Page 152 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

Blake and Walt ghost toward elevated positions with sniper rifles slung across their shoulders, moving through terrain that would challenge mountain goats. They’ll provide overwatch and eliminate sentries when the dance begins—death delivered from distances that turn men into memories before they hear the shot.

They disappear into granite and shadow, two predators who’ve learned to make mountains their hunting ground. Walt’s bulk seems impossible to hide until he simply vanishes behind a boulder and scrub. Blake flows between rock formations like smoke; there one moment and gone the next.

“Electronic warfare,” Ghost directs Whisper toward the compound’s communication hub.

Whisper emerges from the shadows, carrying devices that will turn Malfor’s defensive systems against him. Electronic warfare specialist, communications expert, the man who makes billion-dollar defense networks commit suicide on command. He moves through darkness with the grace of someone who’s learned to make technology his weapon.

Ten minutes with their network and every automated gun becomes our ally instead of an enemy.

“Assault teams, standby for signal.”

I check my weapon for the hundredth time, as muscle memory takes over, rendering conscious thought a liability. The magazine is seated with a metallic click. Safety engaged. My backup pistol is secured in a shoulder holster, knife positioned for rapid deployment.

I carry everything needed to paint this compound red with the blood of men who thought money could protect them from consequences.

The wind shifts, carrying new scents—diesel fuel from generators, gun oil from weapon maintenance, fear-sweat from guards who know something’s wrong but can’t identify the threat. Smart money says they’re professionals, experienced contractors who’ve survived conflicts most people can’t imagine.

Smart money’s about to lose its shirt.

Through my scope, the north tower’s lights flicker and die as Blake’s rifle speaks twice with suppressed authority. Muzzle flashes are invisible at this distance, sound muffled to whispers that won’t carry past the next ridge. Two soldiers who’ll never see another sunrise, courtesy of precision marksmanship and righteous fury.

“Guards eliminated,” Blake’s voice whispers through comms like death’s own lullaby. “Tower one clear. Two targets down.”

“Tower two down,” Walt confirms, his voice carrying satisfaction. “Patrol route alpha neutralized. Three more for the collection.”

More lights die as Walt works his magic from an overwatch position that turns him into God’s own sniper. Professional contractors who thought themselves safe behind walls and weapons discover that distance is just another word for temporary safety.

“Security grid compromised,” Whisper reports, voice barely disturbing air that tastes of ozone and approaching violence. “Automated defenses offline. Motion sensors are feeding falsedata. Thermal imaging shows what I want it to show. We own their eyes and ears.”

Electronic warfare at its finest—turning billion-dollar defensive systems into elaborate decoration. Cameras that see nothing, sensors that report all clear, and automated weapons that won’t fire when targets appear.

Our technology serves justice instead of greed.

“Phase one complete,” Ghost announces with satisfaction that sounds like anticipation wrapped in professional calm. “All teams, you are clear to engage. Remember—no survivors. No witnesses. No mercy.”

We flow toward the compound like death given form, moving through defensive positions that no longer defend anything. The main building looms ahead through darkness and storm clouds, a concrete and steel monument to Malfor’s paranoia and accumulated wealth.

Tonight it becomes his tomb, and I’m going to be the one who seals it.

The entry point Halo selects allows access through a maintenance corridor that bypasses primary defensive chokepoints. It’s smart tactical thinking—avoid the kill zones, find the soft spots, get inside before anyone knows you’re there.

Explosive charges eliminate locks and barriers, each explosion muffled by storm wind and careful placement. C-4 shaped to focus blast energy inward, turning steel doors into twisted metal and concrete barriers into rubble. The sound carries no further than the next corridor, swallowed by the mountain wind and approaching thunder.

Our first significant resistance comes from two guards in the corridor—professional contractors in tactical gear who recognize our threat and react. They’re combat veterans who’ve survived wars in places most people can’t pronounce, carrying weapons that could stop armored vehicles.

But, they die anyway.

Carter’s rifle speaks twice; each shot a decree of authority. The first guard spins with his chest blown open, arterial spray painting white walls red as his heart pumps its last beat. The second manages to bring his weapon to bear before Walt puts two rounds center mass, body armor useless against tungsten-core penetrators that punch through Kevlar like tissue paper.

We reduce the threat to cooling meat in less than three seconds.

“Contact eliminated,” Carter reports, already advancing past bodies that twitch with final neural impulses.

The corridor reeks of cordite and copper, blood pooling on industrial carpeting that will never come clean. Emergency lighting casts everything in red relief. It’s an appropriate atmosphere for the slaughter we’re about to unleash.

We clear rooms methodically, stacking on doors with the expertise that comes from years of elite operations. Fatal funnels become killing fields as we flow through chokepoints like smoke, each movement dictated by experience and muscle memory.

Ethan takes point, rifle at ready, eyes scanning for threats that might survive long enough to matter. Behind him, Rigel covers angles while Blake watches our six.