CHAPTER 410: TWO TEAMS III

At the gang’s hideout. 7:35 pm.

The darkness pressed in heavy around the compound, broken only by the orange glow of torches mounted on the perimeter fence and the occasional sweep of flashlights.

The gang’s hideout sat like a crouching beast in the center of the field, its two-storey frame weather-beaten but fortified. Beyond its walls, guards prowled like restless wolves, their chatter drifting across the field, careless, unaware of the storm about to break upon them.

Ewan’s eyes cut across the lines of men behind him. Each was armed, armored, and drilled into silence. Their breathing was steady, but their eyes—hard, cold, and alert—betrayed the fire burning inside.

"Aiden has moved into position," he whispered, pulling his phone from the side pouch and skimming the last text. The glow from the screen lit his face for the briefest second before he tucked it back. "Hopefully, we’ll get feedback from them soon."

He straightened, voice carrying quietly but firmly over the line. "Is everyone ready?"

The men nodded in turn, a ripple of focus shifting through the squad. Even in the gloom, the faint clink of tightened grips on rifles could be heard.

"This place is one of their main dens," Ewan continued, his tone calm but edged with steel. "Ciara’s family is inside. That’s our only target. No distractions. No errors. You see them—you extract. Everyone else? Doesn’t matter. At least not at the moment. The state security would soon be here... they would take care of other details, while covering our trails..."

He paused, letting the words settle. "Stay alive. Stay sharp. And for God’s sake, don’t get cocky."

A chorus of low affirmations followed, voices deep and grave.

Ewan turned last to Zane and Sandro, crouched by the wired fence, already securing their gear. "You two better come back alive," he muttered, though it carried the weight of concern rather than command.

Zane gave a lopsided smirk, his sniper already resting comfortably against his shoulder. "We should be saying that to you."

Sandro’s tone was flatter, gruffer. "Don’t get sidetracked as you usually do. We’re here for Ciara’s family—nothing else. Take your own words to heart..."

"Noted," Ewan said, but his gaze lingered a fraction longer on them before jerking toward the tower.

The lanky guard stationed above, in the watchtower, paced lazily, rifle slung across his back. He scratched at his beard, yawned, then turned his back toward them, his attention drifting toward the treeline.

Zane’s finger squeezed. The sharp crack of the shot cut the night. The guard jerked once, toppled over the railing, and fell with a sickening thud against the dirt below.

For half a heartbeat, silence.

Then chaos.

Shouts rang out, whistles blew sharp and urgent, boots thundered across the compound.

"They’re here!" someone roared. Flashlights swung like frenzied beams, scouring the field.

"Go!" Ewan barked, surging forward. His men fanned out in a spread formation, rifles lifted, advancing with steady, crouched strides.

The first hail of bullets tore across the field. Sparks exploded off helmets, bullets thudded hard against vests, jerking bodies backward but never dropping them. Their gear held. The men gritted their teeth, pressed forward, and returned fire.

Gunfire stuttered through the air like drumbeats, muzzle flashes strobing in the dark. Two gang members dropped in quick succession, Zane’s shots punching neat holes through their skulls before they could scream. Another crumpled with his chest torn open from a burst of assault fire.

The security detail advanced steadily, like a tide. Every time one man fired, another moved. Cover, shoot, advance. Cover, shoot, advance.

And because they were wearing bullet-proof vests, and helmets–well prepared like soldiers in the war front–they weren’t dying victims, even if they were shot, unlike the gang members.

The gang members in this location, meanwhile, scrambled, panicking. They ducked behind crates, walls, and barrels, spraying bullets blindly. Their cries rose in anger, fear, and pain as the tactical machine bore down on them.

A grenade arced through the night, spinning, landing with a metallic clink near the wired fence.

"Down!" Ewan barked, tackling the dirt. The explosion tore the ground, hurling dirt and flame into the air. Shrapnel whistled overhead, smoke clouding vision.

Two of his men surged through the blasted gap, gunning down a cluster of gang members scrambling to reload. The air filled with the acrid stench of smoke and burnt flesh.

Ewan lifted his rifle, spraying controlled bursts. Each squeeze of the trigger sent the Kraken-47 roaring, its heavy rounds tearing through cover and dropping men where they stood. He moved forward with lethal precision, eyes cold, motions efficient.

Zane shifted to adjust his angle when a sudden muzzle flash caught him. A bullet slammed into his left side, jerking him backward.

He grunted, clutching his ribs, stumbling into the dirt.

"Zane!" Ewan’s heart lurched as he darted to his side, dragging him behind the shattered wall of a storage hut. Zane’s face twisted in pain, his hand pressed hard against his vest. Blood seeped through, but not fast.

"I’m okay," Zane muttered, his voice strained but firm.

"You’re bleeding," Ewan snapped, already tugging at the vest straps to check. His relief was instant—the vest had caught the worst of it. The bullet had bruised deep but hadn’t torn through.

Zane forced a chuckle. "See? You keep forgetting. Bulletproof. Not dead yet."

Ewan exhaled, jaw tight. "Stay down." He turned to Sandro. "Take care of him."

Sandro scowled. "What? Most of the men are still out there. Who’s watching your back—"

"I don’t need a babysitter," Ewan cut him off sharply. His eyes flashed, feral. "I am Wolfsbane. I can take care of myself."

Sandro muttered a curse under his breath, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But if you die out there, I swear I’ll dig you up just to shoot you again."

Ewan’s lips curved briefly in a laugh before he rose, slinging the Kraken-47 across his chest and gripping a pistol in his other hand. Ammo packs rattled at his thighs as he moved. He double-checked the magazine, cocked the pistol, and pressed forward.

The hallway ahead gaped like a throat waiting to swallow him. Bullets screamed from its depths, slamming into walls, spraying plaster and sparks. The noise was deafening, the air thick with cordite.

But Ewan ducked low, rolled across the floor, and came up firing. The Kraken-47 bellowed, each round a hammer, chewing through cover, bodies, and anything unlucky enough to stand in its path.

Two men fell instantly, another staggered screaming before a final shot silenced him.

But more poured in—men with machetes, rifles, even crude shotguns. They screamed war cries, faces twisted in desperation.

Ewan was amused.