Disobeying orders meant death.
Karl's words were blunt but stabilizing—enough to steady the entire situation at a critical moment.
Faced with the possibility of dying, or risking death to survive, the scavengers saw how the Militech operatives—who were suspiciously obeying this helmeted stranger without question—had already started turning their guns toward them. They chose the latter: to live.
"We'll follow your orders."
That was the answer the scavengers gave.
It wasn't that they hadn't considered turning on the Militech squad and defecting to the other side, but it was clear that the attackers had come to wipe them out completely. Betraying now would only get them killed faster. As long as there was even a sliver of hope of survival by following orders, any sane person would take that chance.
Sure, there was a third option—rage-fueled rebellion, fighting both Militech and the attackers to the death. But if they had that kind of guts or skill, they wouldn't be running with the Raffen Shiv.
Why panic? The Militech people behind the Columbus trucks weren't in any better shape. They were all in the same boat. If they died, they'd die together.
"Smoke grenades! Now!"
From the attackers' point of view, a thick white mist suddenly erupted behind the remaining Columbus trucks—followed immediately by gunfire.
'They're using the gunfire to mask their retreat from behind the trucks?'
The attackers quickly pieced it together and responded immediately.
"Switch to thermal imaging."
Some smoke grenades could disrupt commercial-grade thermal optics—but clearly, the attackers weren't using anything commercial. Once they activated their high-grade head-mounted thermal visors, the targets moving within the smoke became clear—glowing silhouettes, like skinned rabbits exposed under a spotlight.
There was no need for blind suppression fire. With thermals, their prey was practically begging to be picked off.
Four attackers locked onto their targets, as relayed by their squad hacker.
Just as the four of them steadied their aim, a cold, unfamiliar voice crackled into their comms—
"Found you."
The tone carried the weight of a death sentence.
Before they could react, the squad hacker's voice screamed through the channel in raw panic.
"I've been breached! How—aaAAAGHH!"
With that shriek, the attackers suddenly felt heat surging through the operating systems wired into their brain stems.
Cyberware overheating.
Impossible. Their ICE defenses were—
System failure.
With four wet thuds, their bodies collapsed against the side of the armored truck they had been using as cover. Their brains had been cooked from the inside.
"Disconnect now! Hacker's dead—someone's infiltrating us through their uplink!"
The squad leader's roar came too late. Though the others yanked their access permissions, those already marked were beyond saving.
"My eyes! My optics just shut down—I can't see anything!"
"My arm's not responding—shit, it's malfunctioning—!"
"Who the hell are you—why are you right next to me—?!"
Bang.
The squad leader calmly raised his pistol and shot the dazed, confused attacker next to him—who had lost control and was aiming a weapon at him.
Cyberware overheated. Optics shut down. Limbs malfunctioning. Memory centers scrambled.
Who the hell was this netrunner that could manipulate hacks so precisely in real-time?
The attackers were Arasaka agents—but not loyal to the American branch or Hanako Arasaka. These men followed the true master of the corporation. Their mission had been to covertly reclaim a shipment secretly moved by another internal faction. But now—everything was going to hell.
'According to intel, that convoy wasn't supposed to have any elite guards. So how the hell do they have a netrunner of this caliber?'
The squad leader's gut twisted.
'And the people we're fighting? They're all in elite Arasaka uniforms. This isn't a standard cargo job. Don't tell me… those bastards anticipated our ambush and set a trap? Shameless cowards—using such dishonorable tactics!'
He wanted to use the vehicle-mounted autocannons or rocket launchers—but remembered the superior's orders and clenched his teeth.
'Even if we die, not a scratch must touch that cargo. Your families are counting on your success.'
To hell with it.
Destroying the cargo was unforgivable. That left only one option.
"Restart the armored trucks. No more concern for casualties. We charge now. For our master!"
Close-quarters would be bloody—but there was no time left. Once the enemies had used the trucks as cover, their biggest threat—overwhelming ranged weapons—had become useless.
Ideally, the plan was to scare them into scattering with heavy fire and then pick them off one by one.
If that didn't work, Plan B was a slow and surgical kill—sniper support and hacking from a distance. Apply pressure like boiling a frog, and wait until they cracked. Just don't damage the trucks. But now the hacker was dead, the sniper had no targeting, and the enemy was hacking them.
There was only one choice left: go in and gut them.
"Unleash the blades!"
Stimulants injected. Heart rate rising. Body temperature climbing. Consciousness—igniting into frenzy.
"For honor!"
The armored vehicles roared back to life.
"What the hell did you do?! Why are they abandoning their range advantage and charging us?!"
Meredith's voice was incredulous over comms.
She couldn't understand it. Why weren't they using their autocannons? Why not rockets? Why weren't they staying back and using their superior range?
Why were they rushing in like fools?
She didn't get it at all.
Did Karl do something?
All he did was order a smoke grenade deployment and a tactical repositioning.
Had he really done anything at all?
.
.
.
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