Chapter Text
The sun was rising. It climbed over the horizon, tinting the sky orange and casting harsh shadows across the surrounding rocks. The cluster of derelict buildings stood like an island of desolation in the middle of nowhere, poorly protected by a series of makeshift fortifications: sandbags piled against the walls, rusty barbed wire, windows hastily boarded up. Signs of past battles were everywhere—bullet holes in the plaster, cracks left by grenades, vehicles scarred by shrapnel from explosions. The wind, blowing fitfully through the alleys between the buildings, carried with it a sharp smell of smoke and dust.
Armed men patrolled the area around the compound. Their dark silhouettes moved with an unnatural sluggishness under the weight of the heat, which was already growing suffocating at that hour. Their kaffiyehs fluttered lightly in the morning breeze, but beneath them, bulletproof vests gripped their torsos tight, making every movement heavier. The Kalashnikovs they carried were old but reliable, their paint chipped and their barrels darkened by wear, coated with dust and sand that crept into every crevice. Each man kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, their faces framed by coarse, neglected beards—signs of days spent in the trenches without rest.
On the higher outposts, other militiamen were stationed with their weapons in hand, fingers steady on the grips of their RPGs. Their faces were drawn with tension, but the habit of a life spent at war had long since carved a calm resignation into their features. Their voices were low, barely audible, exchanging only a few muted words as they waited patiently for something that might come—or might not. For them, war was a silent, grinding wait, broken only by sudden and violent bursts of chaos and destruction.
The landscape around them was harsh and rocky, a sea of limestone stretching in every direction. The ground was hard and cracked, lifeless and spent, baked by relentless heat and blanketed in fine dust that rose with every step. A few miles from the compound, the mountains rose abruptly—towering, bare, as if they had emerged from nothing—vast petrified skeletons of stone. No life was visible in that arid expanse: no trees, no bushes to break the monotony of desert silence. Only rocks, sand, and the oppressive whisper of the wind.
But not even the keenest eyes of the shrewdest warrior would have noticed that, on one of those ridges, hidden among the most jagged rocks, a sniper was waiting.
His sophisticated tactical gear blended perfectly with the surrounding terrain. The precision rifle he held, though large, was positioned so carefully it was indistinguishable from the stones and sand. The sniper—a young man with dark skin—remained still as a statue, immersed in a state of absolute concentration.
Through his targeting scope, he watched the militiamen inside the compound. Their movements were slow and predictable, like pieces on a chessboard. The pale green crosshairs framed every detail—from the weapons they carried to the hollow expressions carved into their faces.
As he peered through the scope, the sniper sensed a shift. The human figures patrolling the compound began to distort. It wasn’t a flaw in the optics, nor a trick of the light. Those figures trailed behind them an ethereal shimmer—an imprint of the future revealed only to him. The traces were not the marks of movements already made, but of those yet to come. No technology could explain what he saw. Every step, every gesture of his targets was already written, an invisible track the world had not yet caught up to. He now felt time flowing through his hands—fluid, pliable—and knew he was the one commanding it. It wasn’t a gift. It was a burden, a responsibility carved into his flesh since childhood. Taking a slow breath, he aligned himself with the future already decided and rested his index finger on the trigger.
The first shot cracked dully through the air, aimed with millimetric precision. The bullet pierced the skull of the first militiaman, who collapsed to the ground without making a sound. Before the others could react, a second shot rang out. Then a third. Each bullet found its mark with lethal speed, despite the bolt-action rifle requiring a manual reload between shots. The first magazine was emptied in seconds, and with it fell all the militiamen armed with RPGs.
The compound erupted into chaos. The survivors, dazed and confused, scrambled for cover behind sandbags or threw themselves to the ground, hoping the dust kicked up by the gunfire would conceal them. But the sniper was ready to strike again. With the same unshaken determination, he chambered a new round, aimed at a man hiding behind a low wall, and pulled the trigger. The .50 caliber bullet tore through the wall as if it were paper and struck the man in the chest, hurling his lifeless body backward several feet. Another militiaman tried to climb into a truck, desperately seeking escape. The engine sputtered under the vehicle's weight and managed to lurch forward only a few meters, but an armor-piercing round was already on its way and ended its run before it had even begun. The explosion that followed was devastating. A thick mushroom of fire and smoke lit up the entire compound and hurled metal fragments in every direction.
