CHAPTER 21 — "THE SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH"
"Today's wars are undeclared. They arise discreetly, stitched together by interests and unofficial alliances. And, when we realize it, the men in the field are already fighting without knowing which flag still represents the truth."
— Dylan Travers, internal report, March 2015
Langley, Virginia — March 1, 2015 | 4:58 AM | CIA Headquarters – Special Operations Building, Room 3-F
The sky was still dark over Langley, but inside Room 3-F reserved for sensitive and joint operations briefings the atmosphere was thick as lead. The air was cold, and the windowless walls seemed to absorb the sound of every word spoken.
Dylan Travers sat at the table. He wore dark jeans and a gray tactical shirt. Short hair, his gaze fixed on the reports before him. An untouched cup of black coffee lay beside him. He had been there for ten minutes when Kaitlyn Meade entered. Without a word, she handed an encrypted flash drive to one of the technicians, who immediately projected the data onto the LED screen on the wall.
Right behind her came Byron Kessler, the Deputy Director of Operations. The two were more tense than usual. Dylan noticed. They only brought this kind of energy when the terrain was shaky—and the names, dangerous.
The screen displayed the words in white letters:
OPERATION BROKEN LINE
CLASSIFICATION: DELTA-9
THEATRE: SOUTH AMERICA – TRIPLE BORDER (BRAZIL/PARAGUAY/ARGENTINA)
Kaitlyn began:
— "Reports from the last ten days, coming from ABIN and confirmed by our listening stations in Foz do Iguaçu, indicate something new: coordinated movement between Hezbollah elements and possible Iranian operators."
Byron continued:
"We intercepted three coded communications between encrypted Iranian cell phones. The messages mention a delivery of 'ivory' and 'precision instruments.'"
Dylan frowned.
"Old codes. Used in Syria and southern Lebanon to describe specialized weaponry."
Kaitlyn nodded.
"Exactly. Now they're being used in South America. That alone would be enough to justify action. But there's more."
She changed the slide.
The image was of a grenade, from a thermal camera. Four figures walking through the jungle in tactical formation. A fifth man behind them, with something that looked like a metal briefcase.
Byron looked at Dylan.
"These men have a Spetsnaz profile. We confirmed it by their posture, their movement, and by a visible tattoo on one of the operatives: the symbol of the GRU, the Russian military intelligence. They are from the Zaslon Group, a clandestine special support unit."
Dylan squinted. "Zaslon in South America? That's absurd."
"It's real," Kaitlyn replied. "If they're here, it means Moscow is directly involved. The theory: they're consulting with Hezbollah and Iran to establish a new operational cell on the continent. Not just logistical but active."
Byron moved to the next slide.
"Our sources indicate that a possible attack is being planned. A test. Small scale. Chemical or radiological capability. Perhaps something improvised, but enough to cause panic. Possible execution location: Asunción, Paraguay."
Dylan nodded.
"They're testing the limits. Away from the media. On permissive ground. They want to see what they can do without triggering a direct response."
"Your mission," Kaitlyn said, "is to infiltrate, confirm the cell's presence, identify the Russian operators, and, if possible, disrupt the operation. It's not an execution mission, unless there's no alternative. Paraguay is an ally, but it's not authorized to participate in this action."
Dylan took a deep breath. After a long silence, he replied:
"Then I'm going to the invisible war."
Byron nodded.
"The most dangerous of all."
Asunción, Paraguay — March 4, 2015 | 3:47 PM | Bourbon Hotel, Room 316
Dylan looked out the window of the third floor, from where he had a direct view of the building across the street a front office used by a Paraguayan "logistics" company, which, according to ABIN informants, was one of the group's points of contact.
He was wearing light jeans, a blue dress shirt, and a blazer a mix of business tourist and NGO worker. On the table, besides a glass of water and a pen, were three more valuable tools: binoculars with digital zoom, a foldable microdrone, and an encrypted monitoring tablet.
On the screen, the faces of two men were prominently displayed:
ALAA SAID — Lebanese, Venezuelan passport. Known Hezbollah facilitator.
DMITRY VASILYEV — Former FSB, linked to the GRU. Last confirmed location: Grozny, 2013.
Dylan sighed.
A slight noise. Someone knocked on the bedroom door. Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks.
Signal confirmed.
Dylan opened the door.
Rodrigo Cássio, the captain of the Brazilian Army's Force 3, entered the room, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He was Dylan's only reliable point of contact on the ground. He had been assigned by ABIN to act as a clandestine facilitator.
