If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
______________________________
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
When he said they had only caught one piece of the operation, he meant it.
For a brief moment after the traitor hit the ground, the warehouse seemed to hold its breath.
Then the gunfire outside surged again.
Louder.
Closer.
More desperate.
The pause shattered.
The battle continued.
Preston Garvey didn't waste another second.
He snapped back into motion, instincts taking over as he leaned out from behind the crate and fired toward the warehouse entrance again.
"Stay focused!" he shouted. "They're still coming!"
The crack of his rifle cut through the noise, followed by the controlled bursts from the Freemasons commandos holding the line at the doorway.
Outside, Carver's men had regrouped.
They weren't just firing blindly anymore.
They were coordinating.
Using overturned stalls, brahmin carts, and scattered cargo crates as cover, they pushed forward in short, aggressive bursts.
One group fired.
Another moved.
Then they switched.
Disciplined.
Organized.
Not just hired thugs.
Preston saw it clearly.
"These aren't just random mercs," he muttered under his breath.
Behind him, Danny Sullivan stepped up beside a support beam, reloaded his pistol, and glanced toward the wounded Republic soldier.
"Get him patched up!" Sullivan called out.
One of the Diamond City guards immediately dropped beside the injured man, pressing a cloth hard against the bleeding shoulder.
The soldier gritted his teeth but nodded.
"I'm still good… I'm still in this…"
"Not without that arm you're not," the guard muttered, tightening the pressure.
Across the warehouse, more Freemasons soldiers repositioned.
They moved with purpose, shifting crates, stacking cargo boxes, turning the cluttered storage space into a defensive grid.
One commando dragged a heavy crate across the floor, grunting as it scraped loudly against the concrete.
"Cover the left side!" he shouted.
Another soldier moved to reinforce the barricade near the entrance.
Gunfire slammed into the improvised defenses, sending splinters flying.
But the line held.
For now.
Near the center, Carver remained pinned behind reinforced cargo crates, his wrists still bound.
Two commandos stood over him, rifles aimed outward, completely focused on the fight.
Yet Carver himself wasn't watching the door.
He was watching the people.
Watching Preston.
Watching Sullivan.
Watching the soldiers move.
Still calm.
Still thinking.
Still calculating.
Preston caught that look again.
And it only made his jaw tighten.
"Don't take your eyes off him," he warned the guards nearby.
One of them nodded.
"Not a chance."
Beyond the warehouse doors, the western trading square had turned into chaos.
Diamond City had seen fights before.
Bar brawls.
Small skirmishes.
The occasional raider attack at the gates.
But this.
This was something else.
Freemasons soldiers had formed a defensive perimeter around the warehouse district, just as planned.
But now that perimeter was under heavy pressure.
Carver's men were pushing from multiple directions.
From behind stalls.
From alleyways.
From rooftops overlooking the square.
Gunfire echoed between the stadium walls, amplified and distorted until it sounded like the entire city was under siege.
Team Two was holding the outer line.
Republic soldiers worked alongside Diamond City Security, forming small defensive units that covered each other as they advanced.
A Freemasons sergeant ducked behind a tipped-over caravan cart and shouted into his radio.
"We've got movement on the east alley!"
"Copy," came the reply. "Reinforcements moving!"
Two Diamond City guards sprinted across the open space, sliding behind a pile of scrap metal just as bullets tore through the air behind them.
"Close one," one of them muttered.
"No kidding."
Then they leaned out together and fired.
Across the square, one of Carver's attackers went down.
Another stumbled and retreated behind cover.
The tide was beginning to shift.
Slowly.
Gradually.
But noticeably.
Inside the warehouse, Preston saw it happening.
The pressure at the entrance was easing.
Not by much.
But enough.
"They're losing ground," he said.
Sullivan nodded, glancing toward the doorway.
"Then we push them the rest of the way."
Preston didn't hesitate.
He turned toward the nearest squad leader.
"Get two teams ready."
The soldier nodded instantly.
"You want to counterpush?"
"Exactly."
Preston checked his weapon quickly.
