"Now!!!"
Owen shouted, squeezing his trigger twice in quick succession. Two bullets flew, two lives ended. The others, driven by his momentum, erupted into coordinated gunfire. Heartbeat's lips curled into a subtle smirk as he slammed his hand down on the electric pulse trigger.
BOOM! BOOM!
Two thunderous explosions cracked above the battlefield. The only two Claymore directional anti-personnel mines that Heartbeat had installed earlier, hidden in the treetops, detonated. Fourteen hundred steel balls exploded outward in a deadly cascade.
The battlefield erupted in a chorus of agony. The dual Claymores unleashed their full lethality, wounding or killing nearly every Serb soldier exposed below. It was a display of precisely why the Claymore earned its reputation as infantry's worst nightmare. From the beginning of the battle until now, all their effective kills probably hadn't surpassed the devastation caused by these two mines alone. And because the blasts came from above and covered a sixty-degree cone, there was no cover—each of the 700 steel balls per mine scattered cleanly into flesh.
In an instant, wails of pain filled the air. Borbon stared in disbelief. Moments ago, he had held the upper hand—infantry paired with tanks were slowly eating away at the enemy's defense. He had been smug, confident. The guerrillas had no heavy weapons, not even mortars. They couldn't do a thing to his tanks. And yet, in a blink, the tanks were wrecked, his infantry decimated.
"Charge!!!"
Owen roared, leading Omega out from behind cover. Now was the time to counterattack. The guerrillas, previously drilled on battle procedures, followed precisely as instructed: do whatever Omega did.
The guerrilla fighters charged alongside Omega toward the tanks. This area had only anti-tank mines, so they could run freely. Soon they'd reach the anti-personnel mine zone, where they'd have to follow the pre-planned safe paths.
Elsewhere, Bayev was orchestrating the final volley of RPG fire. Dozens of white streaks arced toward the wounded battlefield center. The moaning wounded didn't even have time to cry out again as fire engulfed them.
Owen and his team fired while advancing, pausing occasionally to take clean shots. Though the Claymores had torn through the Serbs hiding behind the tanks, a few still retained combat ability—and they became Owen's next targets.
Heartbeat was glowing with pride. He had personally installed the Claymores and pressed the trigger. The battlefield strewn with broken enemies filled him with deep satisfaction. He turned to share this joy with Ghost, his Claymore partner—only to find Ghost nowhere in sight.
Meanwhile, Borbon looked at the unfolding disaster and made his decision: retreat.
Yes, he chickened out. Over 80% of the soldiers on the field were now casualties. Borbon, now surrounded by only a dozen men, felt profoundly unsafe.
Crack—another one of his bodyguards dropped, sniped by Swag. Borbon scrambled into a vehicle, screaming at the driver to reverse at full speed.
Swag fired several more rounds but was blocked by intervening bodies. Fred also tried to disable the tires, but conditions weren't ideal—his shots missed.
"Get Borbon! He's trying to flee!"
This time, Owen didn't even have to give the order. Snaidar beat him to it. Everything that had happened today had completely overturned his understanding of warfare. Six people, backed by thirty-odd guerrillas, had defeated three tanks and over 200 soldiers. If someone had told him this yesterday, he would've called it delusional—but now it had unfolded right before his eyes.
Once the tanks were destroyed, he'd dared to hope: maybe they could kill more Serbs. When most were dead or wounded, he dared to hope even more—maybe they could capture Borbon alive.
That thought had shocked him when it first emerged. But once he saw Borbon fleeing, he couldn't contain himself. He broke into a sprint.
Nearby, Herman, who was responsible for guarding Chris, hesitated. He wanted to chase after his father but remembered Owen's order—Chris's safety was his priority.
Chris, meanwhile, sat there with his mouth agape. He had taken a bullet to the ass and hadn't participated in the firefight, but the sheer outcome stunned him. Where the hell did the Navy find these people? Delta? SEALs? They were freaking monsters.
"Faster! Drive faster!"
Borbon shouted endlessly. The jeep sped along the winding mountain road. He had arrived surrounded by 200 soldiers and three tanks. Now, all that remained was a driver and one bodyguard.
The jeep raced around a bend when a gunshot rang out. The driver's head exploded in a burst of blood, and he slumped forward onto the wheel. The vehicle veered out of control, struck a bump, and flipped over.
Up ahead, Ghost knelt alone in the snow. Rifle steady, he had just taken the kill shot. That headshot had been his.
Cough cough cough~~
Borbon groaned, dragging himself out of the overturned vehicle. He had barely moved a few feet when he noticed a pair of muddy combat boots.
His gaze lifted slowly.
A face—featureless, covered by a skull mask and red-tinted goggles—looked back at him, devoid of emotion.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Borbon's bodyguard had barely begun to climb out of the vehicle when Ghost stitched him with a full burst. The man slumped, dead before he even knew what hit him.
"L-Let me go. I'll give you money—ten million? Twenty million? Fifty?"
Borbon begged, trying desperately to buy his life. But all he got in return was that same cold, blank mask—and the barrel of a gun aimed squarely at his forehead. He had no doubt: if he made even the slightest wrong move, he'd follow his bodyguard to the grave.
"Cowboy, I've got Borbon. One kilometer ahead of the battlefield."
Ghost reported calmly, though Owen had already seen what happened. They had jointly planned the ambush, but the one flaw was: what if Borbon fled? Ghost had considered this just as the battle started and moved out alone to set up an ambush. And he had been right.
Omega and Snaidar soon arrived. The guerrillas remained behind, handling prisoners and post-battle cleanup.
Snaidar was visibly trembling with excitement. Under Owen's rifle stood Borbon—the largest warlord in the region, a man bold enough to defy NATO itself. This was the man who had kept the guerrillas pinned under his boot.
And now… he was captured alive.
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