"What's the price we have to pay?"
Upon hearing Owen's question, Herman broke into a smile. He knew he'd won the man over. With combat skills like theirs, Herman began calculating how he could best use this team to benefit the guerrillas.
"It's simple. We want you to help us take out Bourbon."
He spoke as if it were no big deal, but in truth, he was nervous, sneaking glances at Owen's face for a reaction.
Finally, Ghost spoke up: "Not happening. You know how hard it is to take out someone who's heavily guarded? Since you're bringing him up, I assume you've tried. Tell me—what happened to your guys?"
A flicker of embarrassment passed over Herman's face. After a moment's hesitation, he replied, "Yeah… we did send in a suicide squad. But they all died. They didn't even make it close enough to see Bourbon's face…"
"But you guys have snipers. Just one shot from afar…"
Herman kept grasping for straws, but Ghost didn't respond. Neither did Owen or anyone else from Omega. The air turned cold and silent.
Eventually, Herman, as the weaker party, couldn't take the pressure and gave in. "Alright, alright—we'll lower the target. Bourbon has two dogs: Sasha and Portman. Portman is his personal guard captain. He commands Bourbon's elite troops and frequently carries out mass killings—he's a butcher. Sasha is Bourbon's best sniper. A lot of our people have died by his hand. Take out one of them. Just one. That's our condition. One life for one life…"
The whole Bourbon idea was Herman aiming ridiculously high. He'd never expected Omega to agree to it. But truth be told, it wasn't Bourbon the people really hated—it was those two dogs. Whether it was villagers or guerrillas, the deaths they caused were too many to count. Bourbon was just the figurehead; Sasha and Portman were the real monsters.
Owen looked at Herman. His eyes were bright. It was clear this was his bottom line. Owen glanced at his team. No one objected.
"Deal."
Owen and Herman sealed it with a handshake. Owen didn't know they'd already clashed with Sasha—but as Herman said, they had snipers too. Elite ones. Taking out a high-value target wasn't impossible.
Herman visibly lit up with joy. From his perspective, Omega was a powerhouse. What dozens of guerrilla elite had failed to do, this squad might pull off with ease.
"Hey… that sniper you mentioned—Sasha—was he wearing a blue tracksuit?"
When Herman nodded dumbly, Fred burst into laughter. "Buddy, we might've already crossed that off your list. That guy ambushed us at the suspension bridge. I remember—Bullseye hit him."
Everyone turned to look at Swagg. He shrugged. "I hit him, yeah. But whether he's dead—I'm not sure. That guy's slippery."
Herman's eyes widened in disbelief. He had no reason to doubt them—most people wouldn't know Sasha's signature blue tracksuit unless they'd faced him.
"Man, you're hitting the jackpot," Fred added. "Bullseye's not just a sniper—he's the sniper. He once—well, never mind. If I told you, it might trigger World War III. Just know this: in the mercenary world, a kill from someone like us goes for at least this much—"
"Mmph!"
Ghost slapped a hand over Fred's mouth, cutting off what was clearly the start of another long-winded story. The others burst out laughing.
Off to the side, Heartbeat snapped a full magazine into his AK-12 with a crisp "click," racking the charging handle. Then he pulled out a roll of duct tape and started helping Bayev prep more quick-change magazines.
He bound two mags together, alternating the direction with duct tape to allow fast flipping during reloads.
Bayev, aside from his original 40-rounders, had used the AK mags from the supply crate to build several more. Technically speaking, the RPK was just an AK-47 with a heavier barrel. Visually, it had a longer barrel and bipod, but everything else was nearly identical. Remove the bipod, and it could function like a standard AK. Their magazines were completely compatible—AKs could use the RPK's 40-rounders and even the 75-round drum.
Owen, too, finished topping off his own ammo. He ejected the mag from his rifle, filled it to capacity, reinserted it, and racked the bolt with a loud click-clack.
"Alright. Now, about the pilot. Earlier—do you think he would've headed in that direction?"
With resupply complete, Owen turned to Herman.
Herman thought for a second, then looked up. "If your pilot has any sense, he wouldn't go uphill. That's too exhausting. And if we eliminate the directions the enemy came from, and the path we used, there's only one direction left. That direction happens to be not far from one of our guerrilla camps. We lay heavy mines around every outpost, and usually have patrols nearby. If the pilot's nearby, they might've seen or heard something. I think we should go ask."
The Omega members glanced at one another, then back at Owen. He did some mental math. Working with the guerrillas was one thing, but stepping into one of their camps—that was a different level of commitment.
After a brief pause, Owen decided they had to at least check it out.
They rewrapped the remaining ammo in oilcloth and buried it carefully. Then, under Herman's guidance, the Omega team set out toward the guerrilla outpost.
…
An hour later.
"We're almost there."
Herman glanced ahead and then turned to speak to the group.
Owen made a subtle hand signal. At the rear, Swagg and Fred quietly slowed their pace, then peeled off from the group unnoticed.
The team kept moving at a steady, relaxed pace—as if nothing had changed.
"Boss, got suspicious movement at two o'clock."
"Contact spotted at ten o'clock. Looks like an ambush."
Reports came in through earpieces from Swagg and Fred. Omega didn't react outwardly, but their alertness ramped up. Being at gunpoint was never a good feeling.
"Boss, the guy at two o'clock is taking aim. Do we take him out?"
"Hold position. Let's see what happens."
Owen's reply came through clearly to all members. The team appeared calm, but their muscles were taut, ready to respond at the first wrong move.
Suddenly, a gunshot rang out—crack!—and dirt exploded near Herman's feet. Omega didn't fire back. It was clearly just a warning shot.
A voice shouted in Croatian from somewhere up ahead.
"No, no! Hugos, they're with me—they're here to fight Bourbon!" Herman yelled back in English, then turned to explain to Omega, "They think I've been taken hostage. I'll explain—just don't make any sudden moves, please."
He then shouted a flurry of Croatian and fired a single shot into the air to show he wasn't under duress. Eventually, it worked.
A figure emerged from the grass at two o'clock, saying something in Croatian. Herman turned to Omega. "It's alright now. They understand. Let's go in."
The path ahead was littered with those same grass rings—each one marking a buried mine. Omega followed Herman carefully through the field. One of the guerrillas monitored them closely from the side. What he didn't know was that Fred had him square in his scope the whole time. One false move, and his head would've exploded.
As for the contact at ten o'clock, Swagg hadn't reported further. They were likely a hidden sentry. Owen trusted Swagg was still tracking them.
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