Owen signaled Monica with a glance. As "Ping Pong" shouted, they each threw a grenade in opposite directions. Using the explosions as cover, they simultaneously burst out from both ends of the vehicle. Monica fired rapid, precise shots, suppressing the enemy for a few crucial seconds.
Owen seized the opportunity to advance. As he neared the balcony, he expertly tossed another grenade through the window.
The machine gunner and his assistants had just adjusted their aim, focusing all firepower on Monica's relentless barrage. Suddenly, a grenade bounced inside, rolling to a stop on the floor.
"Run!!!"
Panic set in. They had no time to react—rushing toward the window was their only option.
But as they recklessly jumped out, Owen and Monica picked them off one by one. Some weren't hit fatally, but it didn't matter—the grenade exploded moments later.
BOOM! BOOM!!
A thunderous explosion erupted upstairs, followed by another, and another. Who knew how much ammunition they had stored up there? The secondary explosions turned the second floor into a massive firework display, knocking everyone nearby to the ground.
The machine gunner had been a constant threat—without eliminating him, they had been dangerously exposed.
Now, with that looming danger gone, the pressure eased. They only had to deal with the black-masked attackers flanking them.
Owen and Monica stood back-to-back, trusting each other completely. Owen shot down an approaching enemy; beside him, Heartbeat instinctively delivered a finishing shot to the fallen man's head.
Owen glanced at him. This guy stole my kill.
Firing two more rounds, Owen ducked behind cover as bullets whizzed past. The enemy outnumbered them two to one.
Each of them had at least two guns aimed at them at all times. People kept getting hit—if not for the bulletproof vests, they would've been wiped out by now.
Bang! Bang!
Heartbeat took down one enemy, only to be shot in the chest and knocked to the ground. Campbell dragged him back as Owen took over his firing position.
Owen leaned out, shot down another attacker, but was immediately hit in return.
"Who the hell are these guys?"
There was no way these were just cartel soldiers. If all drug cartels had forces this skilled, only military intervention could stop them—ordinary police wouldn't stand a chance.
"Mercenaries. They have to be mercenaries."
Owen agreed. No gang could be this well-trained. He had noted their weapons—high-end gear, HK416s, SCARs—not the usual AK-variants found in cartel hands.
Their tactical gear was top-tier, with expensive modular attachments. Those accessories alone probably cost more than the guns themselves—easily thousands of dollars per set.
"Grenade!"
Nicholas shouted the warning as he tossed a grenade, but he was shot in the arm and tumbled to the ground.
These black-masked attackers were real battlefield veterans. Their reflexes, awareness, and marksmanship were leagues above the average fighter.
"Clank!"
Someone kicked the grenade back at them. Everyone's hearts stopped.
Shit!
Owen instinctively dove for cover—just as the grenade exploded.
When he lifted his head, Nicholas lay motionless, his face charred black. The grenade he had thrown had killed him.
The others had managed to take cover in time, but Nicholas had been too injured to escape.
Nicholas was dead.
Everyone took a silent moment, but now wasn't the time to grieve.
"RATATATATA!"
Monica kept firing, dropping a black-masked enemy attempting to rush them. The bullet didn't hit a vital spot—he crawled, struggling to reach cover.
"Bang, bang!"
Heartbeat finished him off, a spray of blood misting into the air.
Colson suddenly shouted. He had been close friends with Nicholas and couldn't accept his death. In a desperate rage, he charged toward his fallen comrade.
Campbell tried to grab him, but before he could reach Nicholas's body, a burst of gunfire cut Colson down. He collapsed, writhing in pain.
Campbell instinctively reached out to pull him back, but a barrage of bullets forced him to retreat—he was nearly shot himself.
Monica twitched, ready to go help, but she was immediately pinned down by enemy fire. No one dared move.
Then, suddenly, the gunfire in front of them ceased.
Only the B-team behind them continued their firefight.
"Bang!"
A gunshot rang out. Blood sprayed from Colson's leg. The enemy wasn't trying to kill him outright—they were torturing him.
"Oh, shit…"
Colson coughed up blood, struggling to drag himself back to cover—but another shot hit his shoulder.
"On my count, we fire together. Heartbeat, grab him!"
Campbell called out from behind the wreckage of a car.
"One!"
"Two!"
"Fire!!!"
A hail of bullets erupted from their side.
Owen's team poured out a suppressive barrage, forcing the enemy to take cover. Taking advantage of the moment, Heartbeat grabbed Colson by the leg and dragged him to safety.
After a quick check, Heartbeat sighed. "He's gone. The bullet hit his artery…"
Colson was still alive, but unconscious. Blood gushed from his wounds, and his body convulsed slightly.
"Whizz!"
A stray bullet zipped over Owen's head—hitting one of B-team's last remaining members.
Owen looked over and realized—B-team was in worse shape than them.
Only Bruce and one other were still fighting.
The black-masked mercenaries were forming a pincer attack on B-team.
Owen spotted an enemy creeping up behind a vehicle, trying to flank them.
Dropping his M4A1, Owen drew his pistol and silently circled around the car.
Squatting low, he fired two rounds through a gap in the cover—hitting the attacker's foot.
As the man stumbled, Owen finished him with a clean headshot.
Holstering his pistol, he picked up his M4A1 again and popped up.
"Bang, bang, bang!"
Three precise bursts—two enemies down.
He ducked just in time—his previous position was immediately riddled with bullets.
"Retreat!"
Owen's attack had bought B-team time to fall back.
Bruce and the last remaining teammate fired while retreating, trying to regroup with A-team.
Owen and Monica took charge of covering fire, Owen focusing on helping B-team.
But then—B-team's last member took a bullet to the leg.
The moment he fell, the enemy focused fire on him.
His body jerked violently under the hail of bullets, then collapsed, lifeless.
Owen never even knew his name—only that he had been one of Bruce's Delta Force operatives. And now, he was dead.
Bruce, seeing his last teammate fall, stopped running.
He turned back, staring at them for a moment… then charged forward in a final, suicidal attack.
"No! Come back!"
Owen sprinted toward him, but it was too late.
Bruce gunned down two black-masked mercenaries, using his bulletproof vest to absorb incoming fire. Then, with his last breath, he pulled the pins on two grenades and threw them forward.
Bullets shredded his body—he hit the ground and never moved again.
"RATATATATA!"
Using the explosion's cover, Owen rushed in.
The enemy barely had time to react before he closed the distance, engaging in brutal close-quarters combat.
With mechanical precision, Owen executed them one by one.
The Mozambique Drill—two shots to the chest, one to the head.
_________________________
[Check out my Patreon for +200 additional chapters in all my fanfics! Only $5 per novel or $15 for all!!] [www.p@treon.com/Mutter]
[+50 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter]