James tapped his finger twice against his earpiece, transmitting a coded signal to confirm reception of the Vanguard's status.
Through the high-definition lenses of his quad-node night-vision goggles, the rugged outline of the Adirondack wilderness glowed in eerie, highly detailed shades of phosphorous green.
He crouched low behind the massive, rotting trunk of a fallen spruce tree, studying the primary sniper observation post disguised as a rock formation three hundred meters ahead.
It was poorly constructed. The angle of the thermal-reflective camouflage netting was entirely wrong, failing to blend with the natural slope of the ridge.
"Eastern observation point verified. Two hostile targets," Silas's voice crackled softly through the encrypted comms channel.
"They are currently executing a shift rotation. One target is actively brewing coffee on a camping stove."
"What is the status of the Western ridge?" James asked.
"Three targets. All currently occupying the nest," August Arnold replied, his voice laced with professional disdain. "One of the shooters is actively smoking a cigarette and failing to cup the cherry. The infrared signature is glowing like a lighthouse beacon."
"Amateurs."
James didn't respond. He knew the lack of discipline was a symptom of a larger trap. The Cartel and the Game Administrators wanted the PMC to take the bait. They were intentionally leaving the outer perimeter sloppy to lure the vanguard deeper into the killing field.
But sometimes, willingly stepping into a trap was the only mathematical way to shatter the deadlock.
"Execute the primary objective," James ordered smoothly. "Silas, your element initiates. Tobias, follow up in exactly thirty seconds."
"Copy."
Through his night-vision goggles, James watched two faint, perfectly straight infrared laser beams slice through the darkness, locking directly onto the Eastern observation post. The IR spectrum was entirely invisible to the naked eye; only the PMC operators wearing the specialized goggles could track the beams.
There were no deafening gunshots. There were only two wet, barely audible thwacks as the suppressed rounds found their marks.
The two glowing thermal silhouettes instantly collapsed.
"Eastern ridge cleared," Silas reported.
"Western ridge cleared," August's voice chimed in almost simultaneously. "All three targets are permanently asleep."
The opening phase was proceeding entirely too smoothly.
It was as if the enemy command structure had no idea the PMC was actively infiltrating the perimeter. James knew perfectly well they were deliberately allowing his vanguard to advance, operating under the assumption that the PMC was simply a rescue squad trying to free the Hunting Ground captives.
Let them continue to harbor that fatal illusion, James thought coldly.
James stood up, raising his hand and signaling the vanguard forward.
The eleven heavily armed operators trailing behind him slipped out from the dense cover like ghosts. They adopted a wide, tactical wedge formation, advancing deeper into the freezing mountain range.
The heavy ceramic Level IV strike plates inside their plate carriers weighed heavily on their shoulders, but in the oppressive darkness of the hostile wilderness, that weight provided a necessary, comforting sense of security.
"Attention all elements," James spoke into the secure net, his voice completely calm.
"We have successfully sterilized the outer perimeter and are advancing down the primary logging vector. The moment we make physical contact and the enemy successfully encircles the Vanguard, Assault Groups Two and Three will execute their flanking maneuvers. Group Four will remain entirely concealed and hold position until I transmit the green light."
"Understood," Miles, the commander of Group Two, replied.
"Received," August, commanding Group Three, echoed.
Bauer, commanding the mobile reserve of Group Four, simply tapped his mic twice in acknowledgment.
James's vanguard silently advanced approximately one kilometer down the abandoned logging trail.
The towering pine forests on both sides of the trail grew increasingly dense, the thick canopy fracturing the moonlight into jagged slivers scattered across the frost-covered ground.
James suddenly raised his closed fist. The entire twelve-man Vanguard instantly dropped to a knee, melting into the shadows.
He heard it. The faint, rhythmic clinking of metallic gear, accompanied by the suppressed, arrogant laughter of a large group of men roughly two hundred meters ahead.
"Contact front," James whispered.
"Eleven o'clock. Range: two hundred meters. I have a visual on a minimum of thirty hostile thermal signatures."
He flashed a tactical hand signal to disperse.
The Vanguard immediately splintered into three distinct four-man fireteams, fanning out across the tree line and securing heavy cover behind the massive pine trunks and granite boulders.
James remained dead center, anchoring the formation with two heavy gunners to act as the primary fire-support pivot.