That explosion was the signal. Three armored transports appeared out of nowhere, advancing quickly on three different points of the perimeter. The doors flew open, and from each vehicle four heavily armed and equipped assaulters emerged, moving with deadly precision. Their faces hidden by helmets and visors, they stormed toward the compound, followed by combat dogs also protected by ballistic armor. Above them, an AH-64 Apache helicopter swept in from behind the mountains like a predator. The roar of its blades tearing through the air thundered across the valley. The chain gun beneath its belly opened fire, pouring lead and flame over the compound. Sandbags were ripped apart, the already crumbling walls of the buildings collapsed under the impact, and the remaining militiamen were cut down without mercy.
The sniper watched it all from above, expressionless. There was nothing more he could do. His part of the mission was over. He had taken out the main threats—those who could have interfered with the assault. Now it was up to the men on the ground to finish the job. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, muzzle down, and started walking toward the edge of the ridge, disappearing into the desert behind him. The rocks and sand swallowed him like a dissolving shadow, absorbed by the barren, silent landscape. The extraction point was less than a mile from his position.
Above him, the sky was a pale, motionless blue—utterly indifferent. The heat of the sun was rising, but the soldier didn't seem to notice. In the distance, from the compound, the sound of explosions was already fading away.
* * *
Sergeant Walter "Walt" Lloyd Dawson, at twenty-four, was already a highly decorated sniper in the United States Army Rangers, with a career marked by high-risk missions in some of the world's most unstable geopolitical zones: Afghanistan, Syria, Bolivia, Colombia, Yemen. His operational experience ranged from daytime and nighttime raids in war zones to sabotage and demolition missions targeting strategic infrastructure, to hostage rescues and counterterrorism operations.
Exceptional as he was in the field, there were still aspects of Walt's life and past that remained troubled and obscure. The life of this young man, now walking through the desert with the confidence of his strength and skill, had been anything but easy.
The plane crash after his mother's death, the difficult days caught between the urgency of survival and the attempts to reconnect with a father he barely knew, the kidnapping and abuse, the devastating cost of escaping the Island, the imperative of secrecy—all of it cast tragic shadows over the weeks and months following a rescue that, in truth, never really happened.
After the disappearance of his biological father, Michael, Walt went to live with his grandmother, an elderly woman who was affectionate but strict and unyielding, incapable of managing a teenager already wrestling with inner demons he could barely understand. Without Michael—despite his conflicting feelings toward that tormented father figure—Walt's loneliness grew immeasurably. Living with his grandmother became increasingly difficult. Walt withdrew, sometimes angry, sometimes weighed down by a fate that seemed to force him toward melancholy and depression. On top of that, strange, inexplicable events kept happening around him, scaring and embarrassing him. His school performance was excellent—often outstanding—but he couldn't form any meaningful connections with his peers. No close friends, no girlfriends. Walt loved sports, but only strictly solitary ones: cycling, track and field, bodybuilding. He also found refuge in books and comic books, which he read by the window of the small Bronx apartment where he had lived as a child.
At some point, he began experiencing episodes of trance, which sometimes left him in a state of deep confusion and started to frighten those around him. The dissociative episodes increased in frequency and intensity until one night his grandmother found him in a catatonic state, eyes wide open, face pale. Walt spoke of unsettling dreams: he saw hostile jungles blocking his escape, terrifying natural phenomena accompanied by dreadful howls, and he watched helplessly as familiar, adult figures he cared for died before his eyes. But no one—not even the doctors—could understand what was happening. Walt couldn't communicate what he saw and felt, making it nearly impossible to identify what kind of help or therapy he needed. Each time he tried to talk about the Island or his strange experiences, his grandmother would tense up and change the subject.
During the many follow-up visits, the specialists treating Walt began mentioning more frequently a special recovery program for adolescents—a new initiative of the Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute in Los Angeles. It was a facility renowned for treating particularly complex cases, and the program offered was entirely free. Before long, Walt's grandmother became convinced that this was the only viable option to help him, especially since the cost of his ongoing, largely ineffective treatments had become unsustainable.