"We don't sit here and wait for them to regroup."
He looked toward the entrance again.
"We drive them out."
Sullivan stepped beside him, tightening his grip on his pistol.
"Diamond City guards with you," he said.
"We know these streets better than they do."
Preston gave a sharp nod.
"Then let's use that."
He raised his voice.
"On me!"
The shift was immediate.
Two squads of Freemasons commandos moved toward the entrance, crouching low behind the barricade.
Diamond City guards joined them, checking their weapons, exchanging quick nods.
No speeches.
No hesitation.
Just understanding.
They were about to take the fight outside.
Preston counted silently.
Timing the gunfire.
Watching the rhythm of the attackers.
Then.
"Now!"
The counterattack exploded forward.
Freemasons soldiers surged out of the warehouse in a coordinated push, rifles firing in controlled bursts.
Diamond City guards followed, spreading out to the sides, using their knowledge of the terrain to flank the attackers.
The sudden aggression caught Carver's men off guard.
They had expected resistance.
They hadn't expected a push.
One of the attackers barely had time to react before a burst of fire dropped him behind a market stall.
Another tried to retreat but was cut off by guards emerging from a side alley.
"Move! Move!" Preston shouted as he stepped out into the open, firing toward a group of mercenaries scrambling for cover.
The battle shifted.
What had been a defensive stand turned into a forward drive.
Carver's men began to fall back.
Not in panic.
But under pressure.
Losing ground step by step.
The western market district became a maze of movement.
Freemasons soldiers advanced carefully, covering each other as they moved from one piece of cover to the next.
Diamond City guards guided them through narrow passages and side routes, cutting off escape paths and forcing the attackers into tighter positions.
"Left alley clear!"
"Rooftop secured!"
"Watch that corner!"
The coordination between the two forces began to show.
Different groups.
Different training.
But working together as if they had done this before.
Preston moved with the front line, his focus locked on the retreating attackers.
Every step forward pushed Carver's men further back.
Further away from the warehouse.
Further from their objective.
One of the mercenaries tried to make a stand behind a reinforced stall, firing wildly as the soldiers approached.
A Diamond City guard flanked him from the side and shouted.
"Drop it!"
The man hesitated for half a second.
Then lowered his weapon.
Another attacker tried to run.
A Freemasons soldier tackled him to the ground before he could disappear into the crowd.
One by one, the attackers were being neutralized.
Some went down fighting.
Others surrendered.
A few managed to slip away into the deeper parts of the city.
But the push was working.
The line was moving forward.
And the pressure on the warehouse was finally breaking.
Back inside the warehouse, Sullivan remained near Carver, ensuring the prisoner stayed secured.
The wounded Republic soldier had been stabilized and moved behind safer cover.
Geneva stayed crouched nearby, her breathing still quick but controlled as she clutched her clipboard like a lifeline.
Carver sat against the crate, watching everything.
Listening to the gunfire outside.
Hearing the shift.
The retreat.
The loss of momentum.
For the first time, something changed in his expression.
Not fear.
But irritation.
Subtle.
Barely visible.
But there.
Sullivan noticed.
"Your people are losing," he said coldly.
Carver didn't respond immediately.
He just listened.
Then, quietly.
"They were never meant to win here."
Sullivan's eyes narrowed.
"What does that mean?"
Carver looked up at him.
"You're still thinking too small."
Sullivan stepped closer.
But before he could press further.
The gunfire outside began to fade.
Not completely.
But enough.
The intensity dropped.
The rhythm slowed.
Then.
A voice crackled through Preston's radio from outside.
"Warehouse team, this is Team Two."
"Area is being secured."
"Hostiles are falling back."
Sullivan exhaled slowly.
The worst of it was over.
A few minutes later, Preston stepped back into the warehouse.
His armor was dust-covered.
His breathing steady but heavier than before.
He glanced around quickly.
"Everyone good?"
One of the commandos nodded.
"Wounded, but stable."
Preston nodded back.
Then his gaze shifted to Carver.
Still sitting there.
Still calm.
