NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 893: Captives
In the brief skirmish just now, Joe Ga's team took out 14 of Bloody Mary's men, but they didn't get away unscathed themselves.
Depp took two bullets, while the other two HRT members, Raphael and De Niro, weren't much luckier—one got hit three times but somehow survived, while the other had a bullet tear right through his shoulder, leaving him incapacitated.
'Spur' hovered near De Niro like a worried mother hen, observing as the medic poured hemostatic powder onto the wound and then stuffed a mountain of bandages on it…
As 'Spur' crouched down to help press on the wound, he barked, "Ammo check! I told you dumbasses to bring at least two basic loads of ammo. So, what the hell did you actually bring?"
Depp hadn't expected the fight to get this intense.
As he jammed the bullets that Joe Ga handed over into his magazine, he replied helplessly, "Ten-plus-one! I brought 300 damn rounds. What more do you want?"
'Orange Cat' plopped down beside Depp, squeezing the waist pack and backpack slung on him, feeling out the miscellaneous crap stuffed inside…
"Shit, are you fucking brain-dead?
Why not just bring a sleeping bag?
Hell, throw in a tent while you're at it. That way, you can invite some National Guard idiots to come pamper your ass."
Joe Ga didn't seem overly concerned…
He'd worked with these HRT guys before. Their training for urban counterterrorism was a completely different animal compared to the stuff P·B trained for.
'Spur' and his crew only adapted to P·B's rhythm after enduring extended combat experience.
It's not that the HRT guys weren't good; it's just that their training was fundamentally different.
These HRT soldiers didn't even jettison their empty magazines during the fighting—they had the ingrained habit of slotting empty mags back in while reloading.
By U.S. Army standards, one basic load is 6+1—seven magazines holding 210 rounds in total.
P·B's tactical vests could carry two rows of eight mags on the front, with 4–6 more mags on each side of the waist depending on preference, plus two in each side pocket.
HRT vests were different. Their fronts could only hold six mags max, so even when fully loaded, they could barely carry ten in total.
They'd never encountered combat of this intensity before. Their packs were arranged according to training standards, leaving them stuffed with things that didn't help much in their current situation.
Meanwhile, the packs belonging to 'Spur' and 'Orange Cat' carried only what was essential, plus six magazines, a few grenades, some C4, and even a Broad Sword mine—because 'Orange Cat' liked to go wild.
P·B had a peculiar habit: in combat, they'd typically carry three basic loads of ammo, adjusting everything else based on the mission's actual demands.
This approach of course added weight, but it usually doubled P·B's offensive power, making their fire superiority overwhelming.
Joe Ga didn't mock the HRT guys. They'd been desperate enough to prove themselves.
While Depp and his crew frantically reloaded their magazines, Joe Ga walked up to 'Spur', glanced at the wounded De Niro, and after hesitating for a moment, said, "Have someone escort him back. I'll inform Ronnie and Jack to meet them halfway."
'Spur' hesitated before replying, "Boss, why can't you head back first? Leave this to us—we'll finish off these mercenaries..."
Joe Ga shook his head decisively. "No. I need to see those mercenaries dead with my own eyes. If they die, someone else takes the blame.
If news of us bombing the National Guard leaks out, things are gonna get real messy.
Some things can be done, but you can't talk about them—or admit to them!"
De Niro, a Black man, struggled to his feet after having his shoulder bandaged. He declared, "Sir, I'm fine...
We're shorthanded. I can stay here and hide out.
Trust me—this is what we're trained for. Even without an arm, I can handle outsmarting the National Guard's patrols."
Just as Joe Ga was about to dissuade him, 'Poison Wolf' suddenly sent a message from the perimeter…
"Boss, we've got 12 National Guardsmen approaching from the north. Should we scare them off?"
Joe Ga shot a look at 'Spur', gesturing for him to handle the stubborn HRT guy.
He then signaled to Dorian, who was keeping watch at a distance, and retreated deeper into the jungle with Ayu. Over the channel, he gave clear instructions: "HRT, stay concealed. Team C, back us up using non-lethal methods. Subdue those bastards."
As the boss vanished into the jungle with Dorian and Ayu, 'Spur' took another glance at the obstinate De Niro and shook his head. "Buddy, you need to follow orders...
Trying to act tough gets you nowhere with us!"
He then turned to Depp and suggested, "How about all four of you pull out, link up with Jack Heinz down south? They'll figure out a way to get you out."
Depp slammed the last bullet into his magazine, glanced at De Niro's condition, then shook his head. "I respect my partner's decision. We're not dead weight.
'Spur', you know us. Do you think De Niro's just talking big?"
