I read the chaotic pattern of the incoming fire and finally spotted three of them clustered tightly near the reinforced main gate. I yanked a fragmentation grenade from my webbing and timed the cook for exactly two seconds so the bastards wouldn’t have a chance to throw it back. I lobbed it perfectly into their entrenched position. The ensuing blast wiped out the entire cluster in a cloud of fire and dust. Sixteen down, four left.
The remaining fighters were visibly cracking. Their hastily formed defense was rapidly collapsing into raw, unadulterated survival panic. One of them broke cover and sprinted madly for a vehicle. I tracked his movement and shot him mid-stride.
Another one suddenly lifted his hands in the air, acting as if he wanted to surrender. But his eyes were frantic, and his right hand was subtly reaching for a hidden pistol tucked into his waistband. I caught the deceptive movement and fired before he could even draw the weapon. This wasn’t a police action, and I wasn’t here to take prisoners. This was entirely about getting Keane out alive, and I couldn’t risk a single microsecond of hesitation.
Eighteen down, two remaining.
The final pair had desperately holed up inside a reinforced guard shack near the perimeter. They were firing wildly through the shattered windows, consumed by the absolute panic of men who knew they were already dead. Keane and I moved to flank them, instantly working in perfect sync with the kind of fluid, unspoken precision that only comes from years of hardened combat training. Keane laid down heavy suppressive fire, chewing up the shack’s facade, while I aggressively maneuvered around the side.
I reached the shack’s blindside, slapped my final breaching charge against the wall, and blew it. Together, we pushed through the smoke and eliminated the last two fighters as the structure collapsed around them. Twenty down, zero left.
The compound instantly fell dead silent, the quiet only broken by the high-pitched ringing in my ears and the heavy, ragged sound of my own breathing. I swept the entire scene one last time, my weapon raised high, aggressively scanning the corners for any lingering movement. Nothing stirred. There was just drifting black smoke and settling desert dust.
“Clear,” I called out, letting my rifle lower just a fraction.
Keane slowly lowered his borrowed AK. He turned to look at me, and his expression was a complicated mix of profound gratitude, sheer disbelief, and the very specific kind of deep exasperation that senior officers reserve exclusively for insubordinate rule-breakers.
“Captain Cross,” he started, his voice thick with the dust of the courtyard. “You just ran a solo assault on a fortified compound held by twenty armed fighters.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied evenly.
“Without authorization, backup, or any kind of fire support?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stared at me for a long, heavy moment. “That’s either the bravest or the absolute dumbest thing I’ve seen in thirty years.”
I offered a faint, exhausted smirk. “Probably both, sir,” I said.