At eighteen, Walt moved to Los Angeles, to Santa Rosa. At first, his life seemed to fall apart completely. The crises didn't stop—in fact, they grew worse—and his nightmares continued to haunt him. One of the most severe and complex hallucinatory episodes was described by his doctors as follows: "The patient claims to have been visited by two men: Benjamin Linus and Hugo Reyes, who said they had come to save him. The first, Linus, was a middle-aged man somehow involved in a problematic relationship with the patient, while Hugo, known as Hurley, was a large, affable man, the winner of a famous lottery that Walt vaguely remembered from the news. These men, who according to Walt had died in a plane crash years before, spoke of a 'special mission' and said that Walt was destined for something far greater than the world he lived in. The episode ended with Walt wandering aimlessly, disoriented and confused, in the institute's gardens."
After this incident, the medical team decided to try an innovative and daring new therapy, to which Walt responded surprisingly well. Within weeks, he seemed to have overcome the crisis. His symptoms diminished dramatically, and the doctors concluded that the treatments were working. A couple more months passed, and Walt was discharged—with a diagnosis of full recovery.
* * *
Having returned to an apparently normal life, Walt decided to follow an entirely unexpected path: a military career. After completing his studies with excellent results, he enlisted immediately.
It all happened almost by chance. Shortly after graduation, Walt found a cheaply designed, unremarkable flyer in his mailbox. He was about to throw it away with the rest of the junk mail when he noticed, on one of the inner pages, the image of an Egyptian statue of a bird. He recognized it instantly—as if in a déjà vu. Beneath the image were a few words: "Call what you do not know: your strength."
The phrase felt like a summons—strong and insistent. The haunting visions returned, the sleepless nights, fragments of memories from the Island, the countless enigmatic drawings, other fleeting, incomprehensible fragments. This time, however, that Egyptian figure—an open-winged Horus—connected everything into a coherent whole. The things he had never dared to reveal to anyone suddenly made sense.
The flyer was an advertisement for an Army recruitment program for outstanding high school graduates—an exclusive path that promised to "reveal what is buried" and to turn anyone with "unshakable determination" into a respected and commanding leader. The words struck home. Walt felt, with startling clarity, that the flyer was there precisely for him.
For a few days, Walt thought it over. He feared it might be a mistake, an illusion—another one—but the call was too strong. A part of him understood clearly that enlisting could change his fate, that the Army might give meaning to his restless life.
In July 2012, Walt joined the United States Army as a recruit and began Basic Combat Training at Fort Benning, Georgia. Shortly before enlisting, he requested and obtained the addition of his biological father's surname, "Dawson," to his mother's surname, Lloyd. After successfully completing BCT, Walt was selected to participate in Advanced Individual Training for the infantry role, also at Fort Benning. Demonstrating a natural talent for discipline and strategy, the young soldier quickly caught the attention of his superiors. In 2013, Walt was accepted into the prestigious Airborne School, where he completed parachute training and earned his Parachutist Badge.
Walt excelled at everything—from tactical drills to physical endurance tests. But it was in psychological and strategic evaluations that he truly stood out. His superiors noticed his ability to make quick, effective decisions, often anticipating the flow of events. These qualities led to his selection for one of the Army's elite programs: Ranger training. Walt went on to complete the rigorous Ranger Assessment and Selection Program, successfully earning a place in the 75th Ranger Regiment.
Training at Ranger School was one of the hardest periods of his life. The forced marches under the scorching sun, the simulated missions in extreme conditions, the weeks of jungle survival—Walt came face to face with his physical and mental limits, but instead of breaking, he grew stronger. Military discipline gave him a level of control he had never experienced before. The ghosts of his past were still there, but now he used them as a source of strength, a fire that fueled his will. Having discovered this unexpected vocation, Walt's commitment intensified rapidly, both in speed and depth.
In 2014, Walt was finally assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment at Joint Base Lewis–McChord, Washington. There, he honed his skills by attending several specialized courses. He completed the demolition course at the Explosive Ordnance Disposal School at Eglin Air Force Base, Florida, where he learned to handle explosives with professional precision. He then attended the Sabotage and Guerrilla Warfare Training at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, acquiring advanced expertise in guerrilla and sabotage tactics.
In 2015, Walt completed the Intelligence course at the Military Intelligence School in Fort Huachuca, Arizona, where he developed analytical and information-gathering skills essential for reconnaissance and strategic planning operations.
