Just as Satan led his men out of cover, calling out and executing the gang members lying on the ground one by one—
From the third-floor window of a small building ahead, the barrel of a machine gun quietly extended, aiming downward.
But before the gunner could fire, a bullet had already pierced his forehead, splattering red and white everywhere.
A voice crackled in Satan’s earpiece—it was Ram: "Satan, stay alert. There was a machine gunner upstairs across the way, looked like he was ready for indiscriminate fire. I took him out."
"Shit, these bastards don’t even spare their own. Brutal."
Satan spat on the ground, then rolled aside to dodge incoming fire. He drew his pistol and fired three rounds at an enemy who had sat up on his knees. The man dropped.
Satan’s team was made up of elite infantrymen. After every shot, they executed tactical movements to avoid being targeted by return fire tracking their muzzle flashes.
Big Dog and his team coordinated by switching from suppressive crossfire to precise single shots, covering Satan’s squad.
Ram’s people, meanwhile, continuously scanned the area with scopes, looking for any would-be ambushers. Each crack of a shot was followed by an enemy collapsing.
With the three squads working in perfect sync, the Kurds crawling on the ground finally cracked. Many leapt to their feet and fled toward the rear.
Most of them were picked off by the snipers. Only a few managed to escape into the darkness.
Moments later, gunfire erupted from another direction.
Clearly, 253’s team that had been lying in ambush at another exit had joined the assault.
"Ram, send in the precision marksmen. Let them operate freely."
"Big Dog, blow up that building in front. I’m not wasting time sweeping it."
Two voices responded.
Six rockets whooshed out—then another six—and six more after that.
They swept the three-story building floor by floor.
Crash! It’s unclear which rocket did the trick, but half of the building, which was suspected to house the machine gunners, collapsed in a heap.
It was almost impossible anyone inside survived. Even if someone did, they were likely stunned by the explosion and no longer a threat.
Satan and his team used the opportunity to push past the ruins and move toward the center of town.
Just then, Ram’s voice came through the headset: "Satan, we’ve got a live one. He says four days ago, he saw a group of about thirty men arrive—white and black soldiers, well-equipped. I suspect they’re mercs."
"Fuck, even a fleeing gang can afford mercenaries? No, this has to be someone backing the Komara Gang footing the bill."
Satan’s tone grew serious.
The Komara Gang’s fighters were decent, sure—but compared to real mercs, they were outclassed. Gang combat and military ops were two different beasts—gangs were good at assassination, ambush, and terrorism, but not head-on warfare.
But another group of mercenaries? That was a whole different ballgame—an opponent on equal footing.
Of course, even among mercenaries, there were levels. Who knew how skilled these ones were?
It’s the unknown that makes things dangerous, isn’t it?
Right then, Martin’s voice cut into Satan’s comms: "Satan, thirty meters ahead, on the street, there’s an ambush waiting. They’ve got night vision too—likely the same mercs Ram mentioned."
Since they were on the same channel, everyone could hear Ram’s earlier report—including Martin.
Satan didn’t have time to wonder how Martin knew this.
There’s no room for hesitation on the battlefield.
Hmm... maybe it was that "magical mechanism" Martin planted in his brain acting up again.
Satan barked an order: "Everyone, ditch the night vision goggles. On my mark, throw flashbangs together."
"One, two, three—toss!"
Several flashbangs arced into the pitch-black, empty street.
Boom boom boom boom boom boom!
A series of dazzling white flashes lit up the entire street like daylight.
Screams came from houses on either side of the road.
What’s it like to have your night vision goggles hit with a flashbang?
In a word—excruciating.
Satan’s squad split into groups of three, sweeping buildings room by room. Gunfire erupted again and again.
Soon, two soldiers came running up to Satan, dragging a mercenary with swollen, red eyes.
The clearing team leader reported, "There were ten in the ambush. All cleared. We caught one alive."
Satan fired off a few quick questions:
"How many of you are there?"
The captured white male mercenary stayed silent.
Satan didn’t waste time—he pulled the trigger and shot the man in the head.
The merc fell straight to the ground.
While Satan had paused to interrogate the merc, Big Dog and his squad had already pushed ahead.
Ahead were two more small buildings, both stone structures with decent defenses.
Big Dog used the remaining rockets to blow up one, but was halted by fierce fire from the other.
"Satan, the enemy fire’s intense. I think the remaining mercs are holed up here. These guys have serious individual combat skills. I’ve tried storming them twice already—we got pushed back both times."
"Why not use rockets?"
Satan and his squad crept forward, taking cover behind a bungalow.
Satan pulled out his night vision binoculars and observed the small building.
After a while, his expression turned to surprise.
This level of firepower? Definitely not a small-time outfit.
Typically, small mercenary teams lacked heavy weapons but had strong individual fighters.
Only major mercenary companies like EO or the Armored Group had the means to field heavy weapons.
Other than those, there were also smaller mercenary groups backed by deep-pocketed patrons—like Satan’s own team, funded by the wealthy Martin, who could afford to buy heavy weapons.
The mercs holed up in this building didn’t seem like they came from a major outfit—so they probably had a big money backer footing the bill.
And whoever that backer was... might just be the real mastermind behind the Kurds’ oil theft operation.