But now…
Now there was something else in his eyes.
Not victory.
Not defeat.
Something in between.
Preston walked up to him slowly.
"It's over."
Carver tilted his head slightly.
"Is it?"
Preston crouched slightly, bringing himself eye level with the prisoner.
"You're done."
Carver held his gaze.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Carver said quietly.
"You pushed them back."
Preston didn't respond.
"You worked together," Carver continued, glancing briefly toward Sullivan and the guards.
"Republic soldiers and city security."
He looked back at Preston.
"That's impressive."
Preston's voice hardened.
"Save it."
Carver smiled faintly.
"But it won't be enough."
Sullivan stepped forward sharply.
"What won't?"
Carver leaned back slightly against the crate.
"This was just one move."
He let the words hang in the air.
Then added.
"You're still in the middle of the board."
Silence settled over the warehouse again.
This time heavier.
More uncertain.
Preston stood slowly.
Then turned toward his soldiers.
"Secure the area."
"Round up anyone involved."
"Lock this place down."
The commandos moved immediately.
Sullivan looked at Carver one last time.
Then turned away.
"Get him out of here."
Two soldiers stepped forward and pulled Carver to his feet.
The battle for the warehouse was over.
Carver's men had been pushed back.
The attack had failed.
But as Preston walked toward the open doorway and looked out across the battered market district.
He knew one thing for certain.
This wasn't the end.
Not even close.
For a few seconds after Carver's words faded into the dust-heavy air, no one inside the warehouse spoke.
The silence felt different now.
Not the stunned, frozen quiet from earlier.
This one carried weight.
Meaning.
Something unresolved.
Preston Garvey turned away from Carver slowly, his jaw tight, his thoughts already moving past the man's cryptic warning.
There would be time to deal with that later.
Right now, there were more immediate things to handle.
People.
Damage.
Consequences.
He scanned the warehouse again, this time not as a battlefield, but as a place that had just barely survived one.
Crates were shattered across the floor.
Wood splinters and torn packaging littered every corner.
A few supply boxes had been ripped open completely, their contents spilled and trampled in the chaos.
Bullet holes dotted the metal walls like scars.
Smoke still lingered faintly in the air.
And the people.
The people told the real story.
A wounded Republic soldier leaned back against a crate, his shoulder bandaged tightly, face pale but steady.
Another sat nearby, breathing heavily, clutching his ribs.
Two Diamond City guards were helping a third man walk, his leg injured but not broken.
Geneva stood slowly now, still holding her clipboard, though her hands trembled slightly as she tried to write something down.
Trying to regain control.
Trying to make sense of it.
Preston exhaled quietly.
They had held the line.
They had pushed back the attack.
But it had come at a cost.
He turned toward his soldiers.
"Medics!" he called out.
Two Freemasons medics immediately stepped forward from the far side of the warehouse, already unpacking their kits.
"Get everyone checked," Preston continued. "I don't care how minor it looks as I want you to clean it, bandage it, make sure no one's walking out of here worse than they should."
One of the medics nodded.
"On it, General."
They moved quickly, efficiently, kneeling beside the wounded, checking injuries, applying fresh bandages, administering what little supplies they had brought with them.
The atmosphere shifted again.
Still tense.
Still heavy.
But calmer now.
Controlled.
Preston watched for a moment, making sure everything was in motion.
Then he turned.
Danny Sullivan stood near the warehouse entrance, looking out toward the battered trading square.
The fight was over.
But the aftermath was just beginning.
Overturned stalls.
Scattered goods.
Damaged carts.
Civilians slowly emerging from hiding, their faces uncertain, shaken.
Diamond City Security was already moving through the area, securing the perimeter, checking for any remaining threats.
Sullivan didn't look away as Preston approached.
"Hell of a day," Sullivan muttered.
Preston stopped beside him, following his gaze out into the square.
"Yeah."
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
They didn't need to.
They both understood what had just happened.
Then Preston spoke again.
"We'll send caps."
Sullivan glanced at him.
Preston kept his eyes on the market.
