Tap! Tap! Tap!
The tactical team's footsteps reverberated through the darkened apartment corridor, mingling with the roar of fire devouring the walls and the hiss of electricity from exposed wiring. Faint red emergency lights flickered, casting shadows that danced like ghosts on the scorched surfaces. The thick scent of smoke stung their nostrils; heat radiated into the R-team's body armor. Trapped civilians' screams and the urgent static of radio chatter shattered the silence, adding tension to the stifling air.
Zzzt! "Team R, report status!" Howard's voice thundered over the radio, his Marine cadence impatient.
"Team R, Code 1 responding. We're on the 39th floor, heading toward the restaurant. Contact with Teams Q and W remains cut. Suspect not yet detected, over!" replied the squad leader, Code R1, his tone stiff but firm.
"Proceed!" Howard commanded, his voice nearly drowned out by the wail of sirens outside.
Code R1, a man of solid build with a scar marring his jawline, raised a hand, signaling his eleven subordinates. They moved like clockwork, their M4 rifles shouldered tight, their steps synchronized in the increasingly narrow hallway. CRACK! A door was breached, wood splintering beneath the strike of a steel boot. "Clear!" the team barked in unison, their weapons sweeping the empty, smoke-filled room.
"Civilian found!" yelled Code R7, pointing to an elderly woman crouching in the corner, coughing from the smoke.
"Code R12 and R11, secure the civilian downstairs. The rest of you, follow me up!" Code R1 ordered, his eyes narrowed behind his tactical goggles. Two members peeled off, guiding the woman toward the fire escape, while the others continued their ascent, their steps echoing on the concrete stairs slick with sprinkler water.
They swept floor after floor, finding more civilians—a man with burn wounds, a small child sobbing behind a sofa. On the 47th floor, the blaze grew more ferocious, orange flames licking at the walls, black smoke creeping like a snake. The team was now down to six, including Code R1. KICK! The emergency door was smashed open, its hinges screaming. Code R1 held up two fingers, instructing Code R2 and R3 to enter first.
"Clear!" they shouted, their voices barely audible over the distant furnace-like roar of the fire. The 47th-floor corridor was pitch-black, illuminated only by the flicker of the emergency light and the flames beginning to climb the ceiling.
"Split into three teams, two men each!" Code R1 commanded, his voice firm though his breath was starting to hitch. "Code R2, with me. Code R3 and R4, one team. Code R5 and R6, sweep the left side. Priority: civilian rescue. Move!"
The members nodded, their faces hidden behind tactical masks, only their eyes visible—full of lethal alertness. They split up, their steps cautious down the increasingly hot corridor, rifles raised, fingers resting on the triggers.
***
Code R5 and R6 approached a cracked wooden door, smoke seeping from its crevices. R5, a lean man with a tattoo on his neck, nodded to R6. R6 held his M4, the muzzle trained on the door. Creak… R5 pushed the door gently, its hinge protesting. The thick scent of smoke was now mixed with a sharp, metallic tang.
They stepped inside; the dark room swallowed their shadows. The heat pressed against their skin; sweat dripped beneath their tactical helmets. In the blackness, R6 could feel his heart hammering too hard against his eardrums. R5 swept the room with the light on his rifle barrel, the beam cutting through the smoke, highlighting an overturned table and shattered glass on the floor.
R6 moved toward the bathroom in the corner, its door ajar, the darkness inside like a waiting mouth. He advanced cautiously, rifle raised. Suddenly—whoosh!—a knife shot out of the darkness, a flash of steel under the emergency light. Crassh! The blade punched through R6's throat, blood spurting like a geyser; his body crumpled before he could even scream.
From the bathroom shadow, Brisky emerged, wearing a stolen tactical uniform. His brown eyes flared like embers in the darkness. His tactical mask was slick with fresh blood. In his hand, the tactical knife, stained with R6's blood, gleamed. He wiped the blade onto his stolen uniform, his movements calm, like a wolf that had just brought down its prey.
R5, just realizing the attack, spun around, his rifle rising. "Bastard!" he yelled, his finger on the trigger. But Brisky was faster. With a fluid motion, he threw the knife—zip!—the blade stabbed R5's wrist, the rifle clattering to the floor, the metal clang echoing. R5 roared, grabbing the wound on his hand, but Brisky had already launched himself, his foot slamming into R5's chest. Crack! Ribs splintered; R5 slammed against the wall, his head striking the concrete until he went limp.
Brisky crouched beside R5's body, his breath shallow, blood dripping from a cut on his head. He ripped the radio from R5's vest, hearing Howard's voice still shouting: "Team R, report position!" Brisky offered a cynical smile, his ear focused on the radio, then smashed the camera on R5's vest with his heel, before dragging the body into a dark corner, hiding it behind the debris.
***
In the main corridor of the 47th floor, Code R1 and R2 moved cautiously. The smoke was thicker now; the heat pressed against their lungs. CRACK! They breached another door, finding an empty room with a shattered window. The night wind crept in, carrying the scent of asphalt and blood from below.
