El Maestre (12)
Two tower trucks were followed by a silver-gray Porsche Carrera, three small vans, and a single narco tank. The narco tank—a 25-ton truck retrofitted for combat—looked like nothing more than a wheeled heap of scrap hurtling forward, but its actual firepower surpassed even the genuine armored vehicle up front. A turret was mounted on top, no less. With its taillights glowing blood-red, the monstrosity disgorged sicarios that mirrored it perfectly. "Mirrored" meaning they too were clad head to toe in scrap-metal armor. Crude iron battle suits that assaulted the nostrils with the stench of rust just by looking at them. Judging from the thudding footsteps, each suit must have weighed at least sixty or seventy kilos. Overburdened relative to their strength, the wearers moved sluggishly, struggling to control their inertia. Precisely the gear and Awakened you'd expect from a local lord's private militia. Unlike the curved, luxurious equipment of the Temple Knights cartel, these angular iron suits—with right angles at every edge—were surely the frantic handiwork of some neighborhood hardware store. An emergency order to counter the "Guadalajara Shock," no doubt.
Two people emerged from the Porsche Carrera. One was El Fuego, the other a woman who appeared to be his girlfriend or wife. Slamming the driver's door in irritation, El Fuego jabbed his finger accusingly with the hand gripping his submachine gun.
"Move your asses, you idiots! If that boat isn't loaded in five minutes, it's one of you every ten seconds—yeah, ten! Got it?!"
At the plaza boss's savage hysterics, sicarios equivalent to three van-loads surged forward to haul the cargo. First came the grayish-white bricks of coke, tightly wrapped in plastic. The faint yellow tint amid the gray was proof of its extraordinary purity. One gram could fuel twelve doses, and at street value, it was fifty times pricier than the same weight in gold—an elite product, naturally prioritized over cash or jewels.
Judging by the enemy's composition, this hunt would play out very differently depending on whether I was here or not. That narco tank would be a real headache for my firepower-focused crew. And the naval base just two kilometers away was another problem. If the fight dragged on even slightly, the base guards and port security would deploy—including Diego Svabarska, a major and friend of Ricardo's, whom I'd promised to cover tomorrow for the deal with the Northeast faction. Port security was one opponent we absolutely couldn't tangle with.
Thus, as a contingency, Suyeon had informed me she'd planted multiple bombs in the shopping district directly facing the naval base. A tool to divert the navy's attention during combat.
Wish I had my sword. The phantom grip still lingered in my hand. In this water-adjacent battlefield, I could summon thick fog, charge in with a longsword, and slaughter them in droves before they even knew how they died. The so-called plaza elites in their armored suits would fare no better. Those heavy plates, far from ergonomic, lacked even the bare minimum flexibility for close-quarters brawling—pure garbage. Sweeping the sicarios and stabbing the narco tank's cab would make for a fine warm-up and diversion as I geared up for greater wars.
But no. Not just because I lacked a blade at hand, but because using one would leave traces too hard to erase and cover up. The Knights were gone now. Time was short.
The beachfront, lined with condo-style resorts, made the pier an ideal spot to concentrate firepower. Every room with its open terrace could serve as an ambush point. A glance back revealed the reporters taking positions at the windows.
Those using Spanish phonetic alphabet as callsigns were under Suyeon's command. Before the convoy led by the armored vehicle reached the pier, she'd already swept in ahead, silently and swiftly neutralizing the sicario snipers securing the site.
"Fast work."
"Distribute targets with Kyung-tae. I'll handle that monster truck. Take El Fuego alive if possible, but if there's any risk of losing him, secure the body by killing him. Face intact is fine."
The monster truck was, of course, the narco tank.
"That truck's under a mana field shield. Still seven ability users aboard. To suppress it, I'll need to get close, so tell the crew not to worry about stray shots. Kyung-tae, you especially remember that."
An order not to hold fire even if I pushed forward, out of excessive caution. The two acknowledged reluctantly. As if anything short of overwhelming firepower could pierce my refractive barrier at full output.
While my subordinates diligently prepared their assault, El Fuego tapped his wristwatch with his gun barrel, screaming himself hoarse.
"Three minutes! Three left! Is this your best?! That's all you've got?!"
The epitome of arrogant leadership—barking orders without lifting a finger himself. If I'd been in his shoes, I'd have hauled a coke brick myself to shave off time. Paranoid about someone skimming even a small chunk? Fair enough for a Mexican cartel; distrust was par for the course. He couldn't relax without watching every move.
A massive splash erupted at the pier. Dozens of burly sicarios sprinting back and forth on the narrow pontoon—barely wide enough for two abreast—had inevitably sent one slipping off.
Tutututututata!
