Night shrouded the base.
The lights of the asteroid belt flickered in the distance, like countless eyes watching this rebel territory.
The two teams split up.
John led the way, his eyes scanning every shadow.
The thermal sensors in his undersuit made the darkness transparent; every life sign appeared like a beating heart.
Tucker was out front, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark—a reflection of his undersuit’s thermal visor.
With this capability, he could clearly see the life signs around them.
He slipped silently through the streets, avoiding every patrol like a ghost drifting in the dark.
He moved with the grace of a panther, light and lethal.
“Fifty meters ahead, two guards,” his voice came through the comm channel, barely a whisper.
“Just chatting. They look bored.”
John followed behind him.
He saw the two red dots on his thermal sensor.
The two guards were standing under a dim streetlamp, looking utterly bored.
They were talking about something—maybe the weather, maybe women, or maybe tomorrow’s plans.
To them, it was just another ordinary night.
“My turn,” Kelly whispered.
She glided out of the shadows, moving as fast as a serpent.
Hugging the wall, her footsteps were as quiet as a cat’s breath.
Before the two guards could even react, they collapsed to the ground, Kelly’s hands having struck their carotid arteries.
“Clean,” she said.
John nodded.
He noticed that Ethan had somehow already taken up a flanking position, perfectly covering his blind spot.
But he didn’t overthink it; this was standard tactical coordination.
On the battlefield, everyone knew their place and the positions of their teammates.
The tracker’s signal pointed toward a tall building.
Twelve stories, a structure of concrete and steel, with windows lining every floor.
Those windows looked like countless eyes, watching them in the darkness.
“This is it,” Kelly said.
“What’s the situation at the entrance?” John asked.
“Two guards at the main entrance,” Tucker said.
“I counted the windows; there are four on each floor. Most are dark, only a few are lit.”
“Frontal entry,” John said, a strange calmness in his voice.
“Blue Team, on me. Kelly, neutralize the guards at the entrance.”
“Copy.”
Kelly struck again.
Her movements were almost too fast to track—a sliding step forward, a chop of her hand, and both guards went down.
The entire sequence took less than two seconds.
“Black Team, lock down the flanks,” Ethan’s voice crackled.
Cohen nodded.
He and Tucker slipped around to the side of the building, setting up a firing position.
Cohen’s frame was exceptionally prominent in the darkness; his shoulders were far wider than an ordinary man’s, and his arms were as thick as tree trunks.
He wasn’t suited for delicate work, but he excelled at other things.
“I’m in position,” Cohen rumbled.
His voice was like low thunder, distinct in the dark.
“If anyone comes, I’ll send them packing.”
His fingers danced across the keys, as if playing a silent sonata.
John pushed the door open and led Blue Team inside.
The door shut silently behind them, shutting out the external darkness.
The lobby was deserted.
Fluorescent lights cast a harsh, stark glow from the ceiling, leaving the space devoid of shadows.
A woman sat behind the reception desk, watching something on a holographic screen—what looked like some boring variety show.
Her face wore an expression of sheer boredom, clearly long since checked out of her job.
Hearing the door open, she looked up.
Linda’s rifle cracked.
A suppressor muffled the sound to a whisper.
The woman’s body stiffened, then slumped onto the desk, dead before she could even make a sound.
“Clear,” Linda’s voice came from her sniper perch.
She was stationed behind a second-floor window, overlooking the entire lobby.
John could picture her: calm, focused, like a cat waiting for its prey.
Linda was the quietest among them, but her marksmanship was unparalleled.
“Riley, status on the elevator?”
“Elevator is active,” Riley’s voice came in.
“But I’ve locked it down. If they try to use it, it’ll open on the wrong floor. By the way, I’ve hijacked the building’s security grid. The cameras are on a static loop now.”
John nodded.
Riley always came through on technical issues—it was his gift.
Even when they were children, Riley had shown an incredible affinity for electronics.
He could take anything apart and rebuild it into something completely new.
“Take the stairs,” John said.
They ascended the stairwell.
At each landing, Linda would peer around the corner, signaling them forward only after confirming it was clear.
John’s steps were light and steady, like a stalking panther.
The air in the stairwell was muggy and damp, smelling of mildew.
Floor five.
Floor six.
On the seventh floor, they hit a snag.
“Hostiles,” Tucker’s voice came through the comms.
“Three levels up in the stairwell, three guards.”
“Fred,” John said.
Fred nodded.
He glided up the stairs, moving as light as a drifting feather.
Three seconds later, the three guards collapsed to the floor, having had no time to draw their weapons.
Fred’s combat style differed from John’s.
John was a fusion of strength and speed, while Fred was a master technician, always finding an opponent’s weak spot to deliver a lethal blow.
“Clear,” Fred whispered.
Floor eight.
Floor nine.
Floor ten.
Floor eleven.
“Target is on twelve,” Kelly said, her eyes fixed on the tracker’s signal.
John nodded.
He checked his assault rifle’s magazine—still full.
Then he began to climb.
A door sat at the top of the stairs.
It looked ordinary, but to John, it felt like an entrance to another world.
“Ready?” John whispered.
“Ready,” four voices responded.
“Ethan?”
“Black Team in position,” Ethan’s voice was calm.
“Ready to breach on your mark.”
John took a deep breath.
He could feel his heart rate climbing, but his hands remained steady.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One.”
Kelly kicked the door open.
John swept in, muzzle raised.
Five people were in the room.
Three uniformed guards, a balding middle-aged man, and—Robert Watts.
The name flashed through John’s mind like a silent proclamation.
He saw the man—in his fifties, with graying hair and a weary look in his sunken eyes.
“Freeze!” John barked.
The guards raised their weapons to return fire.
Gunfire was deafening in the confined space.
John pulled the trigger, releasing a three-round burst that struck the first guard, who fell with a blossom of blood erupting from his chest.
John then rolled, evading the return fire.
Fred charged in from the side, a punch striking the second guard in the throat.
The man went down, choking.
The third guard opened fire on Kelly.
She ducked aside, then delivered a kick that shattered the man’s knee.
As he collapsed screaming, Kelly followed up with a shot, ending his agony.
Just as John was about to push forward, a dark shadow swept past from the flank.
Ethan had somehow crossed to the other side of the room; his rifle barked twice, and two guards who had been aiming at John dropped.
John hadn’t even seen him move.
Then, everything slowed down.
John saw a muzzle flash.
He saw a guard—the one standing beside Watts—aiming straight at him.
There was no time to dodge.
*Bang.*
A bullet struck John in the chest.
The impact forced him a step back, but he held his footing.
The armor plating of his undersuit absorbed most of the blow, but near his ribs, where there was only thin protection, the round penetrated.
Pain flared through his body like wildfire.
The sensation reminded John of his training long ago—the agonizing electric shocks, the feeling of being torn apart.
But he did not falter.
Gritting his teeth, he raised his rifle and shot the guard in the head.