Chapter 17 - Counter-Strike
What those mercenaries didn't know was that my staff vehicle wasn't a standard administrative sedan. As a senior combat commander operating in high-threat environments, my vehicle was equipped with an automated, remote-triggered defensive counter-measure system tied to our tactical network.
As the trunk popped open, two automated smoke-and-flash disincentive grenades deployed instantly into the air above the rear SUV, detonating with blinding, ear-splitting concussive force.
The mercenaries yelled out in agony, dropping their weapons and stumbling backward as the blinding magnesium flash fried their night-vision goggles and left them temporarily disoriented and deafened.
I didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. I dove behind the heavy steel engine block of my staff car, drawing my sidearm—a customized Sig Sauer P320 with a suppressed barrel—from its shoulder holster.
The lead mercenary recovered faster than the others, sweeping his rifle around blindly toward my position and squeezing off three rapid rounds that chewed chunks of asphalt inches from my boots.
"Flank her! Flank her!" he screamed, coughing from the thick white smoke.
Two of the mercenaries stumbled around the side of the car, their rifles raised. I leaned out from behind the front tire, tracking my target with the cold precision of a sniper.
Bang. Bang.
Two clean, precise shots. Both mercenaries dropped instantly, their tactical vests absorbing the impact but the kinetic shock dropping them hard to the pavement.
The remaining three operatives panicked, realizing their ambush had turned into a slaughterhouse. The lead brute roared in fury, ditching his rifle and drawing a combat knife as he charged directly around the front of the hood toward my position.
"You're dead, you bitch!" he snarled, lunging forward with the knife aimed straight at my throat.
Instead of dodging, I stepped directly into his momentum, pivoting on my left boot with textbook close-quarters combat technique. I grabbed his knife-wielding wrist with both hands, using his own forward velocity against him, and drove my knee upward with explosive force straight into his solar plexus.
The mercenary let out a wet, agonizing gasp as the wind was completely knocked out of his lungs. I followed up instantly with a vicious palm-strike to his jaw, sending him crashing backward over the hood of the car and face-first into the gravel road, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Within ninety seconds, the entire kill team was neutralized.
I stood there in the middle of the quiet forest road, my breath pluming in the crisp autumn air, my service uniform completely unblemished save for a single smudge of dust on my sleeve. I walked over to the groaning lead mercenary, knelt down beside him, and pressed my service pistol against his forehead.
"Who sent you?" I asked quietly.
May you like
The mercenary spat blood onto the asphalt, laughing weakly through his broken teeth. "You... you think we're the only ones? The syndicate... they're everywhere. You can't kill an idea, Colonel. They're coming for your daughter next."
My blood ran ice cold.
