The Army
The night air in Dallas was thick with jet fuel and humidity when Judd boarded the Gulfstream G550 on the private apron at Addison Airport. His contact had given him enough to warrant the trip south, but not enough to make him comfortable.
Sebastian Wolf was building more than laboratories and data centers. He was building an army.
As the Gulfstream sliced into the night sky, Judd leaned back in his seat and pulled a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket. His thoughts kept circling back to history—specifically, the British East India Company. At its peak in the 18th century, the Company wasn’t just a corporation; it was a sovereign empire. It controlled trade routes, levied taxes, minted currency, and commanded a private army of over 250,000 men—twice the size of Britain’s own standing army at the time. Governments feared it, monarchs negotiated with it, and nations were reshaped by it.
And now, Judd thought grimly, Wolf was using the same blueprint. The Black Tide wasn’t just a shadow network anymore—it was becoming a state unto itself, fueled by capital, technology, and a mercenary force loyal only to its paycheck. In a world of fragile governments and fractured alliances, Wolf’s empire could end up more powerful than nation-states.
The flight was smooth and uneventful. At Toluca International Airport, an FBO discreetly managed by the Order greeted him with the quiet efficiency of people used to moving operatives around the globe. Within thirty minutes, Judd was in the back of a black Suburban, heading east toward Mexico City as dusk bled across the horizon.
The skyline of the Distrito Federal rose in the distance, jagged against the mountains. Traffic thickened, horns blared, and street vendors threaded between cars. The Suburban rolled into Polanco, where Judd checked into the JW Marriott. Glass and steel reflected the sunset, and from his suite window the neighborhood stretched in a gleaming grid of luxury boutiques, leafy parks, and embassies. The heart of Mexico City’s elite.
He didn’t linger. At nightfall, he was on the move again.
The surveillance team had rigged a tourist minibus with state-of-the-art equipment—antenna arrays disguised as luggage racks, pinhole cameras embedded in the tinted windows, microphones tuned to catch conversations at fifty meters. The bus blended easily into the eclectic streets of Roma Norte, a neighborhood equal parts bohemian chic and restless energy.
Judd settled into a seat, slipped on a headset, and peered out at a corner café with graffiti on the walls and Edison bulbs glowing over a scattering of artists, students, and young professionals. At a table in the back, Crowder leaned forward, all angles and menace. Across from him sat a broad-shouldered man with the posture of a GI and the haircut to match.
The audio crackled into Judd’s ear.
“…you’ll have the men in Seoul within two weeks,” the American-accented mercenary was saying.
Crowder’s voice followed, smooth and dark. “Not men. Professionals. I want ghosts, not thugs. The facility must remain untouched. No infiltration. No leaks.”
“You’ll have a twenty-man unit,” the mercenary replied. “They’ve worked with your people before—Nigeria, Baku. They know how to follow orders.”
Crowder leaned back. “Payment terms as agreed. But let me be very clear…” His voice dropped into a hiss. “The Black Tide rewards loyalty handsomely. Betrayal, however, will be answered in kind. Your bones would bleach in the sun before the week is out.”
A pause. The mercenary shifted in his chair. “Understood.”
Crowder raised his glass. “Good. Then we’re finished here. Seoul awaits.”
Judd exhaled, pulling the headset off. Seoul. Another piece of the puzzle. He quickly typed a secure message to Josh in New York:
Black Tide deploying mercenary team to new Wolf facility in Seoul. Twenty-man detachment. Need manifests, locations, satellite tasking. Possible infiltration route. Urgent.
The bus rolled away, leaving Crowder’s laughter muffled by the city noise.
Back at the hotel, Judd paused before stepping inside. The streets were alive—vendors shouting over sizzling grills, the smell of al pastor and cilantro thick in the air. He ducked into a stand, ordered two tacos, and leaned against a wall while the grease dripped warm onto his fingers.
It was a small comfort against the enormity of what he’d just heard. Wolf’s reach was growing. His ambitions were global.
Tomorrow, Judd had a reservation at Pujol, Mexico City’s two-star Michelin temple of gastronomy. Tonight, though, the best meal in the city was on a street corner, eaten standing up, while a storm gathered in the distance.