He waited exactly twenty seconds for his flankers to secure their firing lanes, then squeezed the trigger.
Pffft!
The opening 5.56mm round perfectly pierced the unprotected neck of the outermost Cartel Sicario.
Through the night-vision goggles, the resulting spray of arterial blood bloomed like a brilliant green firework.
"Enemy contact!" a Cartel gunner screamed in Spanish.
In a fraction of a second, the entire pine forest violently exploded into life.
Massive, blinding flashes of unsuppressed muzzle fire flickered through the darkness like a swarm of furious fireflies. Heavy 7.62mm bullets ripped through the pine bark, shredding the branches and violently kicking up frozen dirt around James's position.
The Cartel vanguard possessed an absurd amount of sheer firepower. The deafening roar of fully automatic AK-47s echoed through the valley, occasionally punctuated by the booming, heavy thud of tactical shotguns.
However, to James's absolute shock, the Cartel element was firing without utilizing any cohesive military strategy.
There were no overlapping fields of fire. There was no bounding overwatch. They weren't communicating.
It was simply thirty terrified Sicarios crouching behind thin cover, frantically holding down their triggers and dumping magazines into the general direction of the tree line. The vast majority of their rounds flew high into the canopy or slammed harmlessly into the granite boulders.
"Maintain suppressive fire, but do not expose your primary mass," James ordered calmly over the roar of the gunfire. "Let them burn through their ammunition."
James crouched behind a massive pine trunk, listening to the supersonic crack of bullets snapping through the air inches from his helmet.
A Cartel gunner blindly attempted to flank the PMC's right side, breaking cover and sprinting into the open. The instant his boot hit the dirt, one of James's operators shot him squarely in the chest.
The Sicario collapsed, thrashing in the dirt, desperately attempting to crawl back toward the tree line.
A second suppressed round hit him directly in the temple, ending his struggle.
"I have three targets attempting to bound on the left flank," an operator reported.
"Let them advance," James ordered. "Do not engage until they cross the fifty-meter threshold."
James clinically counted the audio signatures of the enemy's gunfire.
A standard AK-47 magazine holds thirty rounds. A panicked shooter firing in sustained full-auto will empty it in roughly three seconds.
He heard a massive wave of metallic clicks echoing through the trees as the Cartel gunners simultaneously realized their rifles were empty. Because they lacked basic fire discipline, none of their squadmates had retained ammunition to provide covering fire during the reload phase.
"The Boss's intelligence was flawless," James said into the comms. "This initial wave is entirely composed of disposable, localized street trash. August, what is your status?"
"I have massive thermal movement on both the Eastern and Western ridges to your rear," August's voice was remarkably calm.
"I have visual confirmation of a minimum of sixty hostiles splitting into two distinct elements, vectoring toward your flanks. Their tactical movement is vastly superior to the vanguard. They are utilizing proper bounding overwatch and maintaining heavy cover."
At that exact second, the secure PDA strapped to James's forearm violently vibrated.
It was a priority data burst relayed from Radar in Brooklyn: New tactical intelligence from Old A.
James ducked lower behind the tree and checked the screen. Old A had successfully hijacked a localized High Table surveillance satellite and was broadcasting a real-time thermal imaging map directly to James's wrist.
The intelligence was flawless. Two massive, heavily armed Cartel strike teams were currently creeping along the elevated ridges on both sides of James's Vanguard, perfectly executing a classic military pincer maneuver to encircle the PMC.
"Radar," James muttered into his mic. "Inform Old A that if he survives this war, the Tarasov syndicate is highly interested in hiring him."
James switched back to the localized tactical net. "Attention all elements. We are initiating a fighting retreat back toward the primary Hunting Ground perimeter."
"Delta, SEAL, and Ranger veterans—anchor the farm recruits. Maintain a tight tactical wedge. Do not allow the formation to fracture."
"Copy."
"Assault Groups Two and Three," James commanded. "Hold your positions until the sixty-man Cartel pincer element fully enters the kill box. Once they commit to the ambush, I want you to violently collapse their rear flank and inflict catastrophic casualties."
"Understood," Miles replied, a dark, anticipatory hunger bleeding into his voice.
"Received," August confirmed.
