Chapter 4: Into the Lion’s Den
The small Cessna 680 cut through the night sky, its engines humming a low, steady drone over the Carpathian Mountains. Below, dense forests stretched in every direction, swallowing entire villages in their shadow.
Jasper Hawke sat near the window, his sharp eyes scanning the coordinates from Keller’s cipher one last time. The numbers had led them deep into Romania—a place called Bastion Ridge.
Across from him, Isabella Vega leaned back in her seat, casually sipping a tumbler of whiskey. “You’re unusually quiet,” she remarked.
Hawke didn’t respond immediately. He was piecing together the puzzle—Keller’s death, the cipher, NATO’s classified ‘Bastion’ project, and now this location buried in the mountains. Too many variables, and none of them fit cleanly.
Finally, he looked at her. “I don’t like walking into situations blind.”
Vega smirked. “Welcome to my world.”
The cockpit door slid open, and the pilot—a wiry man with Russian military tattoos—stepped into the cabin.
“We’re twenty minutes out,” he announced. “Weather’s holding, but the landing site is rough.”
Hawke nodded. “We’ll manage.”
The pilot hesitated. “You sure about this? There’s a reason no one flies over Bastion Ridge.”
Hawke studied him. “You know something?”
The pilot glanced at Vega. She gave him a slow nod, signaling it was safe to speak. He exhaled, lowering his voice.
“People disappear out there,” he muttered. “Hikers, researchers—military patrols. Some say there’s a hidden base. Others say it’s cursed.”
Hawke’s jaw tightened. Hidden base. That was more likely.
“Get us as close as you can,” he said.
The pilot sighed and returned to the cockpit.
Vega raised an eyebrow. “You believe in ghosts?”
Hawke checked his sidearm, sliding in a fresh magazine. “No,” he said. “But I believe in men who don’t want to be found.”
The Descent
The aircraft dipped lower, skimming the treetops as the pilot guided them toward a clearing near the ridge. Hawke peered out the window and saw nothing but endless black forest, stretching toward a jagged rock formation that loomed like the ruins of an ancient fortress.
Then he saw it—a glint of something metallic among the trees.
“Hold here,” he told the pilot. “Circle once.”
As the aircraft banked, he focused on the clearing. At first, it looked natural—just a patch of forest floor. But the reflection had come from something unnatural.
Hawke pulled out a pair of infrared binoculars.
There. A faint heat signature.
Someone—or something—was down there.
He turned to Vega. “We’re not alone.”
Touchdown
The landing was rough, but the Cessna held steady as its wheels dug into the uneven terrain. Hawke was the first to step out, the night air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth.
Vega followed, adjusting the silencer on her pistol. “Which way?”
Hawke pointed toward the heat signature’s last location. “There.”
They moved fast, cutting through the undergrowth, their movements silent, precise. Years of training had made Hawke an expert in shadow operations. Vega was just as good.
Within minutes, they reached the source of the reflection—an old, rusted watchtower, half-buried in the trees.
Hawke’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just a clearing. It was a remnant of something much older.
He crouched, running a hand over the metal. Not rust. Bullet scars.
“This was a fight,” he murmured.
Vega scanned the area, her gaze sharp. “And recently.”
Hawke followed her line of sight—and froze.
A corpse, half-hidden under leaves, lay slumped against the tower’s foundation. Gunshot wound. Close range.
Hawke knelt beside the body, searching the man’s pockets. No ID. No markings. But his boots—military grade. Western make.
Vega frowned. “This guy wasn’t local.”
Hawke’s instincts were screaming. Someone else had been here—recently.
Then, a twig snapped.
Both of them turned, weapons drawn.
From the darkness, a shadow moved—silent, precise.
A voice drifted from the trees. Cold. Calculated.
“You should not have come here, Mr. Hawke.”
Hawke didn’t hesitate. He spun toward the voice—finger tightening on the trigger.
Then the world exploded.
