I just regained consciousness. Every bone in my body aches — my ribs are most likely broken. Our helicopter struck something unknown, and the next thing I remember is waking up among the wreckage. The rest of the team is dead.

  I'm alone.

  The communication devices weren't working, so guided by a compass, I made my way toward the primary objective: a massive private estate deep in the woods.

  All I have left is a Glock and three rounds. I don't know if that'll be enough to complete the mission. Our commanders only ordered us to extract a girl being held captive by a terrorist group — they were hiding somewhere in this mansion. But the state of the place is deplorable. I doubt anyone actually lives here. Most likely it's being used as a temporary holding site.

  Before we deployed, we were told this was a high-risk operation. We were to capture their leader and bring the girl out alive.

  Her name is Briguitte Olsen. Fourteen years old. Daughter of pharmaceutical billionaire Marcus Olsen. I wasn't given much else — just the one critical detail: a terrorist faction from the Old Countries Resistance took his daughter hostage because Olsen refused to sell them a chemical weapon. The Violet Gas — capable of killing instantly upon inhalation, with an effective radius of approximately 5.6 kilometers.

  I pushed open the massive doors and did a visual sweep of the foyer.

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  Empty.

  The place was deserted. The décor belonged to another era — the golden age of the viceroyalty, back when gold seemed to overflow from every corner. At the center of it all, a staircase rose toward the upper floor. I decided to clear the ground level first.

  In the corner of the foyer sat a small table with a few drawers. I opened each one. In the second, I found some papers.

  They read:

  "The cheerful Miss Olsen has been quite irritable these past few days. We've moved her from room A-03 to C-08."

  The following pages contained photographs — Briguitte Olsen's face. Front view. Profile.

  I folded the papers and tucked them into the inner pocket of my vest.

  While searching the rest of the hall, I heard a sound. Coming from the far end of the room.

  I moved into the left wing — a long corridor that bent right at the far end. There was a man standing there, staring at the wall.

  "Lieutenant Castilla, Rescue Brigade. Identify yourself."

  No response. Just a faint, unsteady swaying that put me on edge. I stepped back — and that's when he turned toward me.

  A hiss escaped from his mouth. The darkness swallowed whatever was coming closer.

  When I switched on my flashlight, I froze.

  The man's face was gaunt and decaying, his skin sloughing off in pieces. His jaw was grotesquely oversized — a grin that sent a chill straight through me. Between his lurching gait and that sound crawling out of him, I couldn't move. Not until he lunged.

  I hit the floor on my back. I grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him off as his jaw snapped inches from my face. Despite his condition, he was strong enough to make things difficult. The moment I freed one hand, I drew the knife strapped to my leg and drove it into his eye socket.

  I kept my grip on the handle as he thrashed, then planted both feet against him and shoved with everything I had. The thing that barely passed for human was still moving on the floor.

  I raised my weapon and aimed at his head.

  I pulled the trigger.

  And his skull came apart.