Chapter 14: Feinting East to Strike West

Milton opened the door to the room and glanced around cautiously, ensuring no one was approaching before carefully retracing his steps along the same path. Throughout the process, he stayed close to the cover, making as little noise as possible.

Drip… splash…

The faint sound of dripping water and flowing streams masked his already light footsteps.

At that moment, Milton felt as if countless eyes were watching him in the darkness. Even the slightest unexpected sound sent his heart racing uncontrollably.

Reaching the entrance and climbing the stairs out of the sewer, Milton finally breathed a long sigh of relief upon seeing the land shrouded in night.

There had been no unexpected encounters—no patrols, no sentries.

“If my opponent had been a Navy SEAL… no, even just any trained enemy with some vigilance and a few patrols set up, I’d be completely finished.”

Before leaving, Milton glanced at the storage room but did not untie Sean. Untying him would take time, and explaining would take more—time he simply did not have.

Besides, Leia was still inside.

Two and a half minutes later, Milton reached the pickup truck and quickly donned all his gear and equipment. The heavy bulletproof vest was weighing him down, and the tactical helmet strained his neck, draining his stamina—and he had no supplies to replenish it.

Yet, once he put on the helmet and loaded the magazines, an unprecedented sense of security returned to his heart.

He squeezed the scope of his rifle and sneered, “You’ve been hunting me for so long—enough, isn’t it? Now it’s my turn to hunt you…”

It was time to show these third-world vermin the true meaning of information dominance and firepower supremacy.

After figuring out their numbers, weapons, approximate location, and taking out one of them in a surprise attack, they still knew absolutely nothing about him.

Soon, Milton returned to the sewer. This time, he no longer needed to conceal his footsteps—he simply couldn’t with such heavy gear.

He jogged lightly to Leia’s room door, having learned the approximate layout of the pharmacy area.

This area had two floors: they were on the first basement level, the assassins on the second, connected only by a narrow stairwell.

At the end of the stairwell were three rooms: a pharmacy and two bedrooms.

The pharmacy and guest room were simple rectangular layouts, while the master bedroom was more complex, featuring a study, a walk-in closet, and a bathroom.

Indoor combat in such a layout was truly troublesome. Simple rooms could be neutralized by flooding with grenades and flashes, leaving those inside with no escape or combat capability—avoiding dangerous dynamic entries.

In a complex layout, enemies could retreat temporarily to the study upon a grenade’s arrival, then emerge after the explosion to take advantageous firing positions or fall back to defend.

The sewer’s walls were thick reinforced concrete, making direct penetration difficult.

“Wait here,” Milton said without fear, gripping his rifle as he headed toward the stairwell. “Don’t come out until the fight is over.”

Leia struggled to hold back tears. “Inspector, please save my father…”

“I’ll do my best.”

Milton reached the stairwell, preparing to clear it with standard procedures.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from below, accompanied by a displeased voice: “Are you done yet? Isn’t this usually over in five minutes? It’s our turn now…”

A burly figure swaggered into Milton’s line of sight.

The assassin froze, stunned and unsure of the situation.

Bang bang bang!

Without hesitation, Milton pulled the trigger. His simple but reliable Type 56 rifle fired a burst of shots. The unprepared assassin was hit and collapsed.

Bang bang bang!

The AK-47 never disappointed, even a clone version.

Milton quickly finished off the downed man with one headshot and two to the chest, then stepped forward to scout the stairwell arc, moving along the wall toward the lower level in small steps—positioned to avoid incoming fire from below while holding a line of fire straight ahead.

The loud gunfire immediately alerted the other assassins below.

Milton heard one shout upwards: “Damn! Who’s up there?! Chris, are you alright?!”

“The boss, what do we do? Rush up?”

“Rush! Take him out!”

Rat-a-tat-tat…

Listening to their panicked voices and footsteps, Milton roughly gauged their positions and formation.

Four of them were coming, lined up in a straight file—no plan for dynamic entry, no awareness of kill zones or safe angles.

