Chapter 21: He Is Already Dead

The enemy chose not to rush the corner, opting instead to toss a grenade.

According to the original tactical plan, "Boss" was supposed to turn immediately and retreat to the next firing point, while Brandon provided cover with a grenade of his own. Brandon was already prepared to pull the pin the moment he saw the enemy grenade thrown in, even before it had hit the floor.

Milton, however, could not help but frown. He hadn't heard the click of a pin being pulled on the enemy's side; the grenade thrown in was likely a dud. If they followed the original plan, the three of them would likely retreat safely, but it would mean the enemy had captured the vital stairwell without losing a thing, while they had wasted one of their few remaining throwables.

The further they retreated, the less room they would have to maneuver!

Milton had no time to use his radio to convey his judgment; first, speaking would reveal their position, and second, while a realization can strike in an instant, communicating it takes time. He could only watch and see what "Boss" would choose. He didn't have high hopes; most people found it nearly impossible to stay calm in such moments, and the instinct to make a choice that guarantees immediate survival was overwhelming.

Milton lamented the missed tactical window and was already preparing to retreat himself. But "Boss" did not do what he had expected. His aim remained rock-steady, yet he tapped his right foot behind him, casually simulating the sound of footsteps.

He had deduced it was a dud.

Milton’s spirits lifted. What a teammate!

The moment the sound of footsteps rang out, a man wielding an AK-74 cut in at high speed, his muzzle trained on the stairs below, clearly intending to catch them from behind. But the spot was empty!

Bang-bang-bang! Rat-tat-tat!

Gunfire erupted from three directions almost simultaneously. Milton’s first shot pierced the enemy’s heart with precision. This clean, decisive kill bought "Boss" more time to retreat. "Boss" held his trigger for less than half a second before turning to fall back. Instead of taking the stairs, he vaulted over the railing, intending to drop down directly.

Once Milton confirmed the enemy was down, he jerked his muzzle back to re-aim at the doorway. The AK-74 gunner had chosen to push a dangerous angle aggressively; though he died quickly, he had successfully forced Milton and Brandon to shift their aim. In other words, the stairwell entrance was no longer covered, giving the remaining two enemies a brief window to push.

But Milton was a beat too slow.

The two enemies had already breached. A burly man in heavy body armor, wielding an FN FAL, aimed at "Boss" as he prepared to drop down, while the other opened fire to suppress Milton and Brandon, who were running low on ammunition.

Bang! Bang... Clang!

All four opened fire at once. Several shots rang out, and white smoke erupted from the bodies of the burly man, Brandon, and "Boss," accompanied by the sound of bullets striking ceramic plates and the cracking of armor.

One of Milton’s bullets had even struck the burly man’s head, but the angle was too steep; the round ricocheted off his PASGT helmet and into the wall. A deflection. What a pity! Had the angle been slightly better, or the luck a bit stronger, the man would have been finished with a headshot.

A missed tactical opportunity never returns. Milton felt no regret; seeing that "Boss" had "descended," he immediately pulled back, unclipped a grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it. The enemy did the same, throwing a grenade toward the lower level.

Boom! Boom!

Both grenades detonated simultaneously. By now, the three of them had retreated from the stairwell and were crouching, guarding the entrance. Milton did not hesitate, pulling out a stun grenade and another fragmentation grenade, throwing them in one after another, hoping to buy a moment’s respite.

The enemy’s movements were faster and more decisive than he had imagined. Not only had they dared to launch a counterattack after being ambushed, but they had also struck "Boss" more than once.

Milton keyed his radio and said quickly, "Two enemy operators remaining, in good condition. Preliminary suspicion: one is wearing Class 4 plates. Our rifle rounds cannot effectively penetrate his torso."

"All team members, report injuries."

"Brandon here. Hit in the chest, but no injury. Over."

It was normal for the AK-74’s standard rounds to fail against Level 3 armor.

A second later, the radio crackled with "Boss’s" labored breathing: "Hit twice, maybe three times, in the back by M80 rounds... The pain is severe. It will significantly impair my mobility."

Milton frowned. It wasn't a lethal wound, but the situation was grim. Body armor saves lives, but it could never make you feel "uninjured," especially when facing rounds at the limit of its protection. Even the classic "broken rib" was technically classified as a minor or light injury in medical terms. But how could one fight with broken ribs?

"Boss's" injury was surely lighter than a broken rib, but it was no good news. At the very least, it would severely hamper his combat effectiveness. Milton himself was also wounded. He didn't know how many throwables the enemy had left, and that Class 4 plate was essentially impervious to their intermediate-caliber rounds.

It was hopeless. This was Milton’s assessment after synthesizing all the information. A numerical advantage? In many cases, wounded personnel could even become a liability. And Milton was injured, too.

Was there any other way? How could they turn the tide?

Just as Milton was racking his brain, he saw another grenade thrown down. Even with their numbers reduced to two, the enemy continued to press the attack—it seemed they had also deduced that their opponents were on the brink of collapse.

Milton sighed inwardly, unclipped a grenade, pulled the pin, and threw it, then prepared to retreat into the bedroom. His condition was so poor that he couldn't even tell if the enemy hadn't pulled their pin or if he simply hadn't heard it. A firing point that could have inflicted casualties on the enemy was forced to be abandoned just like that.

The three of them moved out, retreating toward the bedroom. However, at that moment, disaster struck.

