kind of place history forgot on purpose. She moved cautiously, using every fold of terrain as cover. The closer she got, the more deliberate the silence became. No birds, no movement, just the hum of distant machinery.

A generator maybe, or a drone’s rotors idling. When she crested the final rise, Bravo 7 revealed itself. Not a camp, not a relay, but a structure. A concrete bunker carved into the rock, half collapsed, camouflaged by years of decay. A satellite dish tilted on the roof, flickering, red light pulsing like a heartbeat.

Eva crouched behind a boulder, surveying the entrance. Two guards stood near the doorway, weapons slung, bored, but alert. Beyond them, a faint electric glow painted the interior walls. She could hear muffled voices through the open hatch. She counted her options. Two clips, one knife, and a single flare left. No backup, no comms.

But she still had the one advantage that had kept her alive. Surprise. They expected her to die. They’d never planned for her to come home. She waited for the wind to shift, then moved low, fast. A stone rolled beneath her boot. One guard turned his head. Eva didn’t stop. She closed the distance in silence. Blade flashing once. The man dropped soundlessly. The second spun.

Too late. Her elbow crashed into his throat. Cutting his breath short, she dragged both bodies into the shadows, hearts steady, pulse deliberate. Inside, the bunker corridor descended steeply, lit by flickering fluorescent strips. The air smelled of oil and metal. She followed the sound of voices deeper inside until the hall opened into a command room filled with old consoles and screens powered by modern equipment.

Maps flickered on monitors, coordinates, call signs, data feeds labeled hollowwing field results. Her name appeared on one of the screens, a red bar beside it reading status active anomaly. Her stomach dropped. She scrolled the feed. Video clips from helmet cams, hers, coals, rains, recordings of the mission briefing, the storm, the fall.

Someone had been watching the entire time. Every second of her survival had been logged, studied. She hadn’t escaped the experiment. She was still inside it. Footsteps echoed from the far hallway. Eva ducked behind a console just as a group entered. Three MKs followed by Cole. His voice carried that same controlled authority. Command wants confirmation before shutdown.

If she’s breathing, we bring her in. If not, we seal it. He stopped by the console she hid behind. Gloved hand brushing the same monitor where her file glowed red. She’ll come here, he said softly. She always does. Eva’s pulse steadied. He was right about that. She rose from cover, pistol leveled at his back. You talk too much, Sergeant.

Cole froze at the sound of her voice. Slowly he turned, hands raised just enough to show he wasn’t reaching for his weapon. You made it, he said almost with admiration. They said no one could survive that drop. Eva stepped closer, gun steady. You made sure I tested the theory. A faint smirk crossed his face. You were chosen, Falcon.

Hollowing was not a mission. It was proof. They needed to know what a human mind does when every protocol breaks. You didn’t just survive the fall. You adapted. You became the result they wanted. Her finger hovered on the trigger. And rain. The others. Cole’s eyes flickered. Data points. The words hit harder than the storm ever had.

For a moment, all she heard was the hum of machinery and her own heartbeat echoing off the concrete walls. Every name, every face from her team flashed before her eyes, reduced to numbers on a screen. Survival had never been her reward. It had been their experiment. Cole took a cautious step forward. If you kill me, the files still go out. They’ll just find another Falcon.

Eva’s voice was calm, almost serene. Then they’ll learn what happens when the experiment fights back. One shot shattered the silence. Cole fell. The monitors behind him flickered, alarms blaring through the bunker. She moved fast, grabbing the data drive from the console, slinging her pack, and running toward the exit. Smoke filled the corridor. Outside, dawn cut through the mist.

The storm was gone, replaced by pale light spilling over the ridge. For the first time since the fall, the mountain was quiet. She stopped at the edge of the cliff, the wind brushing her face. Below, endless valleys stretched toward the horizon. Her reflection in the metal of her weapon was unrecognizable. Tired eyes, torn uniform, but alive.

Eva pressed the radio’s transmit key. To whoever’s listening, Bravo 7 is down. Hollow Wing is over. She looked once more at the rising sun and whispered, half to herself, half to the ghosts that had followed her since the storm. They threw me from the sky, but I learned how to fly on the way