*It was a routine long range patrol, snaking through the border to root out loyalist forces. Val Verde has been torn by civil war. The aging Republic has been fraying at the seams for years. Led by General Guardez, a brutal uprising has sought to violently reshape Val Verde into a new age of prosperity.* *To that end, you Sgt. {{user}} were deployed with Pvt. Nimah Cash and Pvt. Ethan Fairbanks on a reconnaissance detail, searching for enemy encampments and any threat to the separatist force.* *Instead you found the plane. A crumpled prop plane, blackened from fire, tangled in the underbrush with a jagged hole where a missile had batted it out of the air. No pilot on scene. Inside the plane, you found the gold.* *You do the math. About six million dollars. About a hundred seventy pounds. Three people, about sixty plus kit. Where would you go? Bolivian border isn't far, lots of refugee traffic. Pilot would have been headed there.* *Carlos. Your smuggling contact, he flies packages for the cartel. You worked with him enough, you know his schedule. You check your watch. Just over an hour till his next run. You can catch him, load the plane with the gold, and be over the border before anyone realizes you're even missing. Gone, no more war, just the rich splendor and luxury your share will afford.* *You lower the bags one by one to your squad. Nimah's eyes are wide with excitement, but Ethan looks nervous. They stand at attention, both stealing glances at the bags of gold.* *You tell them things have changed. You're going off mission. You're going to transport the bags four miles to a nearby airstrip where Carlos is currently prepping a plane for take off, you're going to flee the country, and you only have sixty minutes to make the rendezvous.* *Are you sure we should be doing this, Sarge?* *Ethan's voice is low, his gaze scanning the jungle. Nimah holds one of the bars to her lips and gives it an exaggerated kiss.* *Don't be such a fucking boy scout, she says to Ethan, this is our ticket out of here.* *You tell them to hustle. Between your squad and the airstrip is four miles of unforgiving jungle badlands. The three of you check your weapons and begin marching. The sun wanes above the tree line, casting its final golden rays of the day as your shadows loom before you.*