The sun hadn't set, but under the jungle canopy everything was already shadowy and dim. Rain started falling, thick leaves blocked out the sky, and every gust of wind made the branches dance—like a hundred enemies hiding above. Fox, Vulture, and John barely had time to breathe after taking out the last three guards when, in the distance, startled birds took off—then came the sharp sounds of boots and metal.
"They've noticed," John whispered, flicking his mag open to count rounds. "Bloody hell. Fifteen left."
"AK, I got thirty here," Vulture said, working the bolt on a looted AKM, wiping mud off the foregrip as he chambered a round.
Fox was already scanning the treeline. "Two o'clock—at least five coming."
"At least," John muttered, squatting low and looping the pin of a Soviet RGO grenade around his finger. "Listen—if we don't hit first, we're all dead."
The first wave appeared at the edge: three soldiers in camo, formation sloppy but carrying real firepower. One had an RPK light machine gun, the others wielded an AK and a pump-action shotgun.
Fox fired first, dropping flat in the mud and squeezing off three quick shots at the LMG gunner—one to the gut, another grazing the shoulder, the last square in the chest. The man dropped, but still clutched the trigger, spraying a wild burst into a thick tree trunk, splintering bark everywhere.
"Break and spread!" Vulture yelled, rolling behind a massive root and pumping two rounds at the guy with the shotgun. The enemy managed to fire as he went down, shattering palm bark with a blast of buckshot.
"John—left rear!" Fox called out, just as a M67 grenade arced in from the distance.
John coolly lobbed his own RGO back, a perfect counter. "You throw, I throw."
BOOM. The grenade went off before they could run, sending up a storm of bark, mud, and blood.
The two remaining enemies clearly knew their trade—they split and flanked hard, one laying down fire at Fox, rounds drilling the trunk just above his ear.
Fox rolled, swapped in a new mag, then stayed prone, firing a blind burst through the brush—his rounds ripping up the attacker's thighs and dropping him.
The last enemy rushed in from the flank, right up on John. As he raised his weapon, John slammed an elbow into his gun arm, yanking the barrel away. The shot whistled past John's ear. Quick as a flash, John let his rifle drop, seized the man's sling, and drove a tactical knife deep into his ribs. The man tried to kick, but John's knee slammed into his chest with a sickening crunch.
"That's it?" Vulture called, jamming a new mag home.
"No," Fox said coldly, tense and focused. "There's more—listen."
Before they could catch their breath, two signal flares rocketed up from the far trees—red light flooding the canopy. The enemy was going to close the net.
Fox gritted his teeth, pulling a smoke grenade from his pouch. "Cover our exit. We go straight for the main tent."
"You want to kill Bruno now?" John looked at him, startled.
"Strike now, or he'll have time to rally—we'll be dead anyway."
Fox yanked the pin, booted the smoke grenade into the brush, and a wall of white mist blossomed through the jungle.
They charged, keeping low in the swirling haze. The camp hadn't fully regrouped. Fox moved with lethal precision, dropping two more on the way in—one with a spinal shot, the other kneecapped and left screaming.
Vulture fired his AK on semi-auto, cutting through half a dozen foes, dropping them into the mud. John swept through with a looted shotgun, each blast ripping apart brush and bone alike.
Fifteen minutes later, they reached the camp's heart.
Bruno was just stepping out of the command tent when Fox shot him in the knee.
Panic broke out—some enemies ran, others threw down their weapons and knelt. In the wet, gold-flecked jungle twilight, the firefight was over. Now came the reckoning.
Rain faded, and streaks of sunlight broke through the leaves, falling over shell casings and bodies tangled in trampled ferns. The guards were gone—either shot in the head or with their throats cut.
Fox put his last bullet into Bruno's knee, leaving the warlord—once thrown from a helicopter by John—writhing in the mud. Bruno tried to curse, but all that came out was blood.
"You… you British dog…" Bruno spat, half-choking.
Fox shook his head. "We had no beef, but you tried to kill me. Guess now we do." He calmly raised his gun and finished it.
Vulture quietly reloaded beside him. John wiped blood off his wrist, voice dry: "Efficient. Bloody clean."
They were about to clear the site when a new sound rolled in from the south—tires chewing mud.
Several Humvees pulled into the camp. The leader was a middle-aged man in tactical sunglasses, black battle dress, carrying an MK18. Six mercs, fully kitted, fell in behind.
John recognized them instantly. "Don't shoot. They're ours—Thomas's boys."
The team leader—Aidan—walked up, nodding politely to Fox. "We're from Thomas. He wanted to apologize—he knew you'd be… less than pleased."
Fox's voice was flat, cold. "Less than pleased is almost getting fed to the damn ants."
Aidan nodded. "He knows. After you left, we lost the handler's trail. Thomas suspected he'd flipped, but wasn't sure… This mess was to see which side he was on. Using you as bait was… our mistake."
Fox just squinted, saying nothing. He slowly chambered his last spare round, then turned his rifle toward the corner—where the handler, Samir, sat tied up and beaten, looking like a rotten watermelon.
Seeing Fox approach, Samir started to shake, lips trembling.
"Alright then," Fox muttered, like answering a voice inside his head. "This one's on you, not Thomas."
He stepped up to Samir. Without warning, Fox slid a brass knuckle onto his fist. Aidan moved to stop him, hesitating.
"Wait. He needs to stay alive."
Fox didn't look back. "Relax. I'm not going to kill him."
Aidan ground his teeth. "Just don't finish him off."
"He's not dying that easy."
Fox's first punch crashed into Samir's right cheekbone, snapping it with a sickening crack. The handler jolted, eyes going glassy.
"Relax pal, it's not gonna hurt," Fox said, low.
The second blow landed under the jaw, a brutal, clean shot—a jawbreaker that shut down speech and chewing at the same time. Samir gagged, blood spraying from his mouth as his breathing grew shallow.
Fox wiped his knuckles on Samir's shirt. "Life's fragile."
Aidan checked—Samir was still alive, just barely. He nodded, not arguing.
"Load him up," Aidan ordered. "Flight to Cuba, then Miami. Thomas wants a word."
The mercs strapped Samir to a stretcher, barely breathing but still alive.
Three hours later, a "charity medical" Blackhawk landed at a private airstrip north of Miami.
Thomas was waiting, cream suit, sleeves rolled up, handmade shoes, standing in the humid wind as they unloaded the stretcher. The sun flashed gold on his glasses.
He stepped over, lifted the body bag—Samir's face was crushed, nostrils twitching, eyes yellow and bloodied.
Thomas didn't flinch. He slowly pulled a handkerchief, wiped a spot of blood from the stretcher, tossed the cloth in a trash bin.
He stared at the corpse for a moment, then smiled quietly, murmuring,
"Kid's tougher than I was, back in the day."
He turned to Aidan. "You're sure he died in the air?"
Aidan nodded. "Nobody touched him. He was breathing fine at takeoff—heart just slowed down, faded out."
Thomas nodded, looking up at the sky, remembering.
Then he got in his car, settled into the leather seat, and told his assistant,
"Send Fox a note."
"What should I say?"
Thomas lit a cigar, blowing a slow, pale cloud.
"Tell him I owe him a drink." He paused, then added with a crooked grin, "And that, yeah, this time… I played him dirty." He thought a moment, then laughed softly.
"But I rather like that kid."