— "We have news," Rodrigo said. "One of the Russians was seen last night entering an abandoned laboratory in the industrial zone. He was with two men from the Middle East. Large briefcase. They stayed inside for almost two hours. They left separately."
Dylan picked up the tablet and pointed to the map.
— "Chemical laboratory? Or a front?"
— "Former agricultural testing center. Closed since 2011. But it has a reinforced basement and an independent generator. Perfect place to handle… sensitive material."
— "Can you take me there without drawing attention?"
Rodrigo smiled dryly.
— "I have a car with a fake license plate and a route behind the docks. But it needs to be today. They're moving fast."
Dylan grabbed his holster and fastened his suppressed Glock 19.
— "Then let's go now. Before the shadow turns to smoke."
Asunción – Industrial Zone | 6:52 PM
The sun hid behind the city towers. The industrial zone was almost deserted abandoned warehouses, ruined sheds, unlit streetlights. Rodrigo's car stopped 200 meters from the target. Dylan got out, adjusted his cap, grabbed his light backpack containing the drone, thermal camera, and an emergency pistol.
They advanced through an alley.
Dylan approached a broken window, positioned the microdrone, and released it. The small device entered through the gap and began transmitting.
Night video.
Five men. One of them: Vasilyev. Confirmed.
Another: Said.
Table with vials, tubes, trigger devices.
And something else: a lead box.
Dylan froze the image.
— "They have radiological material. It's not theory. It's real."
Rodrigo murmured:
— "They're going to detonate it. Soon."
— "We need to act."
— "Officially, we're not here."
Dylan picked up the encrypted radio and contacted Langley.
Kaitlyn answered.
— "Speak, Dylan."
— "It's real. RDD material confirmed. Hezbollah and Zaslon operators. In Asunción. Rapid movement. Target: unknown, but ready for execution."
Kaitlyn hesitated to respond.
— "Authorized to intervene. Covert mode. If possible, capture Vasilyev. But don't hesitate. This is war."
Dylan hung up.
— "Let's defuse a bomb. And cut the fuse at the base of the neck."
8:15 PM | Infiltration
Dylan and Rodrigo entered through a side door, silently eliminating the only guard. They entered the warehouse.
Prrft.
Two shots, two bodies.
But the noise alerted the others.
Gunshots. Echo on the concrete.
Dylan rolled to cover. Rodrigo flanked from the left.
Said tried to escape Dylan shot, hitting him in the leg. He shouted something in Arabic.
Vasilev appeared behind a column.
Cold eyes. Russian rifle in hand.
— "Amerikanski," he said with a smile.
Dylan replied in Russian:
— "You shouldn't have come to my continent."
Bang! Two bursts. Both hit. Dylan was grazed. Vasasilev fell, shot in the collarbone and shoulder. He didn't die.
Rodrigo deactivated the device. The lead box had its seal broken, but the timer was still stopped.
Mission accomplished.
But the war was only beginning.
Langley – March 8th | 10:45 AM
Dylan sat before Kaitlyn.
— "You did what was necessary," she said.
— "And now?"
"Now... we're preparing for the next phase. The game is moving. And the pieces... are becoming more and more alike."
CHAPTER 22 — "IN SILENCE, PEACE"
"Sometimes, saving the world leaves no trace. No headlines, no monuments, no medals. Only silence — the kind that weighs more than any explosion."
— Dylan Travers, personal note, March 2015
Fairfax County, Virginia — March 15, 2015 | 6:27 PM | Dylan and Amanda Travers' Home
The afternoon lazily fell over the county sky. A golden hue kissed the rooftops, touched the windowpanes, and descended through the leafless trees, scratching the horizon in amber tones. In the backyard of house number 48 Hillford Lane, the gentle steam of heated water rose from the pool built into the covered area, while the low sound of jazz filled the air as a backdrop discreet, constant, intimate.
Amanda Ellis Travers, in a black bikini and her hair pulled back in a relaxed bun, was in the pool, floating on her back, eyes closed, arms open as if embracing the moment. There was a lightness about her. A lightness she rarely allowed herself. She wasn't in the field. She wasn't behind a screen analyzing thermal images. She wasn't writing reports. She was there. Present.
On the other side of the pool, Dylan slowly descended the submerged steps, his muscles still tense, the recent wound on his left shoulder a grazing bullet burn covered by a discreet bandage. He wore simple black swim trunks, nothing flashy, but the kind of clothing that revealed the disciplined physique of a man forged by rigor. His face was lightly shaved. His eyes, quiet, but alert.
