El Maestre (7)
British military vehicles were each enveloped in distinct mana fields. That meant at least one Awakened ability user per vehicle. I couldn't tamper with their vehicles using magic. Sure, I could bulldoze those low-level primitive fields with overwhelming output from closer range, but letting them report the presence of someone on our side with vastly superior power would be a problem. That kind of magic was only permissible when I could wipe out every last enemy without giving them a chance to call for help.
Even with all those ability users, the convoy had ground to a halt before the roadblock, clueless about how to proceed.
'Of course they have. They've seen plenty like this in Iraq.'
Terrorist tactics: blocking roads with obstacles, planting improvised explosive devices (IEDs), or ramming fuel-laden cars into them to blow everything sky-high. The British, who'd sent the second-largest force after the Americans and suffered accordingly, were right to overreact at the mere sight. Post-war reports had deemed the entire conflict—from causes to process to outcomes—"wholly inappropriate."
Now, with unidentified hostiles—us—striking, they'd dispatched all their reserve troops to reinforce the knight pursuit, leaving no manpower to secure the scene. Sending small recon teams into the unknown was too risky.
They were probably suspecting the Sinaloa Cartel as the culprits lurking in the shadows. It was a bit suspicious, but Sinaloa was the only group in the area capable of mustering that kind of force. A perfect match. The Brits' imagined motive for a Sinaloa attack. In the end, these two entangled foes eyed each other warily for the exact same reason.
Ahead of this timid standoff, my subordinates reached their assigned positions on schedule. Two four-man teams stormed the gas station right next to the clogged road.
Followed by flashes of gunfire.
Cartel sicarios—regular armed operatives—splattered blood indoors and out.
"Gas station secured."
"I see it. How much time do you need?"
"About two minutes from now... no, one minute thirty seconds."
"Got it."
One minute thirty for maximum-efficiency detonation. The cartel had done solid prep work. Even with my enhanced eyes, I couldn't make out the details from this distance.
While Team 4, with its demo expert, fine-tuned the cartel's setup, Team 5 guarded the site. Then a drone approached them—the lone one circling the convoy.
I shouldered my hunting autoloader and took aim.
Bang!
I tracked the first shot's trajectory, adjusted for deviation and wind, and fired again.
Boom!
As the second round crossed the drone's path, I unloaded the remaining seven in the mag on full auto.
Bratatata-tat-boom!
Three heavy rounds from the near-recoilless slugs punched into the duralumin frame. The drone spun wildly, sparking. For an unarmored bird, three heavies was overkill. It plummeted in tatters.
"Excellent shot, hyungnim."
"Cut it out. It's embarrassing in front of the kids."
Whatever flattery from Kyung-tae, it felt good. Last time in the hills, I hadn't landed a single hit on a similar target. Years of trigger time, and all.
No need to muffle the shots this time. The village center's growing inferno spewed explosions, gunfire, and dying screams. Add the frantic horns from fleeing cars. The auditory chaos echoed off the dark valley walls.
A pity, but anywhere with people got noisier and more chaotic—the better for me.
No more drones approached. They'd sent everything after the knights.
"Pulling out. Ready to blow now."
"Light it up."
A deafening shockwave swept the dry plain. Judging by the underground tank size, at least 60,000 liters of fuel. The blast, fueled by spilled varieties and precise timing, birthed a colossal inferno.
Black smoke billowed into a mushroom cloud, blotting the stars. A gritty brown wave roared like a desert sandstorm. Acrid stench spread instantly.
From the fire's flood's edge, local cops waiting to aid the Brits ran ablaze down the road.
"¡Mamá! ¡Mamá! ¡No quiero morirme, mamá…!"
The farthest, screaming for mom, left about twenty flaming footprints before collapsing.
I spared a moment's mercy—and quick, precise headshots—for the writhing ones who couldn't die.
"Shots fired! Shots fired!"
The blast was the signal. All teams surged.
