“John!” Kelly’s voice rang in his ear, filled with worry.
“I’m fine,” he said.
His voice was raspier than usual, as if dragged from deep within his throat.
He looked down at his wound—three rounds: one over-penetration, two lodged in the armor at his ribs.
Blood seeped through the tears, staining his black undersuit red.
He looked up to see Ethan had already neutralized the fourth guard—a balding, middle-aged man.
Ethan moved swiftly, as though he had anticipated the guard’s actions well in advance.
But John had no time to dwell on it.
“Watts!” John barked.
Watts stood in the center of the room, hands raised high.
There was no fear on his face, only a tired resignation—like a man who had long known his ultimate fate.
Looking at him, John felt a strange knot tighten in his chest.
This man had once been a UNSC officer, their comrade-in-arms, but now he was a traitor.
War changed everything.
“I knew someone would come,” Watts said, his voice raspy and exhausted, like dying embers.
“I just didn’t expect it to be so fast.”
“You defected, Watts,” John said, his voice cold as an icehouse.
“You know what that means.”
Watts let out a bitter smile.
“I know,” he said.
“I’ve known for a long time.”
Kelly rushed over, pulling a canister of Biofoam from her medical kit.
She moved quickly, but John noticed her hands trembling slightly—not from nervousness, but from concern.
She was one of the youngest among them, but she had the softest heart.
She tore open John’s undersuit and sprayed the foam into the wound.
“This might hurt a bit,” she said, a trace of heartache in her voice.
The foam expanded inside the wound, sealing off the ruptured blood vessels.
The pain dulled slightly, but John knew it was only a temporary fix; Biofoam could stop the bleeding, but it couldn’t fully heal the damage.
“Bind it,” he said.
Kelly wrapped the wound tightly with bandages.
The sudden pressure brought a wave of dizziness over John, but he forced himself to stay clear-headed.
She pulled out a pair of magnetic handcuffs and snapped them onto Watts’s wrists.
“Mission complete,” she said.
John nodded.
He switched to his comlink, a touch of weariness creeping into his voice.
“Sam, we’re out.”
They evacuated from the twelfth-floor terrace.
The night wind roared past the terrace edge, carrying the sharp chill unique to the asteroid belt.
John secured a line to the railing and rappelled down first.
The wind whistled in his ears like a call from the abyss.
Fred followed with Watts—the rebel officer’s face devoid of expression—followed by Kelly and Linda.
“Where’s Black Team?” John asked halfway down.
“We’re taking another route,” Ethan’s voice came through.
“Rendezvous at the docks.”
John didn’t press.
It was the right tactical choice—splitting the two teams for evacuation reduced the risk of detection.
Ethan always made the right call, John thought.
In truth, John had always admired Ethan’s composure and judgment.
During training, Ethan’s performance was consistently outstanding, yet he never bragged.
He was like a sword hidden in its scabbard—silent and unnoticed normally, but lethal when drawn.
They hit the ground.
John checked his wound; blood was still seeping into the bandages, but the Biofoam had halted the main flow.
The bloody sensation reminded him of a movie he had watched long ago—a war film where soldiers were always bleeding.
“Can you walk?” Kelly asked, her eyes locked on his side, her brows tightly furrowed.
“I can,” John said.
His voice was quiet, but firm.
They suited up in protective gear and sprinted toward the docks.
The streets were deserted, save for occasional distant footsteps and voices.
But John knew this calm could be shattered at any second.
They encountered no resistance along the way.
The rebels clearly hadn’t discovered their operation yet—at least for now.
But John could feel the threat lurking beneath the surface, like the quiet before a storm.
“Sam,” John said, “we’re almost there. What’s the Pelican’s status?”
“Ready for lift-off,” Sam’s voice came back, though there was a hint of tension in it.
“But make it fast. My trigger script will only fool them for ten minutes.”
“Copy that.”
They ran onto the dock platform.
The Pelican was idling right there, its engines purring with a low roar.
The dropship looked a bit aged, but it was well-maintained—at least enough to ensure a clean getaway.
Just then, Black Team emerged.
Tucker bounded out of the shadows, moving as fast as a cheetah; even during an extraction, his alert instincts remained razor-sharp.
Then came Riley and Cohen.
Ethan brought up the rear, his rifle barrel still smoking—he had clearly run into trouble along the way.
“Trouble behind us,” Ethan said tersely.
His voice remained steady, but John could hear the underlying urgency.
No sooner had he spoken than sirens blared.
Red warning lights flashed around the dock like countless bloodshot eyes.
The piercing sound stabbed through John’s eardrums, setting his nerves on edge.
“They found us!” a voice shouted over the intercom.
“All personnel, red alert! Intruders in the base! Repeat, intruders in the base!”
“Sam!” John yelled.
“Waiting on you!” Sam called out from the Pelican’s cockpit.
John was the last one aboard.
His wound tore open under the intense strain, every step feeling like he was walking on razor blades.
But he forced himself forward—if he collapsed now, everything was over.
“Close the hatch!”
Cohen was the last inside, slamming the hatch shut with his shoulder.
In that instant, John caught sight of the base’s defense systems coming online through a viewport—turrets rising from the walls, opening fire in their direction.
The Pelican rocketed into the air.
Missiles and heavy rounds roared past behind them, weaving a barrage of death.
The missiles trailed white smoke like lethal serpents chasing prey.
Watching the flickering flashes through the viewport, John felt a strange tranquility—the kind of peace that could only be found on a battlefield.
“We’ve got missile lock!” Riley shouted, eyes fixed on the telemetry on his screen.
“Two missiles, closing fast!”
“I know,” Sam’s voice came from the cockpit, as calm as if discussing the weather.
The Pelican dived sharply, then pulled up hard at the lowest point in a textbook evasive maneuver.
The heavy G-force pressed down on John’s chest, leaving him almost unable to breathe.
He could feel his undersuit compressing his skin, but he didn’t utter a sound.
The missiles detonated behind them, blossoming into fireballs.
The shockwave rattled the Pelican violently, but Sam held the craft steady.
“We’re clear,” Sam said.
After flying at full throttle for about five minutes, Sam throttled down the engines.
“We’ll reach the extraction point in two hours,” he announced.
“Check on our prisoner,” John said.
Sam opened the container unit and reported, “Airtight suit’s intact. Watts is alive, pulse stable.”
“Good,” John muttered.
The spasmodic pain in his ribs was growing worse, forcing him to wince.
“Is something wrong?” Kelly asked.
“Is the Biofoam working?”
“I’m fine,” he answered without even looking down at his side.
“I can manage.”
He knew he ought to feel satisfied, but in truth he only felt exhausted.
Something about this mission felt off.
He thought of the dead dockworkers and civilians.
None of them had been designated targets.
Besides, were all the people living on this asteroid really insurrectionists?
Still, it was just as the Chief Petty Officer had said.
He had followed orders, completed his mission, and brought his team back alive.
What else was there to ask for?
John buried these doubts deep within his heart.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said with a brief smile, patting Kelly’s shoulder.
“What could be wrong? We won.”