"To help with repairs. Stalls, supplies, whatever got hit in the crossfire."
Sullivan studied him for a second, then gave a slow nod.
"That'll help."
Preston finally looked at him.
"You didn't have to back us up like that."
Sullivan let out a quiet breath.
"This is my city," he said simply. "Your fight showed up at our door. That makes it my problem too."
There was no accusation in his voice.
Just fact.
Preston respected that.
Still.
"We'll make it right," Preston said firmly.
Sullivan gave a faint, tired smirk.
"You already started."
He gestured slightly toward the square, where Freemasons soldiers and Diamond City guards were working side by side, helping civilians, lifting debris, restoring order.
"That kind of cooperation?" Sullivan added. "People remember that."
Preston didn't respond immediately.
Carver's words echoed faintly in the back of his mind.
You're still in the middle of the board.
He pushed the thought aside.
"One step at a time," he said.
Behind them, Carver was being brought forward.
Two soldiers held him firmly by the arms, guiding him toward the exit.
His wrists were still bound.
His expression unreadable.
But his eyes.
They were still watching everything.
Always watching.
As he passed by Preston and Sullivan, Carver slowed slightly.
Just enough to speak.
"You're leaving quickly," he said.
Preston didn't look at him.
"Not your concern."
Carver's lips curved faintly.
"It should be."
Sullivan stepped forward slightly.
"Keep moving."
The soldiers didn't hesitate.
They pushed Carver forward, out into the light of the trading square.
Outside, the people of Diamond City were beginning to gather again.
Carefully.
Cautiously.
Word had already spread.
There had been a battle.
Inside the market.
Inside the city walls.
And now.
They saw the result.
Carver being escorted out in cuffs.
Freemasons soldiers moving with purpose.
Diamond City guards securing the area.
Some civilians whispered among themselves.
Others simply watched in silence.
A few pointed.
The image would stick.
The man who had operated in the shadows.
Now exposed.
Now captured.
But the damage he had caused, that would take longer to fix.
Preston stepped fully into the square, scanning the area one last time.
His soldiers were already regrouping.
Weapons checked.
Formations reforming.
Vehicles being prepared.
The convoy hadn't moved far from the main gate.
Three Humvees.
Two transport trucks.
All waiting.
Ready.
He turned back toward Sullivan.
"This is where we split."
Sullivan nodded.
"Yeah."
There was a pause.
Then Sullivan extended his hand.
Preston looked at it for a second.
Then took it.
A firm handshake.
Not ceremonial.
Not political.
Just respect.
"You did good today," Sullivan said.
Preston shook his head slightly.
"We did what we had to."
Sullivan gave a small, knowing look.
"That's usually when it matters most."
They released hands.
For a brief moment, neither of them moved.
Then Sullivan spoke again.
"Next time you come through, try not to bring a war with you."
There was a hint of dry humor in it.
Preston allowed the faintest smile.
"I'll see what I can do."
The convoy engines roared to life one by one.
Low.
Heavy.
Familiar.
The kind of sound that meant movement.
Control.
Purpose.
Carver was loaded into the lead Humvee, placed firmly between two armed soldiers in the back.
Even now, even restrained, he sat upright.
Calm.
Watching.
Always watching.
Preston climbed into the same vehicle, taking the front passenger seat.
Before the door closed, he glanced back toward the city.
Toward Sullivan.
Toward the people slowly rebuilding their day.
Toward the place that had just become part of something bigger than itself.
He gave a small nod.
Sullivan returned it.
Then the door shut.
Behind them, soldiers climbed into the remaining Humvees and trucks, securing their gear, checking their weapons one last time.
A command rang out.
"Move!"
The convoy rolled forward.
Slow at first.
Then steady.
Then faster as they passed through the gates of Diamond City and out into the open wasteland.
The city faded behind them.
Concrete walls shrinking in the distance.
Noise replaced by wind.
By engine hum.
By the quiet tension that always followed a fight.
Inside the Humvee, no one spoke at first.
The adrenaline was still there.
Fading.
But not gone.
Preston kept his eyes forward.
