The air inside the abandoned warehouse was thick with dust and silence.

A relic of the old city—forgotten, crumbling, but still standing. Rusted beams stretched above like skeletal fingers, and shattered skylights let in streaks of pale moonlight.

It wasn't safe.

But it was safer than being outside.

For now.

Kane sat against a rusted metal crate, checking his rifle. His hands were still wet—blood, water, sweat. It didn't matter. They were alive.

Ghost paced near the entrance, her sniper rifle slung over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked to every dark corner, every broken window. Watching. Waiting.

Doc had stripped off his vest, patching up his wounded shoulder. His breathing was steady, but the pain was still there. They all felt it.

Kane exhaled slowly.

This wasn't over.

Ghost finally spoke. "They won't stop."

She didn't need to say who. They all knew.

The Smiling Demons.

The Dictator's forces.

And now, mercenaries.

Kane clenched his jaw. "Ragos isn't taking chances anymore."

Doc scoffed, wincing as he tightened a bandage. "Yeah, no shit. He sent a damn gunship after us."

Ghost crossed her arms. "We need to move. We can't stay here long."

She was right.

But Kane wasn't just thinking about running.

He was thinking about fighting back.

He turned to Ghost. "We need intel."

She nodded, already ahead of him. "We need to know who these mercenaries are."

Doc frowned. "And how deep they're in with the Dictator."

Kane's grip on his rifle tightened. "Then let's find out."

Because Specter wasn't just going to keep running.

They were going to start hunting back.

The room was dimly lit, the only source of light flickering from an old industrial lamp swinging lazily overhead. The air smelled of gun oil, sweat, and something metallic—blood, maybe.

Kestrel stood at the center, rolling a knife between his fingers, his expression unreadable. He was calm, almost too calm.

Around him, his mercenaries sat or leaned against crates, checking their weapons, laughing in low, predatory tones. Hardened killers, every single one of them.

But none laughed too loud. Not when Kestrel was thinking.

He finally spoke. "Fireteam Specter is still breathing."

The laughter stopped.

A lean, scarred man—Hawk—grunted. "Not for long."

Kestrel's eyes flicked toward him. A silent warning.

Hawk shifted but didn't speak again.

Good. Kestrel hated arrogance.

Another mercenary, a woman with cold, gray eyes—Viper—leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Ragos is getting desperate. You can hear it in his voice." She smirked. "That means we're getting paid even more."

Kestrel nodded absently, but his mind was elsewhere. Something about Specter bothered him.

They weren't just another resistance unit.

They had survived. Over and over again. That didn't happen by accident.

He sighed and flipped his knife, catching it by the hilt. "We end this. Tonight."

Viper raised an eyebrow. "Got a plan?"

Kestrel smirked. "We don't need a plan."

He looked around the room, letting his gaze settle on each of them. "We just need to be better than them."

Hawk cracked his knuckles. "Then let's go hunting."

The mercenaries moved with purpose, silent and efficient.

Kestrel walked among them, watching as they prepped their weapons. They weren't some ragtag squad of hired guns. They were killers, each with their own specialty, their own story.

And they all had one thing in common.

They never failed.

Viper locked a suppressor onto her rifle. "Specter's slippery, but we know their pattern now."

Hawk loaded a magazine, his movements slow and deliberate. "They're wounded. They'll try to lay low."

Kestrel smirked. "Which means we find them before they can breathe."

The room was filled with the sharp clicks of weapons being checked and locked. A quiet, deadly symphony.

Kestrel pulled out a tablet, swiping through drone footage. The gunship's thermal scans had lost Specter in the canal, but they had picked up something else—a faint heat signature in an old industrial district.

Not confirmation. But close enough.

Kestrel's smirk faded. "We move now."

No one questioned him. They never did.

The mercenaries gathered their gear, slipping into the night like ghosts.

Ragos had demanded results.

And by sunrise, Fireteam Specter would be nothing but bodies in the dirt.

The night was alive with the distant hum of drones and the occasional thump of a patrolling gunship. The city never truly slept. Not under the Dictator's rule.

Kane crouched near the rusted doorway of the warehouse, peering through a crack in the metal. His grip on his rifle was tight. Every nerve in his body screamed that something was coming.

And he was right.

Ghost's voice was barely above a whisper. "They're out there."

Kane didn't need to ask who. The mercenaries.

The ones Ragos had sent after them. Hunters.

Doc sat nearby, his wound freshly patched but still raw. He exhaled slowly, watching the shadows stretch across the floor. "How many?"

Ghost didn't look away from the darkness outside. "Enough."

Kane clenched his jaw. That meant too many.

The Hunters Close In

Half a mile from the warehouse, Kestrel and his team moved like wraiths.

Their gear was top-of-the-line—thermal optics, suppressed weapons, cloaking tech that blurred them against the night. They weren't just mercenaries.

They were specialists.

And Specter was running out of time.

Kestrel stopped at the edge of a ruined building, raising a hand. The team froze.

Through his scope, he spotted it—a faint flicker of movement inside the warehouse. A shadow crossing the open doorway.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

"We've got them."

Viper knelt beside him, adjusting her thermal scanner. "Four heat signatures. No other movement. They're boxed in."

