The air over the Volga River was cold, carrying the damp scent of rust and water. Inside a gutted control shack a klick out, Davies listened as a Phoenix scout whispered the update, the feed from a thermal drone displayed on a tablet.
"Over a hundred heat signatures, Commander," the scout murmured. "Ten, maybe twelve, patrolling the river's edge. Another ten on the roof. The rest are inside the main warehouse. They're disciplined, not sloppy."
Davies studied the red blips. A strong force. His jaw tightened. Finally, a fight worth the blood.
He keyed his comms. "Delta, take the river side. Bravo, the roof. The rest with me—we breach the main entrance. Weapons hot. These aren't amateurs. Protect your vitals at any cost. Move."
The Phoenix Knights slipped into the shadows. Two soft thwips! echoed across the water. The rooftop sentries dropped—then an alarm blared.
"Shit, breach now! Go! Go!" Davies roared.
Alpha team set a shaped charge, blasting the doors inward with a controlled detonation. Gunfire erupted instantly. Ten Rings fighters met them, moving with precision. Black tactical gear, rifles, and humming electrified batons and swords that spelled danger.
Rounds slammed into the Knights. One staggered, but the wound began healing in seconds, the pain barely slowing him down. Another hurled a fireball that tore apart enemy cover. Others charged in, shoulders hunched, keeping their vitals covered while returning fire.
Davies fought like a man possessed. He rammed an enemy into a support beam, bone crunching under the impact, and shoved deeper toward the command chamber.
Inside, calm. A man stood waiting, arms crossed, as if the chaos beyond was a nuisance. Then he moved—fast. His sword streaked for Davies's throat. Davies ducked, the edge grazing close enough to burn his skin. They traded blows, speed against raw power. The blade punched through Davies's gut.
Davies grinned through the agony, locking the man's wrists. "Got you." He hauled him across the room and smashed him into a bank of servers. Sparks burst in a shower of light. Davies tore the blade out of his stomach, blood dripping down the steel. At its center, a faint violet glow pulsed from the metal itself—pure, unfamiliar, and wrong. He stared at it, curiosity cutting through the pain.
The man rose, bloodied but defiant. "You people never learn. You have no idea what you've provoked."
"We provoked?" Davies shot back, his voice tight with pain and fury. "Terrorists like you should dig a hole and bury yourselves."
Orlov's face twisted in genuine offense. "Hey. Do not include me with the likes of those low-level thugs in Afghanistan. We recruit many. But we are not them." He straightened his jacket. "Let me introduce myself properly. I am Nikolai Orlov, lieutenant of the Russian division. We had no real enmity with you. Why don't we stop this now and call it a day?"
Davies barked a laugh, his hand pressed against his already-closing wound. "No enmity? We've dismantled dozens of your operations. You ambushed my men and killed them! And you say we have no enmity?"
The man sneered. "I told you not to confuse us with desert thugs. I don't care about those lowlives. You were just disturbing us during a delicate operation. Volgograd was just a warning to back off. Obviously, you didn't get the message." He glanced around as the sounds of battle drew closer. His men were skilled, but they were being overwhelmed by the Knights' relentless power and regeneration. "If you continue this," Orlov said, his eyes locking back on Davies, "you will not like it when 'he' gets involved."
Davies's eyes narrowed. "'He'? Who is he?"
Orlov ignored him and signaled the four men who had been guarding a reinforced door at the rear of the chamber. They immediately turned, slammed a button, and the large shutter door behind them began to rumble open.
Davies lunged to stop them, but a renewed, frenzied attack from Orlov's remaining men cut him off. He was forced back into a defensive stance.
From the now-open doorway, four heavy trucks roared to life, their engines screaming. They plowed into the main warehouse floor.
"Stop those truc—" Davies' order turned into a curse. "Oh, fuck! GET DOWN!"
The sides and roofs of the trucks slid open, revealing mounted heavy machine guns. They opened fire indiscriminately.
BRRRRRRRT! BRRRRRRT!
The sound was deafening. The warehouse became a slaughterhouse. Ten Rings operatives and Phoenix Knights alike dove for cover as high-caliber rounds shredded everything—crates, metal, and flesh. Orlov's own men were cut down in the crossfire, their screams lost in the roar of the guns.
The trucks didn't stop. They accelerated toward the main closed shutter at the far end of the warehouse. The lead truck fired a mounted missile.
WHOOSH-BOOM!
The entire shutter was blown outwards in a shower of twisted metal and smoke. The four trucks sped out into the night and were gone.
Davies shoved a body aside and spotted Orlov crawling away. He grabbed him and slammed him against a wall.
"Who is he? What are you hiding?"
Orlov coughed blood and laughed. "You're already dead. You just don't know it."
Davies's emergency line chirped in his ear—a priority channel from HQ. He tapped his earpiece. "Go ahead."
He listened. His expression, first furious, then confused, then grimly resigned. He tried to speak, to protest, but the line went dead. The order was given; the discussion was over.
He looked down at Orlov, who was still smiling through broken teeth, a maddening glint of triumph in his eyes.
With a look of utter unwillingness, Davies raised his sidearm, pointed it at Orlov's head, and pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed finally in the sudden quiet.
He then turned to his surviving teams, who were securing the area. "New orders from HQ," Davies announced, his voice hollow. "We return to the helo in two hours."
He paused, scanning the scene of carnage. His eyes landed on the forms of his fallen Knights. "Before you clean this place up," he said, his voice dropping to a somber command, "bring our brothers back. Don't leave a single one behind."
As the Knights began to respectfully gather their dead, Davies turned to the other Ten Rings members who had been taken prisoner. "Execute them all. I want this place sterile."
He started out as gunfire erupted behind him, then stopped. The sword lay on the floor, the violet glow in its core now dim but unmistakable. Davies crouched, picking it up, the weight different from any steel he'd carried.
He turned it slowly, studying the strange balance and the sheen in the center that still flickered violet. Curiosity gnawed at him, louder than the ringing in his ears. Whatever this weapon was, it wasn't standard issue. Not for the Ten Rings. Not for anyone. He glanced back at Orlov's lifeless body, then looked down at the blade. Its strange, silent light pulsed like a heartbeat, promising answers—and a new kind of war.
{A/n: I wish I could post a Lloyd gif here. I--RESPECT--YOUR FETISHES.}