Hands resting on his knees.
Mind working.
Replaying everything.
The ambush.
The traitor.
Carver's words.
The coordination of the attackers.
The way they had pushed.
The way they had retreated.
Too organized.
Too precise.
This wasn't over.
He knew it.
Across from him, Carver shifted slightly.
Not uncomfortably.
Just enough to draw attention.
"You handled that well," Carver said.
No one responded.
The soldier beside him tightened his grip on his rifle slightly.
Carver continued anyway.
"Most groups would have broken under that kind of pressure."
Preston finally spoke.
"Most groups don't have our training."
Carver's faint smile returned.
"No."
A pause.
"Most groups don't have your illusion of control."
The soldier beside him shifted again.
"Keep talking," he muttered. "See how far that gets you."
Carver didn't even look at him.
His attention stayed on Preston.
"You think you're cleaning things up," Carver said quietly.
"Stabilizing."
"Building something better."
Preston didn't turn.
"Because we are."
Carver tilted his head slightly.
"Or maybe…"
His voice softened just a fraction.
"You're stepping into something that was already in motion long before you arrived."
Silence settled again.
Heavier this time.
Preston didn't answer.
But his eyes narrowed slightly.
The convoy moved steadily across the wasteland, the road stretching out ahead toward Sanctuary Hills.
Behind them, Diamond City returned to its rhythm.
Damaged.
Shaken.
But standing.
Ahead of them.
Questions waited.
About Carver.
About his network.
About the traitor inside the city.
About how deep it all went.
Preston leaned back slightly in his seat, finally allowing himself a slow breath.
They had won the battle.
There was no denying that.
They had held the line.
Pushed back the attackers.
Captured the man at the center of it.
But victories like this…
They didn't feel clean.
Not when the enemy had smiled through the entire thing.
Not when his last words still lingered in the air like a warning.
You're still in the middle of the board.
Preston looked out at the horizon.
Then forward again.
"Sanctuary," he said quietly to the driver.
"Let's get home."
The engine roared a little louder.
The convoy didn't slow.
The convoy didn't slow.
For a while, the road stretched ahead in a long, dusty line of quiet tension.
Wind swept across the cracked asphalt and broken earth, carrying that dry, familiar scent of the wasteland from sand, rust, and something older, something that never really left.
Inside the lead Humvee, Preston Garvey sat still, eyes forward, but his mind was anything but calm.
Every detail replayed itself whether he wanted it to or not.
The ambush at the warehouse.
The coordination.
The timing.
The traitor inside Diamond City.
And Carver.
Preston didn't need to look back to know what the man was doing.
Watching.
Always watching.
Even now.
Across from him, Carver shifted slightly again, the faint creak of restraints barely audible over the engine's hum.
"You're thinking about it," Carver said quietly.
No one answered.
The soldier to his left tightened his grip again.
Preston didn't turn.
But his voice came, low and controlled.
"Everyone's thinking about it."
Carver let out a soft breath that almost sounded like amusement.
"That's good."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Outside, the convoy rolled through a stretch of open wasteland as there no buildings, no cover, just broken terrain and scattered debris from a world that had ended long ago.
The kind of place where visibility stretched far.
The kind of place where danger could come from anywhere.
In the second Humvee behind them, soldiers sat alert but relaxed just enough to breathe again after the fight.
One of them adjusted his helmet.
Another wiped dust from his goggles.
"Think that was it?" one of them asked quietly.
"For today?" another replied.
"Yeah."
A pause.
Then a small shake of the head.
"Doesn't feel like it."
Up ahead, the transport trucks followed steadily, engines rumbling low, carrying supplies and wounded.
The medic inside one of the trucks checked a bandage, tightening it gently as the injured soldier winced.
"You're good," the medic said quietly. "Stay with me."
The soldier nodded.
Breathing steady.
Alive.
That's what mattered.
It happened without warning.
No sound first.
No signal.
No buildup.
Just.
A streak.
A flash cutting across the sky from the right flank.
And then.
Impact.
The explosion tore through the convoy like a thunderclap from the ground itself.