Hawk checked his sidearm. "They won't even hear us coming."

Kestrel's voice was cold. "No mistakes. No noise. We end this quickly."

The team spread out, each one vanishing into the night.

The hunt had begun.

Specter's Last Stand

Inside the warehouse, Kane felt it before he saw it. A shift in the air. A prickle down his spine.

Ghost stiffened. She felt it too.

They were here.

Kane didn't hesitate. He pressed his radio. "They're moving in. Get ready."

Doc exhaled sharply, forcing himself to his feet. They were injured, low on ammo, and outnumbered. But none of them were going down without a fight.

This was it.

The First Shot

The first shot came from the rooftop.

A suppressed crack—almost a whisper.

The bullet slammed into a crate inches from Kane's head. Splinters exploded into the air.

Ghost didn't flinch. She raised her rifle and fired back.

A body hit the ground outside, dropping into the dirt without a sound.

One down.

But there were more.

A flashbang sailed through a broken window.

Boom!

White light. Deafening sound.

Kane hit the ground hard, ears ringing, vision swimming. He rolled instinctively, just as bullets tore through the space he had just been.

They were coming.

Close-Quarters Combat

Ghost was the first to recover. She moved fast—too fast.

A mercenary slipped through the shadows, blade in hand. He lunged.

She sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. A sickening snap.

The knife clattered to the floor, and before he could scream—her silencer coughed.

Another one down.

Doc fired from behind cover, his sidearm flashing in the dark. A mercenary dropped near the entrance, his body limp.

But the enemy wasn't stopping.

More of them. More gunfire.

The air filled with smoke and chaos.

The Standoff

Kestrel watched from the shadows, calm, waiting.

Specter was putting up a fight. A good one.

But they were bleeding. Tiring.

He pressed his radio. "Close the exits. Push them inward."

His team obeyed instantly.

Specter had nowhere left to run.

Kane felt it too.

They were being caged in.

Pinned down. Surrounded.

He ducked behind a steel beam as bullets tore through the air, dust raining from the ceiling.

Ghost reloaded. "We're not getting out the front."

Kane's mind raced. Think. Think.

Then he saw it.

The service tunnels.

A way out.

But they'd have to reach it firs

The Final Push

Ghost tapped her comms. "We have an exit. But we need to break through."

Doc gritted his teeth. "Then let's do it."

Kane made the call.

"Now."

They moved as one.

Gunfire. Smoke. The crack of bullets.

They ran.

Kestrel's eyes narrowed as he saw them shift, move.

Escape.

His grip on his rifle tightened.

Not this time.

He raised his weapon—

And fired.

The bullet ripped through the air.

Kane barely had time to react before the force slammed into his shoulder, twisting him mid-stride. He crashed into a stack of rusted crates, pain exploding through his body.

Ghost spun around instantly, returning fire.

The warehouse was a battlefield now—bullets snapping through the air, shadows dancing under flickering lights. The Smiling Demons and mercenaries had Specter locked in, pinning them down with relentless precision.

And Kane was hit.

"Kane's down!" Doc's voice was tight with urgency, but his hands were steady as he dragged Kane behind cover. Blood was already soaking through his gear.

Kane gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit up. "It's just a graze."

It wasn't.

Ghost's gaze flicked to him for half a second—long enough to see the wound, long enough to know it was bad. But she didn't waste time.

"We have to keep moving."

Bullets tore into their cover. Wood splintered, metal groaned, dust rained from the ceiling. The mercenaries were closing in.

They had minutes—maybe seconds—before they were overrun.

Kestrel watched from the catwalk above, his rifle steady.

Specter was cornered. Bleeding. Desperate.

Exactly where he wanted them.

He pressed his radio. "Flush them out."

Hawk and Viper responded immediately. A grenade sailed through the air, landing near Specter's cover.

Kane saw it first. "MOVE!"

The explosion hit like a hammer.

The blast wave threw them backward, fire licking at their heels. Kane hit the ground hard, his ears ringing, the world spinning.

Smoke filled the air. The structure groaned.

A haze of dust and debris swallowed everything.

Kestrel peered through the smoke, eyes narrowed.

No movement.

His finger hovered over the trigger. Couldn't be that easy.

It wasn't.

From the smoke—Ghost moved first.

Silent. Fast. Precise.

She fired twice—one shot clipping Viper's shoulder, the other forcing Hawk into cover.

Then she was gone.

Kane, ignoring the pain in his arm, pushed himself to his feet. Doc was already dragging himself toward the service tunnels.

Their only way out.

"Go! Go!"

Kane covered Ghost as she sprinted across the open floor, bullets snapping past her head. She dove into the tunnel entrance without hesitation.

Kane followed—and nearly collapsed.

Blood loss.

Doc grabbed him, hauling him forward. "Not dying here, man."

They stumbled into the tunnel just as another round of bullets tore through the walls behind them.

Kestrel cursed under his breath.

Specter was gone. Again.

The warehouse was silent now, save for the crackle of flames and the creak of settling metal.

Viper pressed a hand to her wounded arm, scowling. "They're ghosts, Kestrel. They just keep slipping away."

Kestrel's jaw tightened. "Not for long."

He looked toward the tunnel entrance, eyes cold.

This wasn't over.