The basement of the abandoned factory, where the smoke of gunpowder has settled, is left in silence after a bout of commotion. The pungent smell of cordite and the sweet metallic scent of blood cling to the damp air.
Logan stares at the haze rising from his gun barrel and nudges the corpse of a cartel member blocking his path with the toe of his combat boot. The squelching sensation on his sole is disgusting.
Clear. No more breathing bastards. Prepare to withdraw.
It was just as he was moving while reporting the situation through the radio on his shoulder.
A faint rattling sound echoed from beyond the old iron door located at the end of the hallway corner.
Logan's eyes darkened, not missing the sound. Turning off the radio, he approached silently with his silenced gun barrel aimed toward the door.
Which stupid bastard isn't dead yet.
He muttered lowly, gritting his teeth. It was a perfect operation where the intelligence desk-jockeys' briefing actually matched for once. Logan stood close against the closed iron door.
You, the bastard hiding in there.
His voice echoed through the hallway.
The response was not a human voice, but only the sound of something rustling inside once more.
Logan delivered a kick, tearing the old iron door off its hinges. With an ear-splitting roar, the hunk of metal slammed into the concrete floor, spewing a cloud of gray dust.
It was a person trembling with eyes full of terror. To anyone's eyes, they looked more like a hostage than a cartel member.
He wiped his face roughly. A deep furrow formed between his brows, and the veins in his temples bulged. A murky voice, tangled with anger, frustration, and terribly suppressed pain, leaked through his teeth.
... Fuc̷k, they said there weren't any kids.
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