The second Humvee never had time to react.
The missile struck the front side of the vehicle, detonating in a violent burst of fire and metal.
The blast wave hit like a hammer.
The Humvee flipped sideways, thrown off the road as flames erupted outward, consuming everything around it.
Shrapnel ripped through the air.
Dust and fire surged upward in a violent cloud.
The sound, it wasn't just loud.
It was overwhelming.
A deafening roar that swallowed everything else.
Inside the lead Humvee, Preston was thrown forward against his restraints as the shockwave slammed into them.
"What the hell—?!"
The driver fought the wheel as the vehicle jolted violently.
Behind them, the convoy erupted into chaos.
"STOP THE CONVOY!" Preston shouted instantly.
The command cut through the confusion.
The lead Humvee screeched to a halt, tires grinding against the dirt.
Behind them, the transport trucks braked hard, engines roaring as they came to a stop.
Dust filled the air.
Smoke rose from the wrecked Humvee behind them, flames licking up into the sky.
For half a second.
There was silence.
Then.
Gunfire.
Sharp, sudden bursts erupted from the surrounding terrain.
From the ridges.
From behind scattered debris.
From positions that had been invisible seconds before.
"Ambush!" one of the soldiers yelled.
Preston was already moving.
"OUT! DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!" he shouted as he threw the Humvee door open and jumped down into the dirt.
The world hit him all at once.
Heat from the burning vehicle.
The crack of incoming fire.
The screams of injured soldiers.
The sharp metallic scent of smoke and explosives.
Behind him, soldiers poured out of the vehicles, weapons raised, instincts kicking in instantly.
"Form up! Form up!" a squad leader shouted.
They moved fast.
Disciplined.
Months of training overriding the shock.
Two soldiers dragged one of the wounded away from the burning Humvee wreckage as flames spread.
Another group dropped behind the lead vehicle, using it as cover as bullets slammed into the metal.
"Contact right flank!"
"Snipers on the ridge!"
"Return fire!"
Gunfire erupted in response.
Controlled bursts cut through the chaos as Freemasons soldiers engaged the attackers.
The ambush had been perfectly timed.
Perfectly placed.
Attackers had positioned themselves along both sides of the road, using elevation and cover to their advantage.
From the right ridge, muzzle flashes flickered in quick succession.
From the left, figures moved between rocks and debris, advancing slowly.
Preston dropped behind the front of the Humvee, raising his rifle and firing toward the ridge.
One of the attackers ducked back.
Another went down.
"Keep them pinned!" Preston shouted.
"We don't let them close!"
Nearby, a soldier was on the radio, trying to establish contact.
"Multiple hostiles! Heavy weapons confirmed!"
The burning Humvee crackled behind them, flames roaring as ammunition inside began to cook off with sharp popping sounds.
One of the soldiers yelled.
"Vehicle's gonna blow!"
"Fall back from the wreck!" another shouted.
But even as they repositioned.
More gunfire.
More pressure.
The attackers weren't just trying to stop them.
They were trying to finish them.
Back at the lead Humvee, Carver remained inside that still restrained, but now leaning slightly to one side from the force of the blast.
A soldier stayed with him, rifle trained outward.
Carver's eyes moved again.
Watching the attack unfold.
Watching the soldiers respond.
Watching Preston.
And slowly, that faint smile returned.
Preston exhaled sharply, forcing his focus through the chaos.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't chance.
This was planned.
Just like Diamond City.
He grabbed his radio.
"Command, this is Garvey!"
Static.
Gunfire.
Then.
A faint response.
"Go ahead!"
Preston pressed the radio tighter.
"We are under heavy ambush!"
He glanced quickly at the terrain, marking their position.
Then spoke clearly.
"Coordinates transmitting now!"
He hit the transmitter.
"We need immediate support!"
Gunfire cracked nearby, forcing him lower behind cover.
"They've got heavy weapons, missiles confirmed!"
A pause.
Then.
"Send it immediately!"
The radio crackled again.
A different voice came through this time.
Calm.
Focused.
