"—Can you confirm Hassan's exact position in the squad?"
"—Six o'clock. Directly behind me."
"—What proof do you have that he's present?"
"—He'll tap my shoulder twice to confirm presence."
"—Weapon?"
"—MP7."
"—Did you hear gunfire consistent with an MP7?"
"—Affirmative."
"—Repeat that answer."
"—Negative."
Action order crackled over the net. The M250 gunner ripped the trigger. With a clean, metallic break, 6.8 mm full-power rounds flooded out of the massive suppressor in a continuous, dam-burst roar.
The buttstock hammered his shoulder. Belt links sheared like paper. Brass cascaded right. Heat waves peeled dust from the platform.
Through the steady vibration of the NVGs, short, disciplined bursts drew razor-straight lines. Tracers leapt to the bold reticle, shredding the camouflaged net that hid the enemy strongpoint.
"Move—move—move!"
Captain John Hastings swung his long left arm high, rifle clamped one-handed, and led the stack out of the pump house.
G-2 flowed in a single-file rush, bodies pivoting in turn to cover front and rear arcs.
"Captain, they've gone quiet."
John shoulder-checked the iron door, flicked a flashbang inside. The team poured through the whiteout, clearing the first compartment with overlapping fire.
"G-1, hold fast. Eyes on Beta well approaches. Maintain comms silence."
"G-1 copies. Standing by."
G-2 stacked low. Logan at the breach point, muzzle up.
"Quiet."
John raised a closed fist, head cocked. Persian, at least five voices, coming from above.
"Breach charge."
He waved Logan back, slapped a strip of linear shaped charge on the lock, inserted the remote detonator, flipped the safety.
Team peeled to both sides, crouched.
"Three… two… one—Breaching!"
John turned away, hand on helmet, thumb down.
BOOM.
Thunder in the ears, shrieking metal, fire and smoke blasting inward. Fragments screamed past.
"GO!"
Skin stinging from the heat, G-2 hit the room with weapon lights blazing. John led, immediate threats dropped by precise double-taps.
"Up the stairs!"
Hunters in nylon and ceramic crossed the smoke, boots crunching on blood-soaked concrete.
Back on four-tube NVGs, leapfrogging bounds, rifles angled high.
Gloved hands tight on the M-LOK foregrip of the Mk18, EXPS3 holographic and flipped-forward G33 magnifier. Trigger finger indexed, support hand reversed on the handstop. Mag window showed more than half full.
Logan's tatted arm shifted the SIG MPX to the support side. 8T-AMR red dot high on the riser, tiger-striped hand cradling the mag-well flare, suppressor trailing a wisp of smoke.
IR lasers danced across dusty handrails.
Contact.
Conical muzzle blasts strobed from John's suppressor—three controlled rounds, transfer, two bodies dropped hard. Footsteps pounded faster above.
"Logan—flashbang!"
John dropped low, curling from incoming 7.62 that chipped concrete across his plates.
"Bang out!"
Pin pulled, Logan lobbed it high.
John rolled through the ringing, rifle up into the gray cloud, prone, hosing suppression.
Logan bounded up, leaning over the railing, rapid semi. Trail man posted upright, long bursts dropping runners at distance.
"Clear!"
John rose to a knee, tactical reload, slap, rack.
"Form up. Hassan, on me."
Logan shifted beside John, boot-kicked the left-side storeroom, pie'd the corner with the next man. Controlled pairs erased threats.
Left side announced clear as John reached for the right-side lounge door. Half an AK barrel poked from shadow.
John released the Mk18, left hand deflecting the muzzle skyward, half-step back, right hand clearing the Staccato XC—blind, three fast rounds.
Two to the triangle, one to the T-box.
John seized the dying merc's plate carrier, hauled the body in front as a shield, advancing while dumping rounds into the room.
Logan flowed in behind, MPX barking, pinning the last gunman behind a steel rack.
Magazine dry, John let the corpse drop, transitioned back to the Mk18, low-ready, precise shots ending it.
"Cease fire."
Dust swirled around shattered bunk beds. John recovered the Staccato XC, fresh mag, chamber, holster.
"G-2, visual on one squad massing at the mud-tank farm."
"G-1, stand by."
John reached the second-floor window overlooking the motor pool, flipped the G33 forward, glassed the yard.
"Multiple tangos, two hundred meters, clear visual."
Team reversed rifles, butts smashing windows, clearing jagged glass, muzzles resting on sills.
"G-1, prepare cross-fire suppression."
"Cross-fire ready!"
"Fire!"
John Hastings bellowed, pulse kicking.
Both elements opened at once.
Suppressors glowed cherry-red, pouring white vapor. Seven rifles thundered in ragged unison. NVGs dipped with each recoil impulse, reticles dancing.
Tracers arced like burning sleet, brass rained gold against the dark.
"G-2, hits confirmed."
"Cease fire!"
The mud-tank farm was shredded, smoke drifting seaward.
Backlit by distant LEDs, seven pairs of black nylon boots stepped through settling dust. Seven NVG-clad operators advanced, weapons up, into the equipment maze where mercenaries had been loading crates.
They dropped to the hidden manhole marked with a red triangle, threw the emergency light breaker. Atop a mountain of ordnance sat a white hard case. John grabbed the handle. Logan produced a hydraulic spreader and forced the lid.
With a hiss of inert gas, John lifted out a single glass slide and slid it into a foam-lined pelican box.
"That it?"
Logan asked, MPX still at low ready.
"Fucking bioweapon. People never run out of ways to kill people."
The gray-bearded captain glanced at his watch. Dawn creeping.
"Special centrifuge to render it inert is at the other site. We still have to hit Beta well."
John unzipped his plate carrier, tucked the box inside his uniform, patted it—no rattle.
"Eagle One, this is Gray Horses. Package secured. Exfiltrating Alpha site now. Request air support as planned and execute secondary objectives, over."
"Gray Horses, Eagle One. Solid copy. Descending lower for recon, out."
John released the handset, seized his carrier straps, turned.
"Mag check. Ammo count."
Black hair and stubble soaked with sweat, cracked lips bleeding, Captain John Hastings bared his teeth.
"We move."