Chapter 352: Bad News
If Ron had enough personnel, the best tactical approach would be to split into two fire teams, each taking up positions at different angles down the corridor. Then they could establish overlapping fields of fire with their machine guns. While the hostiles were still regrouping after their initial assault, both teams could open up simultaneously, creating a devastating crossfire that would neutralize the threat within minutes.
Unfortunately, Ron, Eggsy, and Whiskey only had three shooters total. Fortunately, he'd come prepared with some additional equipment.
As Ron ran, he yanked on his backpack strap, causing several small disc-shaped devices to tumble out with each stride. Just then, the militants burst through the corridor entrance.
"There they are! Light 'em up!" The guy with the mechanical arm pointed toward Ron's position, and instantly multiple rifle barrels swung in his direction.
"Hit the deck, now!" Ron quickly calculated the timing—it was perfect!
Ron shoved his companions hard, and both men immediately dropped flat. Ron slid forward a couple steps on his knees, grabbed the Stinger missile from his shoulder, and spun around.
"Rat-a-tat-tat..." Rounds cracked past Ron, but none found their mark. Ron calmly squeezed the trigger.
"Whoosh!" The Stinger missile rocketed from the launcher, streaking toward the militants. The mechanical-armed traitor—Ron's personal "Winter Soldier"—went ballistic. In a moment of sheer desperation, inspiration struck. He grabbed a henchman beside him and hurled him forward like a human shield.
"BOOM!" The missile and the unfortunate henchman collided mid-air. The blast wave from the explosion tore through the confined corridor, racing toward Ron and his team. Ron, caught in his half-kneeling stance, lost his balance and toppled backward.
"Son of a bitch! Move, move, move!" Ron rolled with the shockwave's momentum, instantly drew his sidearm, and opened fire on the scattered hostiles.
Eggsy and Whiskey joined in, though their gunfire proved largely unnecessary—the explosion had been devastatingly close to the enemy position.
The henchman Charlie had thrown as a human shield had been vaporized by the missile, his fragmented remains turned into lethal shrapnel that tore through the other militants. Ron spotted one hostile on the ground with a human thighbone—still wrapped in flesh—protruding clean through his chest. No prizes for guessing where that came from.
"Click—" All three men's pistols ran dry simultaneously. Not a single hostile was left breathing. The only disappointment was that their Winter Soldier wasn't among the casualties.
"Well, looks like your Winter Soldier is just like the movie version. Decent combat reflexes, but he's a hell of a sprinter when things go south." Ron gave his revolver a flashy spin before holstering it.
"That's it?!" Eggsy stood there slack-jawed. Every previous mission had involved meticulous infiltration—sometimes crawling through god-awful sewage tunnels just to avoid detection. He'd never imagined a clean sweep could be this straightforward.
"Like I told you, those old-school methods are obsolete, kid. Welcome to the twenty-first century!" Ron clapped Eggsy on the shoulder.
"If I'm not mistaken, facilities like this typically have automated self-destruct protocols—usually set for a thirty-minute countdown." Ron checked his watch. "You've got twenty minutes to hit that lab and recover any antidote samples that survived the fireworks."
With that, Ron turned and started walking away.
"Wait! If we're retrieving the antidote, what the hell are you doing?"
"Going home, obviously!" Ron replied matter-of-factly. "Getting the antidote back to base is your op. My job's done here. So long, secret agents. Good hunting. Here, you'll need this more than me."
Ron dropped his weapons pack and instead grabbed the skis Eggsy had been carrying, then pushed off down the mountain slope.
After traveling all the way to the Alps, how could he pass up some downhill action?
Sure enough, just as Ron predicted, the mountaintop laboratory erupted in a massive explosion right as he hit the halfway mark down the slope.
Ron glanced at his watch—exactly twenty minutes had elapsed.
"Mission accomplished."
In Washington, D.C., the White House welcomed a visitor of particular significance: the attorney representing Bobby, the drug kingpin responsible for the recent blue virus outbreak.
"Mr. President, I don't think opening negotiations with the cartel's lawyers right now is advisable. It'll cost you support from Senate Republicans. I think you should wait for word from Ron. He's never let us down before."
President Francis poured himself a finger of bourbon and settled into the chair that symbolized the highest office in the land. "Of course I have complete confidence in Ron, but the reality is, as Commander-in-Chief, I need to have contingency plans for every scenario.
As for what the Republican senators think—that's not my primary concern. Even if I followed their playbook and let those kids infected with the virus die, you know what they'd say?"
"'Every drug user is a potential criminal. Letting them die is the greatest contribution to public safety. Plus, it'll save taxpayers millions in quarterly spending.' That's a direct quote from a Republican senator yesterday." The Chief of Staff adjusted his glasses.
"Exactly," Francis nodded approvingly. "You see, I'm a Democratic president. Even if I did exactly what they wanted, those obstinate bastards wouldn't suddenly throw their support behind me or vote for my legislation in Congress. Hell, if they're not actively trying to obstruct the Democratic agenda, they figure they're not doing their jobs—unless they switch parties.
So what those old-timers think is irrelevant to my decision-making. I just need contingencies in place and see which option delivers results first."
Just as Francis finished speaking, the red phone on his desk rang—the secure line.
"It's Ron, Mr. President. I'm sure he's got good news for us."
A smile crossed Francis's face. "Put him through. Let me have a word with our star operator.
Ron, how'd the mission go?"
Unfortunately, Ron didn't deliver the news he'd been hoping for.
"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I've got bad news."
(End of Chapter)
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