While retreating, the injured "Boss" suddenly stumbled and failed to keep up with the team. The grenade explosion was mere seconds away. Because of that stumble, "Boss" lost the chance to regroup with his teammates and had no choice but to turn and flee into the nearby pharmacy... It was a simple, single-room layout.

Milton ducked into his room, listening to the two grenade explosions at the entrance, his heart sinking to the depths. They were already at a disadvantage, and now they were split up.

If the enemy realized this, their next move would be simple: hold the door to Milton’s room while flooding "Boss's" room with grenades. In a simple room layout, there was no escaping a grenade. Once "Boss" was eliminated, they would use their superior quantity of throwables to slowly grind Milton and Brandon to death. If Milton and Brandon tried to rush out to save him, they would be acting as the attackers in a CQB scenario while at a disadvantage, which would only lead to a faster death.

The only good news was that the enemy didn't know yet—but they would soon.

Milton was truly in a desperate situation. He had one last-ditch effort, but it would require the sacrifice of a teammate. It wasn't that Milton was some saint hesitating at a critical moment; it was that he would never pin his hopes on someone else's voluntary sacrifice. It was too unreliable. If that decision led to infighting, the battle would be lost instantly.

Brandon was already panicking. "What do we do?! He—he’s out there..."

They could hear the footsteps of the two enemies gradually drawing closer.

Suddenly, "Boss's" voice came over the radio.

"We can't wait. The enemy doesn't know our exact position yet. I’m going to pull out now; you’ll have a shot at their flanks... at least a side shot."

If they waited any longer, until the enemy figured it out, all three of them would be finished!

Brandon’s eyes widened. "But..."

"I’m pulling out in two seconds. Good luck, my friends."

A tremor passed through Milton’s eyes, but he had no time to dwell on it. He immediately raised his muzzle and charged out of the room.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat...

The sound of the MP5 submachine gun rang out. The two men outside clearly hadn't expected the enemy to appear from a room that was easy to attack but hard to defend. Under high pressure and the element of surprise, their coordination inevitably faltered—both turned to fire back, and no one was covering the entrance to Milton’s room!

Bang, bang, bang...

Under the spray of the FN FAL and the AK-74, fragments of "Boss’s" body armor flew everywhere. He held out for less than half a second before falling silent. Generally, if the armor plate makes a lot of noise, it means the kinetic energy was successfully dispersed and the block was likely successful. Conversely, if there is no sound, it means it was penetrated.

Almost at the same time, Milton and Brandon pulled out, their Type 56 and Type 81 rifles spitting fire, bullets raining down like a storm on the two enemies who had exposed their flanks.

The enemy with the AK-74 fell instantly. The burly man in heavy armor had countless clouds of white smoke erupt from his body—he had intended to rely on his heavy armor to turn and counter-attack!

But his attempt failed.

One of Milton’s 7.62x39mm rounds found the gap between the armor plates, striking his right shoulder from the side. The bullet tumbled from his shoulder all the way to his chest, exploding into a mist of blood.

The one and only tactical window had been seized!

Milton calmly pulled the trigger, noticing that even after losing his right hand, the man was still trying to draw his pistol with his left. Milton shifted his aim and poured the last of his magazine into the burly man’s left arm, shredding it into pulp.

The burly man went down.

The gunfire ceased.

In two seconds, three men had fallen. The losers were wiped out; the winners had won a pyrrhic victory. This was CQB. This was a meat grinder.

"Boss!" Brandon threw his rifle to the ground and stumbled toward where his friend had fallen. "You motherf... You, you! You..."

He wanted to call "Boss" a fool, but the words wouldn't come out. Because if "Boss" had been a "smart man," all three of them would be dead today. This was a friend with whom he had weathered life and death, earned money, and shared successes and failures for years.

"Shut... up, listen to me." "Boss" coughed up a mouthful of blood. "No. 4 Green Leaf Street, District 2. My... money, it’s there. Always talk about the inheritance before the last words, so you don't have to guess if I die halfway through. How about that? Am I smart, or what?"

Brandon was trembling all over. He had no time for jokes. He undid the ruined tactical vest and saw the shredded, bloody mess of flesh underneath, and his whole body went cold.

"You... wait a second. I know a black-market clinic; they stay open at night. They’re good at treating gunshot wounds. You, you just hold on! Don't fall asleep! There’s a way!"

"Listen... to me." "Boss" turned his head with great difficulty, glancing at the cash on the pharmacy counter. A wistful and helpless smile appeared on his face. "Sigh, we were never short on diligence. I hope you can have a little more luck than I did, my friend."

With that, "Boss" closed his eyes.

"No... God damn you, get up! Get up..." Brandon completely broke down. With bloodshot eyes, he lunged at Milton. "Tourniquet! Give me the tourniquet! Hurry..."

Milton held his Type 81, silent for two seconds, before saying with a complex tone: "He’s gone."

Hearing this, Brandon let out a roar. He turned and lunged at the burly man lying on the ground. He ripped off the man’s helmet and punched him in the face. Seeing the man cough up blood and his lips twitch, Brandon punched him again.

He had no interest in hearing the man’s bitter past. Brandon just kept punching the burly man’s face, venting the fury in his heart.

Thud... Thud...

The sound of his fists hitting flesh echoed through the basement.

Thud... Thud!

Watching Brandon’s numb, repetitive punches and the unrecognizable corpse, Milton stood in the darkness, his voice tinged with a deep, lingering sorrow:

"He’s already dead."