The Dictator stood in his private war room, staring at the large screen before him.

A single figure sat in the darkness on the other end of the encrypted call. Their face was obscured, voice distorted by layers of digital interference.

But the Dictator knew who they were. Or at least, what they represented.

Power beyond his own. Influence that stretched far beyond this war-torn country.

And he hated that he had to answer to them.

"Your forces have failed." The figure's voice was calm, measured. "Fireteam Specter remains operational."

The Dictator's jaw clenched. He despised being lectured.

"They are rats scurrying in the sewers. They will be dealt with."

The figure didn't respond immediately. A deliberate pause. A sign of control.

"No," they finally said. "You do not understand the gravity of the situation. You are losing control."

The Dictator's hand curled into a fist. "I still command this war."

The shadowed figure leaned forward slightly. "Do you?"

For a moment, only silence hung between them.

Then, in a voice like a blade against stone, the figure spoke again.

"The Red Hand is growing restless. Your officers whisper of doubt. And now, Specter has discovered something they should not have."

The Dictator's lips pressed into a thin line. So that was it.

It was never just about the insurgents. It was about what lay beneath the surface.

The real reason this war had begun.

"What do you want?" the Dictator finally asked, his voice sharp.

The figure leaned back into the darkness. "Specter cannot be allowed to escape."

"They won't."

"You will ensure it."

A new image flashed onto the screen—coordinates. An aerial map of the sewer sector Specter had fled into.

The Dictator narrowed his eyes. "You've been tracking them."

The figure ignored the accusation. "Deploy the Smiling Demons. All of them. Seal the exits. If necessary, collapse the tunnels."

The Dictator straightened. "You would risk damaging the underground network?"

The figure's voice was cold. "The only risk is allowing those soldiers to live another day."

A slow breath left the Dictator's lips. He was the ruler of this country. The supreme commander of its forces.

Yet in moments like these, he felt like little more than a tool.

A pawn on a larger board.

But he would play his role.

For now.

He keyed his comms.

"Mobilize the Smiling Demons. Full deployment."

"Yes, sir."

As the order went out, he turned back to the screen. The shadowy figure had already disconnected.

But their presence lingered.

The Dictator exhaled, fingers tapping against the table.

Fireteam Specter would not escape.

He would see to it personally.

And if this war had to turn into a bloodbath...

So be it.

The Dictator turned from the screen, the cold glow of war maps reflecting in his dark eyes. The weight of the call still lingered in the air, pressing down on him like a vice.

He walked toward the massive observation window overlooking the city. His city.

Once, it had been a beacon of strength. Now, it was a battlefield. Smoke curled from distant ruins. Checkpoints dotted the streets. The Red Hand still fought, but they were only a distraction.

The real war was in the shadows.

And he had just given the order that would turn those shadows into graves.

A knock at the door.

The Dictator didn't turn. "Enter."

The heavy steel door opened with a hiss, and a man in dark tactical armor stepped inside. His helmet was tucked under one arm, revealing a scarred face and piercing, calculating eyes.

Commander Ragos, leader of the Smiling Demons.

The Dictator spoke without looking at him. "You have your orders."

Ragos stepped forward, his voice measured, professional. "The tunnels are a maze. They could surface anywhere. We'll need additional drone support and heavy suppression units to ensure no escape."

The Dictator finally turned, fixing him with a sharp gaze. "You will have whatever you require. I want Specter's bodies in front of me by sunrise."

A rare smirk tugged at Ragos' scarred lips. "Consider it done."

He turned to leave, but before he could, the Dictator spoke again.

"No mistakes."

Ragos stopped, glancing back.

"Specter has survived too long. If you fail, I will not be as forgiving as our 'friends' on the screen."

Ragos' smirk vanished. He understood the weight of those words.

"Understood, sir."

Then he was gone, the steel door sealing shut behind him.

The Dictator exhaled slowly, his fingers curling behind his back.

Specter had proven resourceful. Too resourceful.

But every escape, every mission, every victory they stole from him—

It only brought them closer to their inevitable failure.

And when that moment came, when they lay in the dirt like all who had opposed him before...

Only then would this war truly be his.

He turned back to the window.

The hunt had begun.

Kane's breath was still ragged as he pulled himself up onto the rusted maintenance ladder. The stench of the sewers clung to his skin, to his gear, to his very bones. Every muscle in his body ached, but there was no time to rest.

Ghost was already ahead, scaling the rungs with practiced efficiency. Doc was below him, covering their six.

Above them, faint slivers of light cut through the gaps in the tunnel ceiling. They were close.

Almost out.

