"Pft-pft, pft-pft, pft-pft~"
Owen emerged again after dodging another volley, resuming his precision fire under bullet time. His reappearance came just in time to cover Bayev, who had run out of ammo—his AA-12's drum mags took up a lot of space, and even someone like Bayev couldn't carry many. After an intense round of "tut-tut-tut," he was dry.
Under Owen's cover, Bayev rolled into cover. He'd barely moved before his previous spot sparked under suppressing fire—being the most eye-catching force on the field had drawn nearly half of the enemy fire to him.
Luckily, he got away clean. On the other side, Fred grabbed an AK from a fallen enemy and tossed it over. Bayev caught it midair, turned, and bashed an approaching terrorist with the stock before finishing him off with a burst.
"Night Owl! Catch—"
Fred then slid two magazines across the floor. Bayev caught them, popped out the spent mag, slammed in a full one, and went right back to firing.
Meanwhile, Owen's bullet time still flowed, but it felt a bit... lonely. Since Monica had left, no one in Omega could keep pace with his shooting rhythm. The others coordinated well enough, but they couldn't replicate that perfect synergy he'd had with her.
"Rat-tat-tat~"
Swag's MP7 put down the last enemy—a guy wearing body armor. Fred had hit him earlier, but the MP5's pistol rounds hadn't penetrated. The MP7, known as a "cop killer" for its powerful penetrative ammo, made short work of him.
With solid teamwork, the last of the hostiles were eliminated. Owen and the others moved downstairs. Swag had taken a hit—thankfully absorbed by his vest, though the impact still left him aching. Ghost also had a few scrapes, but nothing serious.
The team paused briefly for treatment. Fred, who'd served as a field medic during his GROM days, quickly patched everyone up—these were all minor injuries, easily handled.
After bandaging and reloading, the group gathered outside a makeshift room built from a shipping container. They had noticed earlier that the enemy density around this area was unusually high. Thinking it through, Owen had a strong hunch—this was likely where the hostage was being held.
They exchanged glances, then took up firing positions. Owen signaled; Heartbeat carefully turned the door handle while the rest covered.
As the door creaked open, the contents were revealed.
There was only one chair inside. A man was shackled to it, his body a mess of open wounds, blood still seeping from them. Torture devices littered the floor, and the sight of a massive clamp attached to the man's crotch made everyone wince.
The hostage appeared unconscious. Fred moved forward and lifted his face—no doubt about it, this was their target: David Blanchett.
"Package secured. All units, prepare for extraction," Owen said over comms, then nodded to Fred.
Fred understood immediately and produced a syringe—adrenaline, used in critical situations. It had side effects, but without it, the hostage might not survive the trip back.
"Buddy, we're taking you home…"
Fred removed the cap and jabbed the needle in.
But at that moment, the ship shuddered violently—an explosion rumbled beneath them. The floor tilted.
Elsewhere on the ship, Farah, seeing his men annihilated and escape impossible, muttered Quranic verses and pressed a detonator.
Explosives rigged on one side of the ship went off simultaneously, allowing seawater to pour in like a tidal wave.
"Fuck! Someone blew the ship! Water's coming in fast! Evacuate now!" panicked voices crackled over the comms.
Owen didn't hesitate. "Bayev, carry the hostage. Everyone else, move!"
Without a word, Bayev dropped his weapon, hoisted the nearly lifeless David onto his back, and followed the team. Water flooded the ship fast—it was already ankle-deep within moments.
Through corridors, around corners, up staircases, the Omega squad sprinted at full tilt, retracing their path. Just before the water reached dangerous levels, they burst onto the deck.
"Over here! This way!"
The Chinook crews stood at the bay doors, shouting. The other two squads were already safely aboard. Only Owen's group remained.
"Hurry!"
Water surged, and the ship tilted further. The Chinook was hovering just off the rising edge.
One by one, the team sprinted and leapt aboard, each grabbed and pulled in swiftly to make way for the next.
Only Bayev remained. With all his strength, he hurled David forward—crew caught him midair.
Bayev backed up, took a running start, and leapt—but fell just short, beginning to drop toward the stormy sea.
At the last second, Owen lunged forward and grabbed Bayev's arm. They clung to each other in a desperate grip.
"Buddy... we're going home…"
Lying flat on the Chinook's floor, Owen turned to the equally exhausted Bayev. They both burst into laughter.
The rain came down even harder, but their moods had completely shifted. The hostage was safe. Mission accomplished.
Three Chinooks flew stubbornly through the storm, heading back to the U.S. base.
"Owen, status report?" came Dumb Sweetie's anxious voice over the comms. The storm had knocked out her satellite visibility. Hearing the field reports but seeing no return, she was deeply worried.
Owen took a few heavy breaths, then replied, "Mission accomplished. No casualties."
On the other end, Dumb Sweetie finally relaxed. A relieved smile spread across her face as she looked into the distance.
"Man, you were on fire today," Fred said, unable to hold back once they were stable. "That shotgun—what made you pick that thing?"
Owen silenced him with a hand over his mouth.
Bayev, seated nearby, ignored the chatter. He pulled a worn photo from inside his vest—a family picture—and kissed it hard.
______
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