James flashed a tactical hand signal to the Vanguard. He broke cover first, sprinting out from behind the pine tree.
Instead of running in a straight, predictable line, James aggressively utilized a serpentine pattern, weaving erratically between the massive trees while firing short, perfectly controlled three-round bursts over his shoulder to suppress the pursuing Cartel.
Heavy rounds chewed into the dirt directly behind his boots as he ran.
The rest of the Vanguard seamlessly executed the fighting retreat, bounding backward in pairs, continuously laying down overlapping cover fire for the men moving behind them.
Suddenly, one of the newer recruits—a young farmhand named Hansen—was a fraction of a second too slow transitioning between cover. A 7.62mm round punched completely through his right thigh.
Hansen let out a strangled groan and collapsed hard into the snow.
Despite the agonizing pain, the recruit's training instantly took over. He frantically barrel-rolled behind the thick roots of a pine tree, ripped his IFAK (Individual First Aid Kit) open, and aggressively packed the bleeding wound with hemostatic gauze.
"Hansen is hit! We have a man down!" an operator shouted.
"Can you move, Hansen?" James barked, laying down heavy suppression fire with his M4.
"Yes!" Hansen gritted his teeth, his face pale and slick with sweat. He forced himself upright, heavily limping as he scrambled to catch up with the retreating formation.
A veteran operator immediately broke ranks, rushing back to hook his arm under Hansen's shoulder, physically dragging the wounded recruit backward as they continued to fire.
Seeing the PMC operators retreating and carrying a wounded man, the Cartel Sicarios believed they had broken the Vanguard's defensive line.
Fueled by a massive surge of adrenaline and bloodlust, the Mexican gunners abandoned all tactical discipline. They roared like wild animals, surging out from behind their cover and charging blindly into the open clearing to hunt down their fleeing prey.
James briefly glanced over his shoulder.
A massive, disorganized mob of at least forty heavily armed Cartel Sicarios were sprinting across the snow, completely exposed, looking exactly like a herd of enraged, mindless bulls.
They had stepped perfectly into the center of the kill box.
"Execute," James whispered.
High up on the ridges overlooking the clearing, August and Miles's assault teams simultaneously opened fire.
The terrifying, mechanical precision of twenty highly trained PMC operators firing three-round bursts from suppressed M4 carbines and SCAR-L battle rifles tore through the valley.
Because they were firing into an entirely exposed, tightly packed formation, every single short burst inevitably resulted in a Cartel gunner taking a high-velocity round to the head or upper chest.
August's element dominated the Eastern ridge. Miles's element controlled the Western ridge.
Together, they forged a flawless, inescapable network of plunging crossfire.
The Cartel Sicarios were instantly paralyzed by the sudden, overwhelming volume of fire raining down from the darkness.
They desperately halted their chaotic charge, frantically spinning in circles and attempting to scramble back toward the tree line, but it was entirely too late.
The moment the crossfire initiated, James's Vanguard violently arrested their retreat. They pivoted flawlessly, anchoring themselves behind heavy cover and dumping fire directly into the front of the Cartel formation.
The Sicarios were completely trapped in a three-sided meat grinder.
A Cartel lieutenant wearing a heavy leather jacket desperately waved a pistol, screaming at his men to organize a defensive perimeter.
"Don't panic! Form a line! Find cover! Find—"
CRACK!
Mike, the PMC's designated marksman operating from Miles's ridge, pulled the trigger on his heavy sniper rifle.
The high-caliber round traversed three hundred meters in a fraction of a second, punching perfectly through the center of the lieutenant's forehead. The officer's body violently snapped backward, his pistol flying into the snow.
"The commander is hit!" a Sicario shrieked in Spanish, his voice cracking with absolute terror. "He's dead!"
The panic mutated into a full-blown rout, spreading through the surviving Cartel members like a highly contagious virus.
The Sicarios threw down their weapons and began sprinting wildly in every direction, desperately attempting to flee the kill box. But no matter which vector they chose, they inevitably sprinted directly into a wall of suppressed PMC gunfire.
A young, terrified Cartel recruit dropped to his knees in the bloody snow. He threw his AK-47 away and raised both hands high in the air, screaming for mercy.
A split-second later, an unidentified round fired from the darkness tore through his throat, snapping his neck back and dropping him dead into the frost.
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