Ghost reached the top first. The old sewer grate was rusted shut. She gritted her teeth and pushed harder, muscles straining—until, finally, the metal groaned and gave way.

She slipped through the opening, her silenced pistol raised, eyes scanning the area.

Kane followed, emerging into the dim glow of a ruined alleyway. Cracked pavement, walls covered in bullet holes, the faint scent of smoke in the air.

Doc was the last one up, pulling the grate back into place as he scanned their surroundings. "Still breathing," he muttered, wiping sewer filth from his face. "Where the hell are we?"

Ghost checked her wrist map. "Sector 12. Near the industrial district."

Kane's eyes flicked up toward the skyline. Heavy clouds blotted out the stars. Helicopter rotors thrummed in the distance. The city was alive with activity—but not the usual chaos of war.

This was different.

More controlled. More precise.

Something was wrong.

Ghost knelt behind a half-collapsed brick wall, bringing up her binoculars. Her jaw tightened.

"We've got a problem."

Kane crouched beside her, following her line of sight.

Military vehicles. Roadblocks. Checkpoints. Soldiers moving in coordinated patterns.

Not just a patrol. A full-scale lockdown.

Doc exhaled sharply. "They know we're here."

Kane clenched his fists. "They're locking the entire sector down to cut off our escape."

Ghost lowered the binoculars. "We need a new plan."

Fast.

Kane tapped his comms. "Viper, Specter is topside. We've got a lockdown in progress."

Static. Then Viper's voice came through, tense.

"We know. It's worse than that. The Smiling Demons are deploying. Full force."

Kane's stomach dropped.

Ghost didn't hesitate. "How many?"

"All of them."

Silence.

Then Doc muttered the words they were all thinking.

"They're not just hunting us."

"They're exterminating us."

Kane exhaled. The weight of the situation pressed on his shoulders.

The Dictator wasn't playing defense anymore. This was an execution order.

And Specter had just stepped onto the killing floor.

Kane pulled back from the crumbling brick wall, his mind racing. A full-scale lockdown. The Smiling Demons deployed.

This wasn't a containment operation.

It was a purge.

Ghost glanced at him. "We need a way out. Now."

Kane forced himself to think. Their usual exfil routes were gone. The sewer system was compromised, the main roads blocked. Even their fallback safehouses were at risk.

They were being caged in, pushed toward something.

But why?

And who else was in the crossfire?

A sharp chirp came through the comms—a coded burst transmission.

Kane recognized it instantly. Viper's emergency frequency.

He pressed a finger to his earpiece. "Go."

Viper's voice was clipped, urgent. "You're not the only target. We intercepted a transmission—civilians in the industrial district are being rounded up."

Kane's stomach tightened. "Executed?"

"No. Taken. Smiling Demons are securing them alive."

That was worse.

Ghost swore under her breath. "Why take hostages?"

"We don't know. But they're loading them into trucks, and those trucks are headed somewhere deep in the city."** Viper paused. "We have no eyes inside."**

Doc looked at Kane. "This isn't just about us. They're clearing the entire sector."

Kane felt the weight of it. The people in those trucks weren't fighters. They were civilians caught in the middle of a war.

And if they didn't act fast, they'd vanish.

Kane tightened his grip on his rifle. "Then we stop the convoy."

Ghost nodded. "Agreed."

Doc sighed, wiping more sewer grime from his face. "Guess I wasn't getting any sleep anyway."

They moved fast, sticking to the back alleys. Every shadow, every ruined building, every pile of rubble could be hiding enemy troops.

Kane's instincts screamed at him to slow down, to recon, to play it safe—but they didn't have that luxury.

By the time they reached the industrial district, the first of the trucks were already moving.

Ghost peered through her binoculars. "Two troop carriers, four armored transports. Escort vehicles up front and in the rear."

Kane's jaw clenched. Heavy security.

Doc exhaled. "They're not taking any chances."

Kane keyed his mic. "Viper, we need options."

A brief pause. Then Viper came back. "Nearest ambush point is a supply bridge two clicks ahead. If you can intercept them there, you have a shot."

Kane's eyes tracked the convoy's movement. They didn't have time for a perfect setup.

They had one shot.

And they had to make it count.

Kane checked his rifle. "We're taking that bridge."

Ghost locked a fresh magazine into place. "Then let's make some noise."

They vanished into the night, moving fast toward the only chance they had left.

And behind them, the Smiling Demons closed in.

The industrial district was a maze of rusted shipping containers, abandoned warehouses, and skeletal remains of half-destroyed factories. Perfect for an ambush—if they moved fast enough.

Kane led the team through the crumbling infrastructure, their boots silent against the cracked pavement. The convoy was still a minute out, moving at a steady pace toward the supply bridge.