This hunt's prey: Sinaloa Cartel. Our boom was key to their plan, so the sicarios, buzzing at the unannounced gas station blast, only screamed once my men hit them.
"Kill the Brits!"
I timely deployed my carried corpses. Four British troops in thick body armor, two per direction, soaked rifle fire while drawing enemy eyes with brutal suppression.
"Fuck! Why won't those bastards die?!"
"RPG! Get the RPG!"
The sicarios, nerves frayed from retreating firefights toward the village center, resisted full-force without overthinking. Their defense had structure—the cartel's contingency "counterattack plan."
"Fire!"
A rocket streaked destructively through dancing bush shadows in the muzzle flash and heat haze. The HE warhead at point-blank shredded two corpses with blast and shrapnel.
Seeing them tumble like car-struck dummies, sicarios cheered wildly.
"¡Goyo! ¡Goyo! ¡Goyo! ¡Goyo!"
Rocket gunner's nickname, apparently. He raised the empty launcher, preening.
In this mess? Brain-dead. Makes sense if high.
Rabble.
I pitied them but toppled the remaining two corpses visibly for the sicarios.
Good enough. I pulled back from the front line.
"Teams 1 through 6, keep the enemy pinned and fall back to secondary point."
We started it, but the British ate the thunderbolt. To sicarios, one side routed, the other still there—a big, obvious convoy. Their prime target from the start.
Whistling shells harmonized ominously, then mortar rounds rained.
Random blasts around the field of corpses, burning station, and convoy flanks. Cartel's max-speed barrage: 51mm, 60mm, 80mm HE, dropping every 1-2 seconds. Chaos erupted.
Thud! A reversing Land Rover smashed into a rear Foxhound APC, which hit a turning Husky truck. Gaps were fine, but side space tight—chain collisions everywhere.
Amid it, a mortar slammed a Husky. Side armor panels shredded in flash; the whole rig rocked. Floor caved diagonally to asphalt. Engine and cab survived, but not the crew's wits.
Delirious driver floored it. Shredded tires screamed sparks.
The boar-charge rammed an abandoned building's flimsy wall, crushing hidden Mexican cops before stopping.
Cartel fire zeroed on the outlier.
Clang! Ping-ping! Bullets danced on the hood; sustained fire cracked the ballistic glass.
Driver grabbed his gun and bailed.
"Enemy rocket ahead!"
Lead Land Rover turret gunner screamed, squeezing the trigger. Tracer-laced laser-line raked the aiming sicario horizontally.
Thwack-thud. Body perforated into meat.
Boom! Our sniper round pierced the gunner's ear canal. Head snapped; he slumped like a soft-bodied mollusk.
Light for military, Land Rovers had little else going. No turret fire? Rag-doll fast.
"¡A la mierda culeros!"
New sicario snatched the dropped launcher, knelt awkwardly, and fired. Shredded by APC fire post-launch, but the rocket punched the windshield, hitting the passenger seat.
Flames filled the cab, pulping the direct hit and slamming the other into door goo.
Even mana-reinforced bodies couldn't tank RPGs.
Prime viewing from hiding.
Kyung-tae said, "Textbook clusterfuck. No need to tweak; let's move to the next spot, hyungnim."
"Mm."
British dismounts from the village center rushed to aid the convoy. Knight pressure eased, naturally.
I wanted more of the bloody show, but time to shift villages. Guiding the pullout on the map, I thought: Hope the Brits don't back off now.
Mass casualties, village to hell—they'd bear huge costs to press on. Plus, drone losses meant no Guadalajara-style urban dominance.
Fifty-fifty odds again. Eat humiliation from a mere cartel while owing the Round Table, or spark a second Guadalajara for the win?
National pride dented either way.
Vroooom! Northwest of our path, a side-torn 4x4 burst from the village's south exit. Battle-scarred, carrying four shrunken holy knights: automatics, shields, waist knives, bandoliers. Charging from a burning village in a near-wreck? Utterly...
'Surreal.'
A fresh, worthless impression. I reined in my wandering mind, refocusing on reality.