Amanda opened her eyes when she heard the footsteps in the water.
"You have that look of someone who's still on the mission."
Dylan stopped at the shallow end, dove up to his neck, and ran a hand through his wet hair.
— "Maybe because the mission isn't over. It just changed form."
She swam slowly closer until her hand touched his chest. They stayed like that, in the center of the pool, surrounded by warm water, steam, and silence. She rested her head on his shoulder, careful of the injury.
— "Is it bad?"
— "No. Just a reminder."
— "Of what?"
— "That I'm not untouchable yet."
She sighed.
— "You never were. The difference is that now you have someone who cares about every scratch."
Dylan kissed the top of her head. The water around them rippled gently. Outside, the world kept turning crises, wars, secret operations. But there, on those warm ceramic edges, time seemed suspended.
[FLASHBACK — Four days earlier | [Langley, Room 4-E]
Kaitlyn entered the room with firm steps, but her expression was neutral. Dylan stood with his arms crossed, awaiting the debriefing of the operation that had concluded in Asunción. Next to Kaitlyn was Byron Kessler.
"The operation was officially classified as inconclusive," said Byron. "No mention of the presence of Russian or Iranian elements. The CIA removed all direct mention of the GRU from the report delivered to the National Security Council."
Dylan remained silent. Kaitlyn continued.
"Paraguay denied any knowledge. Moscow… snorted. Tehran, likewise. But neither can admit to operating clandestinely in South America."
"And Vasilyev?" asked Dylan.
"Discreetly extradited. Officially, a Ukrainian citizen involved in heavy metal trafficking. He'll disappear into some Polish prison with a new codename and false teeth."
Dylan gave a short, humorless laugh.
— "And nothing happened."
— "Nothing officially," Byron corrected. "But in here, we know what was avoided. And by whom."
Kaitlyn touched Dylan's shoulder the uninjured one.
— "Now go home. Really. Get some fresh air. Get some sun. Enjoy your wife. You still have her, Dylan. That's not common in our profession."
Dylan nodded.
— "I will. But I don't promise I'll be able to switch off."
Kaitlyn smiled.
— "Just try."
[End of flashback]
Amanda and Dylan were now sitting on the submerged pool step. Each with a glass of dry white wine beside them, poured minutes earlier by her. Amanda rested her head on Dylan's shoulder, who was more relaxed, his body loose, arms outstretched on the edge of the pool.
— "You know most normal people don't finish missions with gunshot wounds and then go swimming?"
Dylan laughed softly.
— "Maybe that's why we're not 'normal'."
— "Maybe that's why we understand each other so well."
Silence.
Amanda looked at the darkening sky.
— "Do you think this will all end someday?"
— "You mean, the missions?"
— "No. The need. The urgency. This eternal state of alert. The feeling that at any moment the phone could ring and the world depends on you catching the 2:17 AM flight."
Dylan thought for a moment.
— "I don't think so. I think this is part of who we are. But the difference now… is that when the phone rings, I'll look to the side, see you there, and remember that it's worth coming back."
Amanda was silent. She touched his hand, intertwining their fingers.
"Promise you'll always come back?"
Dylan shook his hand.
— "I promise to try. And when I can't… I promise I'll fight to come back. Until the end."
She kissed him. Slowly. Deeply. There, in the warm water, under the soft yellow light of the recessed lamps, they seemed to float outside of time.
Later — 10:04 PM | Master Bedroom
After drying off, having a light dinner, and putting away their wine glasses, they lay down together. The room was silent, except for the distant sound of an owl in the woods behind the house.
Dylan was reading a hardcover book "The Men of Mossad," a gift from Kaitlyn. Amanda, wearing one of his t-shirts, lay on her side, watching him.
— "You always read these things as if they were fiction."
— "Because sometimes it's easier to pretend it is."
— "But you live it."
— "Yes. And that's exactly why I need to pretend."
She turned, resting her head on his chest.
"Do you think we're making a difference?"
"Today? Yes. Nothing leaked. Nobody died. No buildings exploded. And... we're here. That's already more than many people achieve."
She closed her eyes.
"Then today was worthwhile."
"It was."
He turned off the bedside lamp. And in the darkness, in the silence that only those who have heard gunshots and sirens know how to appreciate, they slept.
The peace was fragile. But that night, it was real.
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