The Devil Walks Again

[ Afghanistan ] [ One and half months later ]

Even under the roar of rotors, the weak tribes merely cowered in crumbling homes. But the seasoned, defiant factions—the ones who had stood against Soviets, British, and now Americans—weren't intimidated. They shot back.

Packed into a chopper might feel secure, but to the bold, they were just targets in the sky. More than once, the team had to abandon air travel and advance on foot through hostile terrain.

Even holding back her true power, Daisy's physical edge made itself known. She had no preference for pistols—she wielded anything like it was born in her hand.

In firefights, her presence tipped the scales. Without asking, the team began deferring to her lead. On paper, Rhodes remained in command, but everyone knew who was truly running things.

After six grueling weeks in Afghanistan, the novelty wore off. What remained were dust, blood, and silence. Over a dozen firefights later, they still hadn't gotten a single word from the locals—just muzzle flashes.

Daisy's calm orders and flawless combat instincts earned her more than grudging respect. Even the most skeptical soldiers now treated her as their axis.

Fifty agents and soldiers, six weeks of skirmishes, countless enemies neutralized—only four injuries, no deaths. But Stark? Still missing.

The weight of failure pressed heavier with each passing day. Even Daisy, usually unmoved, felt the sting of it. For Rhodes, it was agony wearing the uniform while his best friend remained lost.

Discarding her spent M4, Daisy drew her pistol and cleanly finished off the last target, stepping over the body without flinching.

Then came orders—sharp, efficient.

"Jimmy, ask the tribe elder how far the next stronghold is."

"Alan, ammo count. Now."

She turned to Rhodes. "Colonel, call in Global Hawk. I want full terrain data—fifty-mile radius."

After giving her orders, Daisy retreated to the RV for a much-needed shower. Sand, sweat, and the stench of gunpowder clung to her like a second skin. All the female agents and female soldiers followed her in silence.

The RV had been modified for hygiene, and because Daisy's authority was absolute, no one objected. The others ladies quietly benefitted by association.

Privacy wasn't a luxury in warzones. The RV could barely accommodate ten at once, and bathing was done together, without mist, without concealment—only discipline.

The difference between bodies was subtle in uniform but blatant here. Aside from Barbara's athletic frame, most of the others bore the signs of hard training, not natural poise.

Daisy stood apart, her pale skin untouched by sun or suffering. Her form, even now, was statuesque—untouched by exhaustion, unnervingly flawless.

At first, some muttered quietly—fragments of envy wrapped in forced camaraderie. But time and exposure dulled the edge. She wasn't one of them, and never pretended to be.

She dined with diplomats and danced through gunfire. They all knew it. The comparison was pointless.

Barbara, never shy, reached out. "How's your skin still perfect?" Her tone wasn't bitter—just baffled—as her hand brushed Daisy's arm, then her back.

Daisy tilted her head, gaze unreadable. "It's natural," she replied with a slow smirk, slipping away from the question—and the hand—like smoke. "You've got a great figure too. I always assumed gymnasts were flat-chested… are you an exception?"

Daisy casually shifted the focus, not because she minded attention, but because there was nothing to explain. Her skin didn't dry out, didn't burn—whether in a desert or near a volcano, it remained flawless. Trying to explain that wouldn't end well, so she redirected.

The other women eagerly joined in, swapping crude training-room banter about poles, balance beams, and the hazards of proximity.

Barbara didn't flinch. She defended her old gymnastic teammates with amused pride and used the moment to school the female soldiers on physiology, seamlessly shifting into a half-lecture about male athleticism.

Daisy tolerated the noise for a minute, then rinsed off the desert, redressed, and slipped away. She had no patience for pointless conversations.

Initially, commanding military personnel had been a logistical mess. As a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, she had no formal military authority.

Her Level 7 clearance was irrelevant out here, so she made the necessary call—Nick Fury handled the paperwork.

After negotiations and a gentle word from O'Neal, Daisy was given the honorary rank of Air Force Major—no pay, no benefits, just enough to shut people up.

Lower than Colonel Rhodes, above Captain America's old title. Rank was theater. Influence was power.

"Sir, topographic scans from recon."

"Sir, local force distribution from tribal intel."

"Sir…"

The soldiers, men and women alike, referred to her as "sir," the standard military address. At first it amused her—now, it was just another mask.

"Jimmy, go ask the tribe elder what this word means and how to say it in English?" Daisy pointed to the faded script on the tribal map, her voice clipped and cool.

Afghanistan was a linguistic nightmare. Two valleys apart and you were in another dialect. Luckily, after years of war, enough of the locals had picked up broken English.

Jimmy was a Tennessee farm boy. His dream? Go home, plant corn, marry a wife, raise kids, live simple. Right now, he dragged over the trembling tribal elder like a sack of flour.

Daisy didn't know Pashto, nor did she care to learn it. She assumed the elder knew enough English. Pointing at a dot, she asked again, "This word. How do you say it in English?"

The old man hesitated. Jimmy cocked the pistol with mechanical ease, muzzle settling on the elder's forehead without drama or threat. Just certainty.

The elder's plump gut wobbled with panic. Fat like his was rare in this war-torn dust bowl—it meant connections, hoarded goods, and corruption.

His eyes darted to the spot on the map, mind scrambling. "Konami? Korami? Korami, yes… it's Korami." he said quickly, breath shaking.

Daisy had it confirmed twice. Korami. Only fifteen kilometers southwest. Close enough to bite.

Daisy had been hunting for Korami since landing in this godforsaken place. It was known to be a Ten Rings stronghold, if her memory was right. If they found the town, Stark wouldn't be far.

But the inconsistency of local languages was maddening. This was the third "Korami" she'd heard. Spelling was a luxury they didn't have.

No room for error. They chose the ruthless option. Leave the wounded to guard the aircraft, re-check the coordinates, and roll out. Forty-five agents and soldiers mounted up, engines humming low as they turned toward the southwest, hunting shadows.

To Be Continued...

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