Voice Phishing (2)
BOOM! Carlos swung his hammer, smashing the lock into powder and yanking the door wide open in a flash.
"Flash."
The moment the door flew open, Jacob lobbed a flashbang inside.
BANG!
A deafening roar that shredded eardrums and a blinding white flash engulfed the living room. Confirming the grenade had popped, Jacob charged in first, kicking off the takedown.
"1 o'clock clear."
Jacob's viewpoint was pure adrenaline. He gripped his rifle like something out of a movie or game, slicing around corners and clearing the house in seconds. One guy who was passed out on the living room couch got lit up by the flashbang, totally dazed. Another psycho grabbed a kitchen knife and lunged at Jacob.
Pop-pop!
Jacob's rifle spat twice, rubber rounds slamming into the guy's shoulder and thigh. The man hit the floor rolling, not even able to scream.
"Whoa... that looks fucking painful."
It felt like watching a blockbuster. I was glued to the screen when Carlos and Eric slipped in behind Jacob.
"I'll take the second floor."
With those short words, Eric bolted up the stairs. In his view, some dude with a baseball bat was waiting to swing.
Whoosh!
The chilling whistle of air splitting, but Eric calmly dodged the bat and closed for close-quarters combat.
Too close for shooting, he drew his knife and dove into CQC—not slashing, just pure technique. He snatched the wrist, broke the guy's balance, forced him to his knees, and smashed the tactical knife's handle into the back of his neck.
"Target neutralized. Got two pigs up here, over."
At Eric's words, Carlos—who'd been wrecking shit downstairs—raced up to the second floor.
The feed switched to Carlos's view, and there was a tattooed pig right in front of him.
"You fucking bastards...!"
Having watched his buddy get taken down in seconds by Eric, the guy hesitated, then threw a punch at Carlos.
Carlos slipped it with a slight shift and countered straight to the face.
Crack!
The punch landed dead center, jaw twisting as teeth flew like popcorn.
Thud.
The big lug hit the ground with a heavy crash—probably from all that bulk.
"Whoa... these guys are insane."
I knew they were pros in my head, but seeing them fight? These thugs didn't stand a chance.
"This barely counts as a warm-up. They drop without any grit?"
Despite the words, pure glee leaked through Carlos's voice.
The last tattooed survivor on the second floor had clearly lost the will to fight after seeing teeth pop from a single punch. He backed up, hit the end wall with a thunk, and froze. Realizing there was no escape, his face went ghost white.
"That's not an exit, buddy."
Grinning like it was cute, Carlos closed in, grabbed the thug's collar, hoisted him airborne, and slammed him down.
-BOOM!
It sounded like a grenade going off, and the last guy on the second floor went lights out.
"Second floor fully secured."
Carlos clapped his hands clean and radioed in, voice a bit pumped.
"Fuck... fuck... what the hell are those crazy bastards?"
Kwak Du-pal, the voice phishing ringleader and boss of this crew, was on the verge of hyperventilating.
Huddled behind a thin partition in the cramped laundry room, shaking like a leaf, he recalled the two men he'd glimpsed before they entered.
No way they're cops. What cop shows up in full tactical gear?
He knew he was scum, but not SWAT raid level scum.
As he quivered like a rat, weird noises started from upstairs.
-BOOM! Crack! Crunch!
Bad soundproofing? The sounds from outside weren't human—like a wild boar rampaging through the house, followed by his goons' groans.
Who? Rival gang? Some grudge?
His brain spun scenarios, but no answers.
One thing was clear: if those fully armed psychos caught him, it wouldn't be a clean death.
Spotting his chance amid the upstairs chaos, Kwak Du-pal crept toward the back door.
Of course, he had no clue the drone overhead was tracking him via thermal imaging.
By some miracle—or luck—he avoided Jacob's line of sight twice and cracked the back door open, heart nearly leaping out.
The door should've led to empty yard, but a fully geared intruder in night vision goggles had a gun trained right on him.