Sudden gunfire rattled in full auto. The culprit: El Fuego.
"Don't need some toddler who can't even walk straight! Die! Drown, you moron!"
Pummeled by bullets drumming the water, the terrified sicario finally clawed his way back onto the pier, choking on seawater. Aim so sloppy not a single hit landed, yet no one dared help. El Fuego's woman paced the pier too, brandishing a gleaming gold pistol, haranguing the loaders.
"Handle it carefully, you syphilitic fuckers! Each one's a million times more valuable than your shriveled balls!"
Vulgar pair, putting on a clown show in tandem.
"Stand by."
The coke—easily over five tons—was fully loaded. Now came boxes brimming with bullion and dollars. Once those were aboard, their vigilance would slacken. The perfect moment to strike.
A hunter knows patience. Whether man or beast, that one patient shot after endless waiting outdoes a dozen hasty magazines in cleanliness and efficiency. A truth every self-proclaimed hunter internalized.
El Fuego's demanded five minutes had dwindled through three to under one.
"Done!"
With twenty-six seconds to spare on his own deadline, the cartel lord thrust both arms skyward.
"Colaco! Guayo! Cover fore and aft at sea! Lilio rides with me! Rest of you, move as planned the instant I shove off! Hide in the civilians, and no cops or army—no one—will ever find you! Got it?! Once that dumb fuck El Tiro kicks it, things'll quiet down soon enough!"
Sacrificing a cartel ally to preserve his own faction—textbook conduct for a plaza boss. As he tossed yacht keys to his two sea-escort lieutenants, the sicarios' perimeter wavered in disarray, assuming the op was over.
Now.
"Fire."
At my word, dozens of heads and torsos erupted front and back in sprays of blood. Even the armored Awakened sicarios dropped in droves, pierced through eyesockets or joints—killed or crippled on the spot. Two burst apart inside their suits from small LAW rockets. Regular army gear scavenged from the hills.
After suppressing the initial volley, I dropped the soundproof barrier, maximally expanded my mana field, and charged forward.
"What the—?!"
El Fuego yelped, clutching his woman and crouching, as successive blasts and crimson flashes engulfed the armored car. Two rockets had punched through the thin plating and detonated inside. No screams from the crew—they were gone.
"Down! We're under attack!"
As the panicked plaza elites floundered under the weight and bulk of their steel shells, the massive narco tank lurched into motion. Its driver floored it, yanking the wheel frantically.
Kurrrr.
Cracks spiderwebbed the road beneath its run-flat tires. Retrofitting a 25-ton truck meant cladding it in over 40 tons of heavy armor. Hardly surprising—Busan piers back home had seen trucks tipping 100 tons total weight. Overloading wasn't a Korean monopoly.
In short, the narco tank was a mobile fortress impervious to light rockets. Taking it down in one shot demanded heavier, pricier anti-tank weapons. A few rockets aimed at the wheels cratered the asphalt harmlessly instead.
"You cowards! Counterattack, ugh! C-counterattack, protect me!"
Scattered gunfire answered El Fuego's desperate bellow, but I ignored it. My crew would handle it.
The ability users aboard the monster truck convulsed in reaction to my explosively expanded mana field. To my eyes, their panicked—or overwhelmed—faces sharpened into filthy pores. Their brains blazed with chemical signals—not the alert of spotting a foe, but the awe of confronting a colossal natural force. The true presence of a mage, felt only by those with mana circuits.
Yet they swiftly rotated the turret. Reassured by their steel bastion, perhaps. As the loaded barrel swung toward me, the dim pier flashed with propellant flare. Backblast jetted from the turret rear. A clear metallic ring mingled with the boom.
A recoilless rifle.
Ceee.
The HE round veered mid-flight on a blunt trajectory. Leaving only a whistle, it arced skyward and away. Gunports on the hull side spat suppression fire too. Refracting it all, I closed to point-blank before the second shell could chamber.
With distance gone, the occupants' mana fields shrank, unable even to cover the chassis fully.
The rest was simple. As the deflected shell detonated far across the pier, I pried open a side hatch and breached the rear compartment.
"Fuc—!"
A rude mouth started spewing curses; I silenced it with a single hunting rifle round. Blood splattered the overhead light, bathing the interior red. Bang, bang, bang, bang! Beneath the glaring crimson, darker sprays burst. My semi-auto fire mowed down the short-sleeved, vest-clad vehicle crew in a hail. One shot per man—five down in two seconds flat.
Kurrrring.
The German truck engine groaned under overload, amplified by the rattling resonance of welded plates. Despite the rear massacre, the monster truck—leveraging size and mass as violence incarnate—pivoted toward my exposed men. Kyung-tae and the rest, lacking building cover.
The cab still held two mana fields.