Having made their decision, Omega Squad retraced their steps. Unlike their cautious approach earlier, this time they moved much faster.
They were only about thirty minutes behind the group they had previously encountered. If they picked up the pace, they'd catch up quickly.
Although Owen knew the chances that the group had acquired the hard drive were slim, he still wanted to try. It wasn't just about the hard drive—he also hoped to capture a prisoner. With communications down, the quickest way to locate the pilot was to interrogate someone.
A jumble of foreign shouting came from ahead. Owen raised his clenched fist, and the squad slowed down and crept forward.
Outside the forest, the dozen or so Serbian militia members they had seen earlier were now surrounding a young man dressed in civilian clothes. Though clearly afraid as multiple guns were trained on him, the long-haired young man still defiantly pointed a gun at them. But it was clear he was in a hopeless situation, alone against so many.
"Well, well, look what we've caught—a guerrilla," one man, apparently the leader, said mockingly in Croatian, showing no fear of the gun pointed at him. The long-haired young man didn't respond, though his palms were sweating from tension.
"Let me guess—you're thinking of shooting us all and getting gunned down in the process? What are you, nineteen? Twenty?"
The leader jeered, convinced the young man wouldn't dare pull the trigger.
"Pato, take his gun," came a sharp order. One of the militia stepped up and easily disarmed the young man, who was too intimidated to shoot, completely surrounded as he was.
Then, a size-43 boot smashed into his face, knocking him to the ground, while the others burst into laughter.
The interrogation began, but the young man stubbornly refused to cooperate.
In the woods, the Omega operatives were all set. Everyone's weapon was equipped with a suppressor, except for Bayev's RPK, which wasn't suited for stealth fire.
Sounds of fists striking flesh came from up ahead, but the long-haired young man remained silent. The leader, growing impatient, drew his pistol, chambered a round, and pressed the muzzle to the back of the young man's head.
"Boss, what now?" Fred asked quietly, his VSS's crosshairs already locked onto the gunman's head, awaiting Owen's command.
The young man knelt on the ground with his eyes closed, resigned to his fate. The Serbian leader stood above him, gun in one hand, in classic execution posture. The others laughed, enjoying the show.
Owen didn't hesitate. "Kill everyone except the leader."
The young man fought to control his fear. His lips were tightly pressed, his body trembling slightly as he braced for the shot that would decide his fate. At that moment, he found himself wondering if he'd even hear the shot—or if the bullet would reach his brain before the sound hit his ears.
He waited. Time stretched unbearably. Suddenly, something warm and wet sprayed across the back of his neck. At the same time, he heard a terrible scream.
He opened his eyes in confusion and saw the man who had just been pointing a pistol at him writhing on the ground in agony, clutching his arm. His hand—the one holding the gun—had been completely severed and now lay on the ground in front of him.
All around, the other militiamen were dropping. Blood sprayed as they were hit. Some had begun to react, but none managed to fully turn around before bullets tore through them, dropping them instantly.
Herman knelt frozen in place. It was clear there were other people here—ones who had just killed all the Serbian fighters. For now, he was alive, but he wasn't sure for how long.
He stayed motionless. The area fell into silence. The dozen Serbs lay dead, and aside from the screaming man, there was not a single sound.
Then, Herman noticed several black-clad figures rising from the edge of the woods. They slowly stepped out—fully armed soldiers. Herman was certain these weren't guerrillas, and definitely not Serbs. Their gear was far too advanced.
Meanwhile, Heartbeat and Bayev were interrogating the one wounded survivor.
The others checked the bodies. Given the close range and element of surprise, not a single enemy needed a follow-up shot.
"Tell me your name," Bayev growled, smashing the butt of his weapon into the captive's face, snapping him out of his pain. But the man only replied in a jumbled dialect none of them understood.
Even after several more beatings, they got nowhere.
Herman still knelt on the ground, not daring to move. The severed hand that had once held the pistol lay within reach, but no one was aiming a gun at him. It was as if they had forgotten he existed. Still, he knew that if he reached for that weapon, his fate would be the same as that hand—severed and lifeless.
The questioning dragged on. Heartbeat occasionally ground his boot into the captive's wounds, prompting fresh screams, but they remained in two different linguistic worlds.
"Tell me—where's the pilot?" Heartbeat shouted, driving his foot harder. The Serb let out another howl and mumbled a few more incomprehensible phrases.
"I... I speak English. I can translate for you," Herman said timidly amid the screams. All eyes turned to him. He swallowed hard. He felt his life now hung on a single thread.
"You speak English?" one of the soldiers asked, his face smeared with camouflage paint. Herman quickly nodded. He'd just found his reason to stay alive, and for the first time, was truly grateful for his good grades in English. Knowing a foreign language really could save your life in any situation.
Owen hadn't expected this. A civilian who spoke English—what a surprise. None of the soldiers had known the language, but this random civilian did.
"You'll translate," Owen ordered.
Herman nodded. Heartbeat asked the question again, and Herman translated it into Croatian.
"They want to know the whereabouts of the pilot. Where is he being held?"
"He said one of them died, and they're still looking for the other. Later, they were ordered to search the crash site for a hard drive or something similar," Herman relayed.
Owen and Ghost exchanged glances. They could tell the captive was telling the truth. That meant the navigator hadn't been captured yet. And judging by how those men were searching for the hard drive, it was almost certainly in the navigator's possession.
"Pop," Ghost drew his pistol and shot the captive execution-style in the back of the head. It was exactly how that Serb had almost killed the long-haired youth.
Herman trembled violently. He suddenly realized that shot might have also ended his own usefulness.
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