The Central American jungle hummed with pre-dawn chaos, the air thick with humidity and the roar of a chopper's blades slicing through the mist.
Dutch's elite team, decked in camo gear, ammo belts jangling, clambered aboard, faces set like they were about to arm-wrestle Satan.
Raja, strutting in last, his Chaos Watch glinting like a sci-fi prop, caught the death stares of Blain and Mac, still salty from his match-day beatdown.
Their glares could've melted steel, but Raja flashed his iconic evil smirk, all teeth and Demi-God Swagger, sending shivers down their spines.
"Morning, fellas—still icing those egos?" he purred, winking.
Blain growled, "Keep grinning, kid, I'll plant you in this jungle!"
Mac hissed, "Yeah, watch it, Mr. Fancy Muscles!"
Raja leaned in, "Aw, you two are cuter when you're mad—group hug?"
The duo sputtered, faces redder than a baboon's butt, as Poncho snorted, "They're gonna need therapy after this kid!"
Dutch just shook his head, muttering, "Save the soap opera for after the mission."
Billy Sole, stoic as a rock, stood and offered Raja his seat, a silent nod of respect that had the team raising eyebrows.
Poncho whispered, "Billy's playing nice with the rookie? Softie alert!"
Blain scoffed, "What's next, braiding his hair?"
Billy ignored them, his gaze locked on Raja's Trishul-Om tattoo, a flicker of awe in his eyes.
Raja plopped down, whispering, "Smooth move, Navajo—you're racking up cool points."
MAYA: "Master, you've got a fan club already—Naru's president!" The chopper lurched skyward, dropping the team in a jungle clearing, vines tangling like nature's worst knitting project.
As the chopper buzzed off, Raja flicked on Telepathy, scanning a one-mile radius like a human radar.
His mind pinged a crashed chopper, wedged in a giant tree like a drunk pilot's parking job. "Jackpot," he muttered, bolting toward it, his speed march in the wood nothing but a miracle.
Raja reached the wreck, whistling sharply to summon the team.
Billy, senses razor-sharp, jogged up first, the others stumbling through vines.
"Kid moves like a damn cheetah," Blain grumbled, swatting a mosquito.
Poncho, nimble as a goat, scaled the tree, peering into the chopper's mangled cockpit, then slid down, face grim. "Major, chopper ate a heat seeker—pilots are pancaked, and this bird's loaded with spy gear, not your average Armed taxi."
Billy, sniffing the air like a bloodhound and checked the area with Hawk eyes, added, "Major, twelve guerrillas hit this spot, snatched two guys. Also, six dudes in US Army boots rolled in from the north, tailing the guerrillas."
Dillon, strolling up, kept his face blank as a mannequin.
Dutch's eyes narrowed, chewing his cigar, "Heat seeker, Dillon? That's fancy for jungle yokels. And six US Army guys? What's the real story?"
Dillon shrugged, cool as a cucumber, "Guerrillas are upgrading, I guess. The six? Probably rebel wannabes."
Raja, catching Dillon's lie with Telepathy, smirked, thinking, "Oh, Dillon, you sneaky fox—spill the tea later!"
MAYA: "Master, he's hiding more secrets than a soap opera villain!"
Raja's Telepathy pinged again—three dead bodies, hanging upside down in a nearby clearing. He whistled for Billy, who jogged over, the team trailing like grumpy ducklings.
Raja lounged on a tree trunk, pointing casually, "Billy, check the big tree—brace for a gore fest."
Billy climbed, then froze, cursing, "Sweet mother of—!" Three bodies dangled, skinned from head to toe, guts spilling like a slasher flick's wet dream.
The team gagged, Blain retching, "Who the hell carves people like Thanksgiving turkeys?!"
Mac clutched his stomach, "I'm never eating ribs again!"
Poncho muttered, "This is some voodoo bullshit!"
Dutch checked the dog tags, face darkening, "Jim Hopper, Green Beret, Fort Bragg—my old squad mate."
He rounded on Dillon, voice like gravel, "Who sent Hopper's team, and why'd you keep us in the dark?!"
Dillon snapped, "I don't call the shots, Dutch—yell at the Pentagon!"
Raja, whispering to Billy, "These two fight like my cousins over the last samosa."
Billy confused, "what is a samosa master Demon."
Billy, scanning the scene, told Dutch, "Major, it's freaky—firefight went wild, bullets spraying everywhere, but no guerrilla tracks. The rest of Hopper's team? Vanished, no footprints, like ghosts snatched 'em."
Raja nodded, "Like they got beamed up by aliens—spooky, huh?"