Promoted to the rank of sergeant in 2018, Walter Lloyd Dawson became a respected leader and a point of reference for his fellow soldiers. His dedication and commitment earned him several decorations, including the Bronze Star Medal and the Army Commendation Medal. By the age of thirty, Walter Dawson was considered one of the best snipers in the United States Army Rangers, with an exemplary career and a reputation for excellence in the field.
The first missions came soon, and it didn't take long for Walt to distinguish himself. In Afghanistan, his platoon was deployed to neutralize a terrorist cell hidden in the Tora Bora mountains. The terrain was treacherous, the enemies well-armed and concealed. Walt led the precision-fire operation, taking out targets with ruthless efficiency. But what no one could know was that Walt didn't rely solely on his training. There was something else—an instinct that seemed to guide his movements, as if he sensed danger a moment before it appeared. His comrades jokingly called him "the Prophet," but behind the smiles lay a certain reverence. Walt was respected, but no one truly understood him.
The later years of Walt's service, however, were not without difficulties. The constant pressure of operating in life-or-death situations began to weigh on him. At times, his obsession with detail or his tendency to isolate himself from his team caused tension within the group. While his field skills were undeniable, there were episodes that left his superiors perplexed. During a rescue mission in Jordan, following an intuition that seemed inexplicable to both peers and commanders, Walt disobeyed orders and led his team along an alternate route—avoiding a deadly trap that could have wiped them all out. The operation was a success, but his act of insubordination remained a shadow in his record. His superiors acknowledged the effectiveness of his actions but struggled to understand his unpredictability.
The most controversial episode of Walt's career occurred during a maritime infiltration mission in the Gulf of Aden, a few miles off the coast of Yemen. The team was supposed to land at night, but a sudden storm struck, throwing the boats off course and cutting communications. Within hours, the entire unit was listed as missing, and the mission was aborted. Despite days of intense search operations, no trace of the team was found. Against all odds, however, Walt was discovered alive nearly two weeks later—hundreds of miles away, on the shores of Kerala in southern India. The Indian navy found him on the beach of a small fishing village, exhausted and with no clear memory of how he had arrived there.
Upon his return, Walt tried to explain the unexplainable. He recalled only a vague memory: a ship that had rescued him in open sea—an enormous yacht decorated like an ancient baroque villa, with crystal chandeliers, ivory furniture, and fine carpets. He said he remembered people with innocent eyes but weary faces. They moved without haste, almost hypnotized, whispering to one another in a language he couldn't understand.
To his superiors, Walt's account was incomprehensible. No yacht matching that description had been reported in the waters near the mission area, and the rest of his team remained missing. His story became an enigma in his file, an unexplained event that puzzled his commanders and cast new shadows over his career. His reluctance to become an instructor—despite his superiors' repeated requests—fueled further doubt. For Walt, teaching others meant distancing himself from field missions, from the direct confrontation with chaos and danger that had become part of who he was. The missions kept him connected to something deeper, perhaps a kind of balance between his past experiences and the power he had learned to control.
When he announced his decision to resign, his superiors and comrades were stunned. No one knew exactly what Walt would do next, but rumors soon began to circulate. The world of private military contractors seemed the most likely direction—and that was exactly where Walt was headed.
* * *
Walt's discharge ceremony took place in a bare, austere room on base. The gray concrete floor, worn by time, echoed beneath the boots of the few people present. The walls were almost entirely empty, save for a few motivational posters from the Rangers corps, faded by the sunlight that barely filtered through the tall, narrow windows. Walt stood at the center of the room in his immaculate uniform. His face was impassive, eyes fixed on an undefined point. In front of him stood three of his superiors, their expressions composed, a mix of admiration and unease. They knew who Walt was, what he had done, and what he represented—but his decision to leave the service had not been met with enthusiasm.
One of them, Colonel Sam Austen—a man in his late sixties, his uniform flawless, his bearing shaped by a lifetime of service now nearing its end—spoke in a monotone voice. He read from a sheet of paper what sounded like the standard text written for any soldier choosing to leave active duty.
— Sergeant Walter Lloyd Dawson, on behalf of the United States Army and the Rangers corps, we thank you for your service to the nation. Your dedication and courage in the field have been noted and appreciated. We wish you success and fulfillment in your future endeavors.
