They found the clinic at the end of a gravel lane, rain hammering its tin roof. The front door hung open. Inside, a single fluorescent light buzzed and flickered over a reception desk splashed with blood.

Morrow closed his eyes for a long second. Then he gave the order. “We contain the area. No shots unless I call it. Vega, you and Kō flank south. Phlox, jam every frequency except ours. Driscoll, hold the extraction point.”

A voice answered from the dark. Calm. Almost amused. “Morrow. I read your file. You’re supposed to be dead.” A pause. “You ever wonder if we’re the same program? Different patch on the shoulder, same leash.”

The rain over Louisiana had not stopped for three days. In the attic of a collapsed plantation house, five men sat in a circle of dim lantern light. They were not friends. They were Manhunters—operatives of a secret international contract agency that only activated when Interpol, the FBI, and the UN collectively admitted failure.

Outside, rain turned to thunder. Vega knelt by tire tracks leading into the swamp—not away from it. “He doubled back,” Vega whispered. “He’s not trying to escape. He’s drawing us in, one by one.”

Their target: Subject 29. Escaped from a black-site medical transport three weeks ago. Former special forces, later augmented with experimental adrenal-splicing and bone-density weaving. He had killed seventeen people since breaking free, including two of their own—Manhunters who had tracked him to a warehouse in Baton Rouge and never walked out.

No one argued.