"Hands up! Get on your knees!"
The incomprehensible English froze Kwak Du-pal's brain.
Staring blankly at the barrel, pain exploded in the back of his neck, and he blacked out.
Kwak Du-pal crumpling ended the op.
"Situation clear, Boss."
Jacob's radio crackled—the one who'd knocked him out. The team helmets showed thugs sprawled everywhere, the squad ghosts weaving through, cleaning up.
"Good work."
Glancing at the clock: just five minutes in.
I'll sort the phishers' stolen profits and return it all to the victims. Eric's copying all the evidence, so hand the originals to the cops and we're done.
"These assholes gonna snitch to the cops that we trashed the place?"
CCTV's already doctored, no prints left behind obviously. We'll tidy any traces, don't worry. Just threaten the last guy one more time and wrap it up.
"Hope that dude didn't have a heart attack. He looked like he'd seen a ghost when Liam popped up."
I'd probably react the same if I opened my door to a geared-up intruder with a gun.
Moments later, the team dragged the seven goons (minus Kwak Du-pal) to the yard. Dumped in a pile, Eric zip-tied their hands and feet like linked dried squid.
For Kwak Du-pal, still out in the back, they hooded him with black cloth. Jacob slapped his cheeks.
The slaps roused him with groans.
Jacob, impatient, smacked harder a few times, drawing a scream.
"Ugh... ah, ow!"
Groans leaked through the hood.
Kwak Du-pal's eyes opened to pitch black. The house chaos was gone; eerie silence everywhere. Just nearby men's breathing.
Then, a chilling male voice right in front of his face.
Kwak Du-pal, you with us?
"Eek! Who—who are you! Who the fuck are you guys?!"
Freaked out, he spasmed, demanding answers.
No need to know who we are. But we know you inside out.
Jacob shoved the tactical pad right under Kwak's nose. Hood blocked his view, but Athena kept pressing with her distorted voice.
Real name Kwak Du-pal. Pre-name-change: Kwak Cheol-su. Born 1984. From Danwon-gu, Ansan-si, Gyeonggi-do... Mom lives alone there. That massage chair you sent her last month with scam cash? She's loving it.
...!!
Athena rattled off his full dossier, and Kwak started convulsing in terror.
He knew cops and prosecutors didn't pull family threats like this. This was way closer—and scarier—than the law.
If you'd lived straight, you never would've met us.
Athena's voice dripped contempt, low and mocking. Liam, watching from the side, pressed his suppressor into Kwak's thigh.
Pain made him try to scream, but Carlos clamped his mouth shut from behind.
One option: At the station, not a word about us. Say you fought over profit splits, shit got messy, that's how it went down. House damage? Fight fallout.
Kwak mumbled through the gag.
If cops grill suspicious shit, deny everything. If you or your idiots mention us... you know what happens.
"Mmph! Mmmph!"
Athena finished, and Kwak nodded frantically. His pants darkened—pissed himself.
"Ah, fuck."
Liam muttered in disgust, pulling back from the thigh.
He knew he'd lose his dirty money and rot in jail, but it beat dying—no real despair there.
"Guys, sorry to double your work—cut 'em loose, toss 'em inside. Stage it like they fought each other."
At my order, the team moved like clockwork, positioning the scammers in the house.
Finally, they removed Kwak's hood, ordered him not to open his eyes till we left, and we bailed from the house.
I got out of the car to greet the crew who'd earned it.
They looked refreshed stripping gear—except Liam, face like he'd lost his country.
"Liam, don't scowl. We did good, right?"
He grumbled, peeling off gloves.
"Boss, it's not about money or good deeds. Even got some on my shoe."
Leaving his bitching behind, we packed gear and loaded up.
"Reported it?"
Yep, called the cops—said guys yelling, smashing stuff, total chaos.
With Athena's confirmation, the two vehicles slipped away like nothing happened.