Austen finished reading, folded the sheet, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He didn't step forward to shake Walt's hand. There was no need for further formalities. He merely nodded—a gesture that said more than words ever could: You're one of us, but we don't understand you.
Beside Austen stood Captain Reynolds and Lieutenant Carter, two men with whom Walt had shared some of the most delicate missions. Both remained silent, their posture stiff, as if trying to hide the discomfort they felt. They too knew that Walt was no ordinary soldier. His abilities were a mystery, and though they had seen the extraordinary results of his work, there had always been a distance between them and him. He wasn't the kind of man you went out drinking with after a mission. He didn't laugh at the jokes in the field or share stories from his personal life. And now, at his discharge, that distance had become unbridgeable.
The room, silent, seemed suspended in a moment no one wished to prolong. It was Reynolds who took the first step toward him. He approached, face still rigid, but with a trace of empathy in his eyes—perhaps an attempt to acknowledge who Walt had been, or perhaps just a gesture of duty toward a soldier who, despite everything, had saved many lives.
— Good luck, Dawson.
Walt replied with a nod. No smile. No emotion. There was nothing left to say.
When it was over, Walt took a step back, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room. The sound of his boots echoed down the empty corridor until the metal door closed behind him with a dull thud. Outside, the air was hot and dry, the sky a clear, silvery blue. Walt walked toward the parking lot, his mind already elsewhere.
* * *
Walt's transition from official military service to the world of private contractors was smooth—and, in many ways, inevitable. In the world of private military operations, his reputation and experience preceded him. The Blackhawk Syndicate quickly established itself as one of the most daring and enterprising organizations in the field. Officially specialized in security services, the company actually took on contracts for high-risk military missions. It operated in every corner of the globe—from sub-Saharan Africa to the Middle East—without asking too many questions about its clients or their objectives.
Today, the operational network of the Blackhawk Syndicate spans the entire world, with branches strategically located in some of the planet's most unstable regions. Starting from its base in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, the company established a key foothold in the Middle East, managing private security operations tied to the protection of oil pipelines and refineries. Further south, in Somalia, a branch in Mogadishu became the hub of Blackhawk's operations in the Horn of Africa. There, the agency trains private militias and supports local forces in the fight against piracy. From the Somali capital, Blackhawk operatives also protect convoys crossing the shipping routes of the Gulf of Aden, providing armed escorts ready to respond to any threat.
The South American branch, based in Bogotá, Colombia, coordinates surveillance and counter-narcotics missions while providing military training to some of the region's more repressive regimes. Through its often extreme interventions, BHS helps suppress local uprisings and ensures the continuity of its client governments. This base serves as the company's operational nerve center across Latin America, where violence and paramilitary control often intertwine with Blackhawk's business interests.
In Asia, a facility on the island of Jeju in South Korea serves as the launch point for intelligence and maritime security missions, particularly in the Pacific. From there, Blackhawk provides monitoring services for high-profile clients—including tech companies and government agencies—often tasked with keeping a close watch on international naval traffic. The company's reach even extends to the tax haven of the Bahamas, where it maintains a branch in Nassau. There, among hidden beaches and luxury estates, BHS carries out maritime surveillance and offshore capital protection, offering security services for private islands and nature reserves. From its Caribbean base, Blackhawk discreetly protects the interests of wealthy clients, ensuring peace of mind for those willing to pay for total protection.
Finally, in Central Africa, in Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Blackhawk operates one of its most controversial branches. There, the company is responsible for safeguarding valuable mineral resources—from coltan mines to diamond fields—in an environment where BHS often finds itself directly involved in both the stabilization and, at times, the destabilization of the region's most lucrative areas.
The Blackhawk Syndicate's headquarters are located in a sleek, modern building hidden among corporate offices in Los Angeles, California. The exterior is austere and unmarked, resembling an anonymous financial complex, though its interiors convey refined, cutting-edge elegance. The space is dominated by gray and black tones, with reinforced glass walls reflecting the cold lights of corridors and minimalist meeting rooms. It is here that confidential negotiations take place with high-profile clients ranging from governments to billionaire individuals, multinational corporations, and—on occasion—organizations with obscure or outright illegal purposes.