Dutch's jaw tightened, "Go silent, stay sharp. Billy, track the guerrilla trail to their camp—we hit it, grab the hostages, end these bastards."
The team slunk through the jungle, reaching the guerrilla camp in an hour, a ramshackle base crawling with armed goons.
Dutch, eyeing a truck rigged as a generator, grinned, "We slap a time bomb on that truck, aim it at their canteen, and turn this place into a barbecue."
Raja clapped, "Major, you're my kinda crazy—let's light it up!"
Dutch rigged the bomb, and the team steered the truck, driverless, to plow into the canteen at Mach speed.
The truck screamed in, exploding in a fireball that swallowed the canteen, shrapnel flying like a piñata from hell. The firefight erupted, a cacophony of gunfire and screams.
Dutch's team fanned out, predators in their own right.
Blain, wielding a minigun, shredded a guerrilla squad, roaring, "Taste the rainbow, assholes!"
Poncho lobbed grenades, blasting tents into confetti, cackling, "Who's hungry for boom?!" Billy, cool as ice, picked off snipers with surgical shots, muttering, "Next."
Mac, perched in a tree, sniped a machine-gunner, growling, "Lights out, punk!"
Dutch, dual-wielding like a cowboy, dropped five guerrillas, barking, "Stay frosty, boys!"
Raja, cloaked, weaved through the chaos, using Telekinesis to jam enemy rifles, whispering, "Oops, gun's on vacation!"
Dillon, covering the flank, gunned down stragglers, shouting, "Push forward, damn it!" The guerrillas returned fire, AKs blazing, but the team's precision was lethal.
Raja tripped a fleeing soldier with Telekinesis, chuckling, "Nice sprint, loser!" Blain took a graze to the arm, cursing, "Mother—my tattoo's fucked!" In ten minutes, the camp was a smoking graveyard, the team standing tall, Blain's scratch the only damage.
Dutch, catching his breath, rounded on Dillon, "You lied, Dillon—this wasn't a rescue, it was a hit squad!"
Dillon fired back, "Orders from the brass, Dutch—obey or go knit sweaters in retirement!"
He grabbed a guerrilla woman hostage, snarling, "She'll squeal on their other camps."
Raja, perched on a ridge, spotted a cloaked Predator watching from a tree, its heat signature pulsing via Telepathy.
He played dumb, whistling a jaunty tune, "Lovely day for a jungle party, eh?"
Dutch checked the map, barking, "Poncho, take point!"
Mac swatted a scorpion off Dillon's back, grumbling, "Pay attention, desk jockey!"
Hawkins, cracking a dirty joke to Billy had him doubled over, wheezing.
But Billy froze, sensing eyes, backing away, rifle up. Finding nothing, he relaxed—until Raja materialized, hand on his shoulder, spooking him. "Christ, master Demon !" Billy gasped.
Raja's smile was pure calm, "Don't sweat it when I'm around Bill."y
Billy whispered, "Master Demon, sky monster's here?"
Raja nodded, "Been stalking us since we touched down. Tell Dutch you saw an alien? They'll fit you for a straitjacket till it shows its ugly mug."
The team trekked toward the rendezvous point, the guerrilla woman bolting.
Hawkins tackled her, snarling, "Don't pull that again!"
Dillon echoed, "Next time, you're history!"
Raja, strolling like it was a park, used Telepathy as a radar, pinging the Predator lurking in the branches. He parked on a rock, waiting.
Billy jogged up, "Master Demon, why the pit stop?"
Raja, all chill, "Billy, scope it out—what's your gut saying? Don't tip the enemy."
Billy's senses screamed, but the Predator's cloak was too slick. "Something's out there, but I can't lock it down," he muttered.
The team arrived, eyeing Raja's relaxed vibe. Dutch approached, "Billy, what's got you twitchy?"
Billy, spooked, said, "Major, something's in those trees—can't nail it." Just then, the hostage girl clocked Hawkins with a branch and sprinted. Hawkins, cursing, gave chase.
Raja's vibe shifted, "Billy, I'm on it. Keep the team tight—eyes everywhere." He zoomed through the jungle, Telepathy tracking Hawkins and the girl.
Hawkins cornered her, gun raised, as she tripped, "Freeze!" A cloaked Predator dropped from a tree, blades flashing.
Raja, right on time, sprinted in, roundhouse-kicking the Predator's chest, sending it crashing through branches like a ragdoll.
The team, hearing the chaos, rushed up, finding Hawkins and the girl slack-jawed.
Raja, smirking, dusted his hands, "Boys, your hunt's wrapped—my hunt's just getting spicy."
To Be Continued…