"R5, R6, report!" Code R1 yelled into his radio. Only crackling static replied. His brows furrowed; a terrible premonition crept over him. "R3, R4, move to R5's position now!" he commanded, his voice tight with tension.
On the other side of the corridor, Code R3 and R4 moved fast, rifles raised. They approached the room where R5 and R6 had disappeared. Creak… The door swung open slowly; their flashlights swept the darkness. "R5? R6?" R3 called out, his voice wavering.
Suddenly, from the shadows behind the door, Brisky slid out like a ghost. Thwack! He slammed his elbow into R3's neck. The man's trachea ruptured; he choked and fell. R4 spun, firing his M4—rat-a-tat!—bullets tore into the wall, but Brisky had already rolled low, vanishing into the smoke. He snatched the knife from R3's belt, then leapt, plunging it into R4's thigh. Splat! Blood sprayed; R4 roared, his rifle dropping. Brisky kicked his face—CRACK!—a broken nose, the body crumpling.
Brisky's breath hitched; his entire body was aching, yet his gaze remained cynical, his head buzzing with the next move.
Outside the Building.....
Howard sat in his command vehicle, watching the monitor connected to his team's body cameras. There was only a flash of gunfire, then blackness. His face was strained; his coffee cup had been overturned long ago. The radio in his hand cackled with panicked reports. "Team R, report! Code R1, position!" he screamed, but only static and faint screams answered.
Rita ran up, a tablet in her hand ready to log the events, her face streaked with dust.
Above, a helicopter hovered, its spotlight sweeping the 47th floor. Vrrrr-vrrrr! The rotor blades cut the air, their sound mixing with the roar of the fire and the sirens.
***
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Brisky's steps echoed softly in the 47th-floor corridor, blending with the roar of fire and the hiss of leaking sprinklers. Black smoke choked the air, blurring the weak, flickering red emergency lights. In his hands, the stolen M4 rifle felt cold, a full magazine ready to speak. The tactical knife on his belt was still blood-caked, its drips marking a trail on the scorched concrete floor.
Brisky's eyes narrowed, catching the shadows of two tactical team members—Code R1 and R2—at the end of the hall, their flashlights cutting through the smoke like blades of light.
Zzzt! "R5, R6, report!" Code R1's voice boomed, but only static replied.
Brisky moved low, his shadow merging with the smoke, like a ghost among the debris. Sprinklers misted water, slicking the floor, and flames licked the ceiling, ready to tumble down at any moment. Brisky pressed against the wall, the M4 raised, his breathing controlled despite the smoke and the increasing ache from his wounds.
CRASH! Code R1 and R2 breached a door at the far end, entering what was once a luxurious conference room, now just shattered glass and overturned tables. "Clear!" R2 yelled, his voice strained. Code R1, the solid-built man with the scar, raised his hand, checking the corners with his light. "R3, R4, status!" he barked into the radio, but only static answered. His eyes narrowed; a bad feeling bit him. "He's here," he muttered, his voice low, as if talking to himself.
Brisky, peering from behind a cracked doorframe, watched their movements. He saw R1 shoulder the M4, his movements precise, like a veteran who had faced hell. R2, younger, was calm, his fingers resting on the trigger. I have to be fast, he thought, fighting the pain tearing through his body.
Rat-a-tat! His M4 roared, bullets shredding R2's shoulder. Blood slicked the wet floor, mixing with the sprinkler water. R1 responded instantly with a burst of fire, rat-a-tat! A single round sliced Brisky's arm; warm blood flowed out. Black smoke ensnared the air; the fire danced ferociously on the shaking ceiling. Brisky rolled amongst the debris, the wound on his arm throbbing like an ember, but his eyes burned wild. R2, despite his injury, struggled up, attacking with his knife. The blade punctured Brisky's ribs, making him gasp. With a snarl, Brisky slammed his elbow into R2's face, the bone snapping wetly, then plunged his tactical knife into R2's throat—blood gushed like a fountain; R2's body collapsed.
R1 burst from the smoke, his rifle stock smashing Brisky's jaw. Blood and spit mingled. Brisky staggered, the world spinning, but retaliated with a low kick to R1's knee, sending him stumbling. They wrestled on the floor of hell, fists hammering like iron on steel. Brisky's blood dripped; his arms trembled from the wound. R1 choked him, his fingers like steel talons; Brisky's breath cut short, his vision fading. With an internal scream, he grasped a piece of broken glass from the debris, stabbing R1's hand until the grip broke. Brisky rose, wobbling, snatching R1's sidearm, and fired three times—DOR! DOR! DOR!—the bullets piercing the body armor straight into the veteran's chest. Blood pooled on the floor.
Brisky stood, his body tattered: arm ripped, thigh punctured, stomach bleeding, face swollen. Flames licked his boots; the building roared, ready to collapse.
He closed his eyes, his breathing ragged.
I always thought that in the end, there would be something grand that freed me. But this is just exhausting repetition, his voice was barely a whisper.
Brisky grabbed the comms radio from R1's corpse, mimicking the team's cadence:
"Team R reports to command: suspect has a bomb, send immediate medical and support. Suspect fled to the 50th floor. Over!"
Brisky straightened, staggering toward the fire escape, moving down.