The BHS personnel represent one of the most audacious and specialized forces in the private security sector. Recruitment is based on a combination of technical expertise and total adherence to the company's values, which primarily reward the ability to operate without excessive moral restraint. Most operatives, like Walt himself, come from the U.S. military—highly trained soldiers from elite special forces, eager to offer their skills for prices far higher than the increasingly unappealing salaries paid by the government. Among the most common profiles are also former fighters from European private militias who served in war zones such as Syria and Iraq, as well as veterans of the Russian special forces, the "Spetsnaz."
The Blackhawk Syndicate deals in far more than simple security: its reputation is also tied to covert military interventions that often violate international treaties and defy ethical boundaries. At its Los Angeles headquarters, the division for clandestine operations coordinates missions such as the elimination of inconvenient political figures, the protection of arms traffickers, and the support of dictatorial regimes. The agency's unofficial motto is "Neutrality is the first value"—a concept that justifies its willingness to serve anyone who can pay the price.
Walt moves with efficiency and cunning through this controversial world, always in close contact with the highest levels of power. He has quickly earned the respect of figures who, as one might imagine, are not exactly approachable. But he is not alone. At his side are two trusted men, working on very different fronts yet equally vital to BHS's success.
Pieter "The Colonel" Kruger is a South African with rough manners and a stare that leaves no room for argument. His face bears the marks of twenty years of missions never spoken of, medals unpinned but ever present. His raw, disillusioned understanding of war zones proves invaluable during those late nights when Walt finds himself finalizing the plan for a dangerous operation. On the evenings he doesn't spend poring over Blackhawk dossiers, Pieter devotes himself to rugby—shutting himself in his office, beer in hand, rewatching old black-and-white matches as if they were snapshots of past battles.
On a very different level operates Marcello De Luca, a Roman expatriate in London, always immaculate in a tailored suit and designer tie. His elegance is not merely superficial—Marcello was raised with a natural gift for carefully chosen words, well-timed smiles, and an uncanny ability to read people as if they were open books. The son of a diplomat and an art dealer, he grew up surrounded by the murky air of discreet business and diplomatic handshakes. Yet those who know his background understand that there is much more behind his smile: his connections include names linked to powerful criminal organizations, both Italian and international—people no one would dare to cross. It is he who brings to Blackhawk a refined, invisible network of invaluable contacts. In his office, on the rare occasions he finds himself alone, opera music blares at full volume, filling the room with melodic, moving arias that seem to momentarily fracture the image of the unflappable businessman. Yet, at the end of each day, he closes the door behind him, lights a cigarette, and smiles with quiet satisfaction—for him, every signed contract strengthens his standing in an exclusive world that both respects and fears him.
Pieter "The Colonel" Kruger had met Walt Dawson amid the dust and rubble of Syria. It was a nameless mission for clients whose identities no one dared to know. Both operated as "outsiders," and the assignment had forced them to share a hideout in an abandoned village. There, Pieter had watched Walt move without hesitation, as if he possessed a sixth sense for danger. For a man like Pieter—used to seasoned but reckless soldiers—that disciplined, seemingly detached twenty-four-year-old was something new. One night, with explosions thundering nearby, the two exchanged a brief look of understanding: it was time to act. Without speaking, they slipped into the darkness to eliminate an enemy patrol, working together as if they'd done it for years. When they returned to the hideout, Pieter, a man who never wasted words, simply said, "You work well." Walt didn't reply; he just kept cleaning his weapon. From that moment on, a quiet respect bound them, forged in that night, and Pieter knew he could face anything with Walt by his side.
Marcello De Luca, on the other hand, had met Walt in a far more refined setting: an exclusive dinner in Geneva, where discussions revolved around strategic resources and offshore financing. Walt wasn't on the guest list—he was there only to "verify" the event's security—but Marcello had immediately noticed the attentive American with a steady, discreet stride that made him almost invisible among the tables. Perhaps the young soldier's background didn't match that of most of the attendees, yet he never seemed out of place—quite the opposite. During a break, Marcello had approached him. "Impressive security here, wouldn't you say?" he remarked, flashing one of his well-practiced smiles. Walt responded with a brief nod and a measured look of courtesy. Later, as they left the venue, they exchanged a few words, and Marcello realized that Walt knew how to listen and observe—rare qualities in that world. In the months that followed, Marcello offered him a contract with the Blackhawk Syndicate; Walt accepted without asking many questions, and Marcello soon watched their collaboration grow, finding in him the same determined efficiency he had glimpsed that night in Geneva.