One shot. No backup. No retreat.

Ghost took point, her voice calm but urgent. "We need to hit them before they reach the bridge's midpoint. If they get past, we lose them in the city."

Kane nodded. "Positions. Now."

Doc and Kane moved toward a stack of rusted freight containers overlooking the road. Ghost took a sniper's perch atop a half-collapsed loading bay.

They didn't have explosives. Didn't have the firepower to take down armored transports in one go.

But they did have precision.

And the element of surprise.

The first vehicle came into view—an armored troop carrier, turret-mounted and heavily reinforced.

Behind it, the transport trucks carrying the civilians.

At the rear, two more heavily armed vehicles—a perfect wedge formation.

Ghost's voice crackled in Kane's earpiece. "If we don't stop that lead vehicle, we're dead before we start."

Kane steadied his rifle. "Then drop the driver."

The convoy rolled onto the bridge.

For a split second, everything felt frozen.

Then—a single suppressed shot cracked through the night.

The armored vehicle's driver slumped forward. The truck veered sideways, slamming into the bridge's guardrail—tires screeching, metal groaning.

Chaos erupted.

Kane opened fire.

His shots ripped through the lead vehicle's gunner before he could react. Doc followed up, his rifle barking as he took out the second.

Ghost kept firing—precision shots tearing through the confusion.

The second truck tried to reverse, but a well-placed round from Kane took out its front tire. It lurched violently, blocking the rest of the convoy.

Screams erupted from inside the transport vehicles. Civilians. Panicked. Trapped.

The escort vehicles slammed their brakes. Doors flew open. Soldiers poured out.

The fight had just begun.

Bullets tore through the air, ricocheting off metal and concrete. Kane ducked behind cover as rounds peppered the shipping container beside him.

Ghost called out. "More coming in from the rear!"

Kane peeked over his cover—more enemy forces spilling from the last vehicle.

One of them had a launcher.

His blood went cold. "Launcher! Take him—"

Too late.

A rocket spiraled toward them.

Impact. Explosion. Fire and debris ripped through the air.

The container behind Kane erupted into shrapnel.

Everything blurred—sound muffled, vision shaking.

Then, as the dust settled—

A new sound.

Low, deep. Mechanical.

Kane forced himself to focus. His stomach dropped.

More engines.

Not just reinforcements.

Gunships.

The Smiling Demons were here.

A deafening roar filled the night as the gunship descended, its twin rotors churning the air. A searchlight flared to life, cutting through the dust and smoke.

Then—the miniguns spun up.

Kane barely had time to move before a hailstorm of bullets shredded the ground where he had been crouching.

"Move! Move!" Ghost shouted, already sprinting toward cover.

The gunship's cannons tore through the freight containers like paper, sending shards of rusted steel flying. The bridge was turning into a kill zone.

They had seconds to react—or they'd be cut to pieces.

Kane hit the ground running.

Doc was right behind him, zigzagging through the wreckage as more bullets pounded into the pavement, kicking up debris.

Ghost dropped onto her stomach behind a concrete barrier, snapping off a shot—a clean hit on one of the soldiers still scrambling near the transports.

But it didn't matter. The real threat was above.

The gunship hovered lower, adjusting its angle.

Kane's mind raced. If it got a clean firing line, they were dead.

Then he saw it.

An overhanging industrial crane—rusted, forgotten, but still towering over the bridge.

And suspended from it—a half-broken steel beam, swaying slightly in the wind.

A plan formed in an instant.

Kane slammed his comms. "Ghost—crane! We need that beam down!"

She didn't hesitate.

Rolling onto one knee, she adjusted her aim, exhaled, and fired.

A sharp, metallic crack—the bullet sheared through the crane's weakened joint.

The beam groaned, shifted—then plummeted.

The gunship pilot saw it too late.

The massive steel beam slammed down onto the cockpit, sending the entire aircraft tilting sideways.

Rotors screeched as the pilot fought for control—but it was useless.

The gunship veered sharply, blades clipping the bridge's support rail—

—then it spiraled downward.

Impact.

A fireball erupted as the aircraft crashed into the water below.

The shockwave sent a ripple through the bridge, shaking the ground beneath them.

For a brief moment, silence.

Then—the radio chatter of enemy forces still closing in.

They weren't out of this yet.

Kane reloaded.

"We keep running. No stopping."

Doc wiped soot from his face, shaking his head. "They're not letting us out of this city alive."

Ghost slung her rifle over her shoulder, eyes scanning for their next route.

"Then we make them regret trying."

No time to think. No time to rest.

The Smiling Demons were still coming.

And Fireteam Specter was still breathing.

For now.