Planning to storm the door and open fire from the front?

Then holding this doorway, Milton could pick them off one by one with deadly accuracy.

Suddenly, the stairwell door swung open. An assassin pushed the door with his right hand and charged out, wielding a TEC-9 in his left, firing down the stairs.

At the same moment, Milton squeezed the trigger.

Bang bang!

Two shots rang out almost simultaneously.

The assassin only had a vague idea of Milton’s position, but Milton had the advantage of holding the only path they could use. That information gap was life or death.

The TEC-9 rounds just grazed Milton’s helmet, while Milton’s rifle bullets struck true, hitting the assassin’s torso.

Another assassin fell.

Bang bang bang bang…

Without releasing the trigger, Milton continued firing at the stairwell entrance below, pinning down the remaining three assassins outside.

They didn’t retreat, apparently waiting for Milton to run out of ammo and reload before rushing in—relying on their numerical advantage.

But Milton’s suppressive fire was merely cover for the sound of a grenade pin being pulled and the grenade hitting the ground.

He was preparing to blow them to hell.

After three seconds of heavy fire, Milton ceased shooting.

The assassins, ears ringing, prepared to charge but were halted by a strange object tossed into the hallway.

Milton had switched to holding his gun in his left hand and pulled an MK3A2 grenade from his vest, throwing it down the corridor.

A brief silence fell over the once gunfire-filled battlefield.

“What the…?”

“Fuck! Grenade! He’s got a grenade! Run! Get to the room! The big room!”

Boom!!!

Just before the explosion, the three surviving assassins scrambled into the room. Fortunately, the room was relatively spacious, and the offensive grenade had a limited blast radius, sparing them from further casualties.

But all three bore wounds.

Only after retreating inside and taking cover at the door’s corners did they exhale in relief.

As their fury and excitement waned, the assassins realized a terrifying fact: in just a few dozen seconds of fighting, they had lost half their number.

And it was only one man opposing them.

Despite their superior numbers and firepower, they had been suppressed.

Their leader, somewhat level-headed, decided not to attack in such complex terrain.

“We’ll hold inside. If he dares come in, he’ll face three lines of fire! Two of those lines cover the blind spots—we’ll overwhelm him!”

“But boss… he seems to have body armor!”

“So what! How much can armor cover? If we all fire together, spraying bullets everywhere, can’t we hit his hands, legs, gaps in the plates?”

“We’re going all in!”

“But who is he? Why’s he after us?”

“…”

While the assassins retreated in disarray, Milton had finished clearing the hallway and stairwell on this basement level.

For safety, he even used a flashbang.

His noise-canceling headphones worked wonders—greatly reducing the explosion’s noise without completely blocking outside sounds, preventing him from going deaf and impairing situational awareness.

Milton scanned the corridor and found no bodies.

That meant the grenade hadn’t killed the assassins, but at least it forced them into cover.

With the area secure, Milton approached the door behind which the assassins hid.

“As expected, they chose the largest, most defensible room…”

He pressed against the wall at the weak side of the door. Perhaps, at this moment, he was only separated from his enemies by a single wall.

What next?

He would inevitably face three lines of fire, including one from behind.

Though the rear line’s view was blocked by the open door, the assassins weren’t fools—they would simply shoot through the door once Milton entered. The wooden door wasn’t bulletproof.

Even wearing level-three armor, surrounded like that, death was certain.

So what was the best way to deal with the rear line?

The answer: don’t engage it.

From start to finish, Milton planned to rely on firepower, gadgets, information, and tactics to avoid direct gunfights—essentially playing a cunning, strategic game.

If he could kill without firing, he would; if he could avoid shooting from behind, he would; if he could avoid shooting from the side, he would.

Milton slowly rose, used his corner cover, and gently pushed open a crack in the door, then hurled a grenade forcefully inside.

But he had not pulled the pin.

It was a dummy grenade—one that would not explode.