Recognizable.
Sarah.
"Preston, this is Sarah. I read you."
Relief flickered for half a second.
Then focus returned.
"We've been hit hard," Preston said quickly. "Convoy ambushed as one Humvee down, possible casualties."
"Location confirmed," Sarah replied instantly.
"What's your situation?"
Preston leaned out briefly, firing two quick shots toward advancing attackers before dropping back again.
"Multiple hostiles on both flanks," he said. "Elevated positions, coordinated attack."
Another explosion echoed in the distance as something struck near the trucks.
"We're holding," Preston continued, voice steady despite the chaos.
"But not for long if they keep this pressure."
A brief pause.
Then Sarah's voice again.
"Support is mobilizing now."
Preston clenched his jaw.
"How long?"
"Fast as we can get there."
Not an answer.
But the only one she could give.
Preston nodded to himself.
"Make it faster."
He lowered the radio and turned back to his soldiers.
"We hold here!" he shouted.
"Support is on the way!"
That was all they needed to hear.
Not reassurance.
Not comfort.
Just direction.
Just purpose.
A soldier beside him fired a controlled burst and muttered.
"Then we just gotta survive till it gets here."
Preston glanced toward the burning wreckage behind them.
Toward the wounded being dragged into cover.
Toward the advancing attackers.
Then back to the line forming around him.
His voice hardened.
"Exactly."
The ambush tightened.
Attackers pressed closer, using suppressive fire to pin the convoy while others advanced.
Bullets slammed into metal.
Into dirt.
Into anything that offered cover.
One of the Freemasons soldiers took a hit, dropping to one knee with a sharp cry.
A medic rushed to him immediately, dragging him behind the truck.
"Stay with me!" the medic shouted.
Nearby, another soldier reloaded quickly, hands steady despite the chaos.
"We're not dying out here," he muttered under his breath.
Preston leaned out again, firing toward a group attempting to flank from the left.
One of them fell.
The others scattered.
But more kept coming.
Too many.
Too coordinated.
Too prepared.
This wasn't just a follow-up attack.
This wasn't a desperate rescue attempt like at the warehouse.
This was a kill zone.
Set up in advance.
Designed to wipe them out on the road back to Sanctuary Hills.
And suddenly, Carver's words made sense in a way Preston didn't like.
They were never meant to win there.
Because this was where the real attack was.
Preston tightened his grip on his rifle, eyes scanning the battlefield, mind moving faster than the chaos around him.
They were outnumbered.
Pinned.
Hit hard before they even knew the fight had started.
But they weren't broken.
Not yet.
He looked toward his soldiers.
Toward the line they had formed.
Then back toward the enemy pressing in.
His voice cut through the noise once more.
"Hold your ground!"
Gunfire answered.
Flames roared behind them.
And somewhere in the distance, help was coming. But until it arrive, They had to survive.
______________________________________________
• Name: Sico
• Stats :
S: 8,44
P: 7,44
E: 8,44
C: 8,44
I: 9,44
A: 7,45
L: 7
• Skills: advance Mechanic, Science, and Shooting skills, intermediate Medical, Hand to Hand Combat, Lockpicking, Hacking, Persuasion, and Drawing Skills
• Inventory: 53.280 caps, 10mm Pistol, 1500 10mm rounds, 22 mole rats meat, 17 mole rats teeth, 1 fragmentation grenade, 6 stimpak, 1 rad x, 6 fusion core, computer blueprint, modern TV blueprint, camera recorder blueprint, 1 set of combat armor, Automatic Assault Rifle, 1.500 5.56mm rounds, power armor T51 blueprint, Electric Motorcycle blueprint, T-45 power armor, Minigun, 1.000 5mm rounds, Cryolator, 200 cryo cell, Machine Gun Turret Mk1 blueprint, electric car blueprint, Kellogg gun, Righteous Authority, Ashmaker, Furious Power Fist, Full set combat armor blueprint, M240 7.62mm machine guns blueprint, Automatic Assault Rifle blueprint, and Humvee blueprint.
• Active Quest:-