The moment the battle began, it hit its peak instantly, with an intensity that was nothing short of terrifying.
Pop!
Swagger took down another enemy. He only aimed at RPG gunners and seasoned veterans. These veterans looked much like the rabble surrounding them, making them difficult to pick out. Swagger often had to study them for a while before identifying one.
But these veterans were by far the most dangerous. They had better aim, understood battlefield tactics, and knew how to organize the militia into wave after wave of assaults.
Farther out, Ghost was operating the M249, cutting down enemies in droves. He fired in a precise and strange rhythm—controlled bursts that dropped enemy after enemy. One 200-round box was already empty.
Enemy bodies piled up at his muzzle, and with his menacing skull mask, Ghost looked like death itself stalking the battlefield.
Owen continued slaughtering enemies in his field of view with his stream of lead. Spent casings cascaded from the Gatling gun like a metallic waterfall, spilling across the rooftop and then tumbling down the slope.
He hadn't been firing long, but already Owen couldn't keep up continuous fire. Even standing behind the Gatling, he could feel the terrifying heat pouring off the barrels. He now fired in bursts, giving the barrels time to cool between salvos.
Monica and Heartbeat were tasked with eliminating any enemies who got too close. Those farther away didn't make it that far—the two machine guns had already taken care of most of them.
Pop!
Monica blew a bubble with her gum. It burst just as her bullet dropped another enemy.
Rounds kept slamming into the chopper wreckage with sharp metallic clinks. The Gatling was a weapon of mass destruction—and had drawn nearly every enemy's attention. Over half of them were gunning for it.
Owen's firepower only paused for a few seconds before he had to resume—if he didn't, he'd lose the opportunity to fire at all.
In this battle, the Gatling was the star—devastating in its force, but also the top target. RPGs screamed past constantly.
"Two o'clock!"
Monica shouted. Owen swung the gun. Two RPG gunners had popped up from behind a house, just barely showing their heads and weapons. They were clever—exposing only the bare minimum to avoid being shot by rifles. Hence, they were calling for the Gatling.
With the motor's signature whine, Owen swung the barrels to two o'clock. Red flashes burst from the muzzle—like a devil's smile. The metal storm not only shredded the rooftop but also obliterated the shooters behind it. One of the RPGs detonated before it could even launch, erupting in a fireball that devoured everything nearby.
After several minutes of battle, the rapid response team had found their rhythm. The main killing power came from Ghost's M249—it was the true infantry killer. Though the Gatling made the most noise, it was mainly used to destroy cover. The actual body count from the M249 was higher.
"One o'clock! Behind that window—an armed pickup!"
Swagger's voice rang out. The enemy had cleverly parked the truck behind a house and was using its heavy machine gun to fire through the window.
Swagger tried a sniper shot, but the angle was wrong—he couldn't hit the gunner.
Owen redirected his barrels. The metal torrent flared again. The wall was torn open, and the truck beyond was raked with bullets. The gunner didn't even make it to the explosion—he was torn to pieces.
Just as Owen eliminated the pickup, three streaks of white smoke arced from different directions—three RPGs, all aimed directly at the chopper and its mounted Gatling.
"Fuck!"
Owen cursed and dove. All three RPGs struck the wreckage dead-on. The helicopter exploded in a fireball, flames rolling off the rooftop.
Covered in dust and ash, Owen lay flat on the ground. He had expected the Gatling to become the enemy's top priority—but he hadn't expected it to be focused down in just a few minutes.
Still, in those few minutes, he'd fired over ten thousand rounds, inflicting massive damage.
With their heaviest weapon gone, only Ghost's M249 remained. Owen picked up his M4A1 and moved to a concealed position, firing bursts at advancing enemies.
The attackers were incredibly bold. Though their aim was poor, they charged with AKs blazing. Owen dropped one idiot with two shots, then suppressed another RPG gunner with a few more.
The terrain was chaotic. The village was built along a mountain slope. Their position was the highest, but below were houses at varying elevations. It was impossible to tell what was safe—enemies could appear from anywhere.
Owen scanned the battlefield with his M4A1, entering a mental "bullet time." There were so many targets he had no time to think. He swept the barrel methodically, tapping each enemy with precision fire. But the ammo went fast. Another mag empty.
"Reload."
Owen ducked behind cover and slid the empty mag to Catherine. She slapped a fresh one into his hand and went back to reloading.
The fight raged on.
"Cover me!"
Ghost shouted, dragging the M249 as he fell back. Owen stepped in, covering the retreat by gunning down several charging enemies. Whether they were dead or wounded, he didn't have time to check—opponents swarmed from every direction. It felt like playing a game of Whack-a-Mole.
Behind them, Ghost—gloved and grim—detached the spent ammo box and unscrewed the M249's barrel. Continuous fire had overheated it. Technically, the barrel should be swapped after every 300 rounds, but Ghost had pushed it to nearly 900. Any more and it would've blown.
Fresh barrel mounted, fresh box loaded—the M249 roared back to life. The nearby attackers were immediately mowed down.
Behind them all, Catherine quietly placed loaded mags behind each teammate, tapping them on the shoulder as a signal. Then she returned to her station and resumed loading.
Bang bang bang bang!
Swagger dropped four more enemies. He'd already taken out several veterans and militia commanders, but that had made him a prime target. The amount of fire coming his way had noticeably increased.
"RPG!"
He shouted and rolled. An RPG exploded nearby, kicking up shards of stone and dirt. Another landed just seconds later.
Swagger clutched his M200 and crawled to a new position—he'd been marked. Ghost also changed his firing spot. If Swagger was under fire, so was he. Sure enough, moments after he moved, several RPGs slammed into where he had just been.
Their two biggest threats were momentarily silenced. The attackers seized the chance, shouting in a language Owen couldn't understand as they bolted from cover and charged.
Boom boom!
Monica launched two grenades. Owen threw one too. The explosions rang out, but the attackers kept coming.
BOOM!
Another RPG obliterated part of the wall. Stones flew everywhere.
Owen shot the gunner, then chucked another grenade. But it was tossed back.
"Fuck!"
Owen kicked it down just in time and hit the deck. It exploded mid-air, tearing up the attackers below.
An RPG gunner readied his shot—Ghost hit him in the waist. The launcher fired straight into his own feet, blowing him to pieces.
In the village, Mikhail was losing his mind.
This was his domain. Most of his second-tier guards were locals. He provided their jobs, their food, their supplies—he was the god of this place.
Owen and his team weren't wrong: they really had crashed straight into a bandit nest.
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