Solitude's Crucible (3)
My vehicle barreled straight toward the Hulong Bang fortress, tracing the trails of destruction left by the lead cars. It had been less than two minutes since the first assault wave charged in. The Guangdong Triad's lowlifes hadn't even decided how to respond yet—their movements lacked any cohesion. With my exceptional eyesight, I could even spot the dead-end losers who'd been using Hulong Bang's businesses since morning, now panicking and milling about in confusion.
In this brief lull before the full breach, I took in the passing scenery on either side. Property prices in these rundown streets were surprisingly high. Why? Because these slums were a paradise for wealthy landlords. They could charge 2,000 yuan for a single room barely big enough for one ping, and the rural migrant workers with no right to city housing had no choice but to pay up through gritted teeth. Their salaries hovered around 5,000 yuan. Korea had plenty of similar setups. The shantytowns full of basic pension recipients were prime investments—excellent returns with zero safety concerns. When the government raised pensions, landlords jacked up rent by exactly that amount. It was government-guaranteed profit, ensuring the elderly always had just enough scraps to scrape by, no matter how much pensions increased. Even if the buildings crawled with rats and roaches, the owners didn't care. The old folks had no means to escape those hovels.
Where there are people, there's always exploitation. The only difference is the form it takes—whether it's obvious or hidden from view. Civilized exploitation ensures the beneficiaries never even know their victims exist. That's the world I claw my way through to survive. I'd rather be the devourer than the devoured.
Boom!
The battering ram punched a hole through the Hulong Bang fortress. Gunfire erupted chaotically from inside the building. Sparks pinged off the front of our vehicle like fireworks. The straight approach made an ambush inevitable, but the uncontrolled shooting revealed the thugs' incompetence. No excuses about lack of prep time would change that.
"Gas masks on!"
At Kyung-tae's order in Chinese, the assault team donned their masks in perfect unison. I did the same—tear gas stings me too. I nodded, and Kyung-tae barked the next command.
"Everyone out! Tear gas and smoke grenades first!"
Thwoomp! Thud! A swarm of tear gas and smoke grenades streaked off with white tails. Curses in thick dialects and frantic shouts exploded from the other side. My men zeroed in on the muzzle flashes in the white haze, unleashing precise three-round bursts. Every volley guaranteed at least one hit. Suppressive fire wasn't about spraying areas—it was better to avoid that, lest the enemy hunker down and make killing them a chore. Dead bodies demoralize the rest anyway. That's why battle-hardened U.S. Marines obsessed over precision even in suppression—recent ops had taught them well.
"Cover! Take cover!"
One of the enemies hacked and wailed through the gas. After we'd halved their numbers in seconds, the idiots who'd been standing shoulder-to-shoulder like in a street brawl finally sought cover.
I supported with my large-caliber sniper rifle, firing rounds that punched through walls. Bang! Human bodies burst like water balloons along the bullet's path. The dulled penetrator shredded flesh with fragments. Two more shots, and the enemies behind the walls fled in terror. Few could sprint on two feet amid the tears and snot.
I signaled and advanced with my men, emptying a magazine of three-round bursts from my secondary SMG. Pathetic backsides, asses, and thighs sprayed blood in clusters. One took it in the ass and died with his navel blown out.
Kyung-tae glanced back at me.
"Boss! Your orders!"
The unusual title? We were posing as armed police—gear, uniforms, the works. The headcam footage would stir public outrage later. No spells allowed, but that was no big loss. We could edit minor slips if needed.
I assessed and gestured.
"Team 2, that way. Block the central stairs and elevator. Team 3, cover Team 2. Once secure, seize the utility room and cut power. It's right there underground. Two guards—hiding behind the boiler. Kill 'em. Team 1, with me up the emergency stairs."
We were just twelve here—sixteen including drivers—but overkill against local thugs with zero squad training. I'd relay enemy positions in real-time, like always.
"Move!"
Teams 2 and 3 were the anvil; my Team 1, the hammer. Drivers formed Team 4 for rear security and reserves. Judging by the floors below, the enemy planned to wait and intercept. Core forces guarded the top with the boss. A classic attrition ambush setup. Smart for untrained trash—block chokepoints and hunker down. Their only option.
But it'd just repeat the initial slaughter.
They've got some ace up their sleeve, huh.
The paradigm shift from the Knight Commander (El Maestro)—the so-called "Guadalajara Shock"—had rippled even here. Enough for a Triad branch to mimic it.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
My anti-materiel rifle's full-auto, skirting rebar, tore the emergency stairs top to bottom. The tense waiters screamed as blood sprayed. They tangled and tumbled down in a heap.
Kakakakang! My men's fire behind ballistic shields dropped three filthy thugs instantly. Two survivors bled out on the landing—one more than the other.
"Urgh... grrrgh..."
"Spare me! I surrender!"
Both hit by my big rounds. Dodging rebar meant three shots for one minor, one critical wound. Good for footage—no x-ray vision to show. One gurgled boiling blood from punctured lungs; the other had lost a heel. The beggar was obviously the latter.
"No surrender."
Bang! The pleading head exploded. My SMG's underbarrel single-shot shotgun did the trick. Like smashing a watermelon with a hammer—center caved, gore splattered radially on the wall behind. Abstract art for the viewers.
I left the lung-shot one to drown in his blood and reloaded the sniper. Seven big rounds spent so far—one chambered, five from the first mag. How many for five floors? Three mags left felt tight. Shotgun reloaded too—meant for breaching locks, not heads.
Thud. Lights died; interior dimmed sharply. Few windows anyway, most frosted over—twilight gloom even in daylight. My team switched to NVGs.
"Team 3, clean the area then link with Team 2. Block escapees."
I radioed orders, then at the second-floor steel door, fired a big round through it and dodged. Thukakakang! Tatatata! Chaotic return fire shredded the door. No leader, just panic dumping mags. We waited it out.
Ah, right. I grabbed a corpse from the landing and hurled it at the door. It thudded against the wall. Seeing blood seep through, they stopped.
"Cease fire! Cease! Hold, you lizard bastards!"
Some officer wannabe, but no discipline. Firing ended only after empty mags. Muzzle smoke wafted as he muttered tensely.
"...Got 'em?"
Reload first, idiot.
"Breach."
Point man shield-bashed the door flying. Four-man volley massacred the stumbling thugs. Routine let us steamroll to the fourth—knew every ambush spot cold. Ignored screaming customers and flesh assets; no escape possible.
Thus, the fifth floor: Hulong Bang's Awakened core. Standouts: four hulks in thick ballistic armor. Broad-backed, pot-bellied muscle pigs— one could clog the hall. Gas masks too: full-cover helmets with filters.
Partially better equipped than El Fuego's elites.
Firepower lagged, though—no HMGs or RPGs like the cartel. Just assault rifles max.
The pigs split: two with heavy shields and guns blocked the lone hall front-back. The hammer duo lurked in nearby rooms with other elites, waiting.
Plan: Shield pigs bait us in; hammer pigs smash walls for flanks. Simple, deadly if surprised. Enhanced strength nullified indoor tactics. Black Sea Party lessons learned—crude IEDs dotted around, rifle propellant glow. Detonate first to seize initiative before hammers.
Now, how to kill these?