Since then, Walt's relationships with Pieter and Marcello had always been built on silence and swift understanding, forged in the kind of situations where trust is earned in the field—without ever needing too many words. For them, right and wrong are irrelevant. What matters is that the job gets done—and that the final payment always arrives on time.
Yet a crucial turning point was drawing near. Walt was about to embark on an enterprise so ambitious it would put everything he had built on the line. Something ancient and dark—a knot never untied—a calling that seemed to have waited his entire life in silence, gathering strength like a storm on the horizon. There were no ready-made strategies, no tactical or operational structures that could give him an edge. The weapons, the men, the resources—everything he had relied upon until now—would no longer be enough. There was only the echo of a place that seemed to draw him in, a place that could neither be mastered nor bought, that existed beyond his will, beyond his entire life. And yet, that was where Walt had to go.
He knew that what awaited him would test him like no mission before. Nothing he had faced could prepare him for the step he was about to take.
But first, there was one last contract to close.
* * *
Meeting Room Four of the Blackhawk Syndicate was an imposing blend of essential luxury and comfort. Wide black leather chairs, a dark glass table, and contemporary art—mostly photography—hung on the walls, harmonizing with the minimalist decor. On the table, arranged neatly on a heavy slate tray, sat a carafe of sparkling water, crystal glasses, and a sixty-year-old bottle of McClutcheon whisky. The warm light of an almost-summer sun flooded the vast window overlooking Los Angeles. Below, the shimmer of cars trapped in traffic and the glint of heated asphalt wavered in a surreal urban mirage.
Walt stood, watching the guests enter the room. The man, broad-shouldered and solid, with a faint beard, wore a dark suit and a gray tie. From the inside pocket of his jacket hung a heavy gold chain that swayed slightly as he took his seat. The woman, with sharp, observant eyes, wore her long raven hair pinned back with a silver clasp. She, too, was dressed in black, but a string of pearls and a gold bracelet studded with tiny diamonds caught the light.
They entered without speaking, offering only a brief nod to Walt, who was already pouring three glasses of the precious whisky reserved for special clients. It was the woman who broke the silence.
— To a job well done. Clean, as always, — she said in Russian, raising her glass.
Walt gave a faint smile and replied in Russian.
— That's why you choose us.
The word "clean" seemed to linger in the air longer than it should. The woman studied him closely, but Walt didn't flinch.
— The operation was more complicated than expected, — the man said, his voice low, deliberate. — A few unexpected variables.
— It always is, — Walt replied, taking a sip of whisky.
The Russians' eyes glinted for an instant—a silent agreement. The woman let a faint, sly smile cross her lips.
— Our Donbass. There were surprises then, too. But the job was flawless.
— It's a good sign that you remember, — said Walt, gauging their reactions.
— Blackhawk keeps its promises, — the man added. — And we value consistency.
Walt sipped the whisky again, then set his glass down calmly. His eyes drifted for a moment over the city below.
— Sometimes, though, consistency isn't enough. There are opportunities that go beyond a simple "job well done." Strategic ones... unique ones.
The silence thickened. The man and the woman exchanged a glance—impassive, but Walt sensed their interest.
— You're talking about significant sums? — the woman asked.
— Sums, yes. But more than that. Something that lasts.
The man tilted his head slightly.
— An advantage.
Walt nodded.
— Exactly.
Another exchange of glances between the two Russians. Then the woman leaned forward slightly.
— We're open to considering it.
— But we'll need a broader context, — the man added. — Another level of discussion.
— You're familiar with Siberia? — the woman asked.
Walt smiled faintly.
— I've passed through.
— Then pass through again, — she said calmly. — You'll be received at headquarters.
Walt set his glass carefully on the table.
— All right.
They stood without another word. The woman gave him a final nod while the man adjusted his cufflinks and turned away without speaking. When they left, the door closed with a sharp click. Walt remained standing, the glass still in his hand, his gaze lost in the warm lights of Los Angeles shimmering beyond the window. As night fell, he felt that dark pull growing stronger—the one that led back to something deeper, long buried.
Walt pulled out his smartphone, just a quick glance at his notifications. A message from Marcello—problem solved. Then his thoughts returned to the mission that now called to him, leaving no room for second thoughts.