'Spur' snorted and shook his head with a faint smile. "You guys suddenly turning into tough guys is giving me culture shock."
He suddenly perked his ears up, then quickly signaled: "Another chopper incoming. Spread out, hide—we'll wait for the boss to get back…"
............
John peered into the jungle through his monocular night vision…
His squad had originally been under Captain Case's command, carrying out a training exercise.
Their objective was to infiltrate the jungle from the north, loop around to join forces with the artillery position in the south, and complete the exercise for some sweet extra pay.
Then all hell broke loose in the mountainous jungle, forcing them to switch from exercise mode to live combat.
They'd already trekked nearly 14 kilometers by this point.
Fatigue started gnawing at this so-called elite squad…
At 22, John tripped on something, stumbling forward awkwardly for several steps.
After regaining his balance, he angrily smacked the malfunctioning night vision device strapped to his head, muttering under his breath, "FUCK, we should've moved toward the choppers. What the hell are we doing?
We're the National Guard—not the goddamn Marine Corps."
Nearby, a middle-aged soldier shot a glance at the visibly tense Captain Case and shook his head. "Charging into the jungle at night to hunt mercenaries ain't a smart move. We should call for air support. Otherwise, we might just keep walking and miss them anyway."
Captain Case, sporting a pair of trimmed mustaches, overheard the grumbling and lashed out. "Shut up, you idiots! This is General Ogen's direct order—he wants us to take down those mercenaries.
We've got to prove we're not worthless!
Those bastards obliterated our artillery battalion and took out six of our helicopters. Are we just gonna let it slide? You guys have no balls?"
John failed yet again to get his night vision device working, finally realizing the batteries were dead. Furious, he ripped it off his head, hurled it to the ground, stomped on it with all his might, and cursed, "FUCK…
What's the goddamn point of all this? I thought this was just a training exercise. I didn't even bother wearing body armor.
All I have are four lousy magazines and 30 ancient rounds that look older than my car.
FUCK, this isn't what I signed up for…"
Plodding along in near-total darkness, John began falling behind the group. He tried to quicken his pace, but tripped yet again, this time landing flat on his face.
He spat out a mouthful of foul-tasting dirt, gagging as he tried to call out for help, when—
Several flashbang grenades suddenly went off ahead of the squad.
The blinding flashes not only fried their bargain-bin night vision goggles but severely burned their retinas as well.
With his head still down, John's vision swam, and he felt a massive hand wrap around his neck. A terrifying jolt of electricity coursed through him, making his entire body convulse until he wet himself.
Just before losing consciousness, John saw three small, wiry figures emerge near his dazed squadmates…
And then, from a nearby bush, something massive, like a demonic truck on legs, came barreling out at full speed, slamming into a soldier clutching his eyes in pain. The impact sent the poor guy flying…
John's face smashed into the dirt again. Everything went blank.
Joe Ga casually dropped the unconscious John and dove into the rest of the National Guard squad like a rabid wolf.
Tackling an enemy reaching for his weapon, Joe Ga clamped his neck and knocked him out cold with his electric gloves. Joe looked around for more targets, only to find that the entire squad was already down.
Dorian, wielding a club as thick as his arm, had taken out two soldiers. With no more enemies standing, he began collecting weapons. Rifles were stripped of ammo and tossed into a dirt pit he'd dug earlier, alongside some C4 wired to detonators…
Seeing Dorian waving the remote detonator at him, Joe Ga called back, "Helicopters incoming. Pack them up and find cover."
Joe bent down to strip the unconscious John of his rifle and an ancient revolver, tossing both into the pit. Dragging John by the leg, he muttered, "Shit, this guy smells awful…"
Dorian walked over to where Ayu had incapacitated two guards. Observing their sorry state, he shook his head and commented, "Boss, you've gotta see this.
I'd rather take a bullet than get tackled by King Kong again. FUCK, one of these guys literally shit himself from the impact.
No way in hell am I carrying them…"
While Dorian complained, members of Team C had already tied together the straps on the unconscious guards' gear…
Poison Snake examined the satellite phone in Case's backpack, then looked over to Joe Ga. "Boss, these guys were mid-exercise before this turned into a live op.
Their movements are suspicious. This guy has a sat phone—that means he needs to communicate with someone but can't rely on traditional radio."
As Ayu ignored Dorian's grumbling and began dragging five bound soldiers at once, like an ox plowing a field…
Joe Ga flipped Dorian the middle finger and told him to grab the smelly John as well. Pulling out his own satellite phone, Joe dialed Cooper…
"I've captured a squad. Their behavior doesn't add up!
I'm going to make a call—watch who picks up…"
On the other end, Cooper hesitated, then asked, "Hu Lang, what's your play?"
Joe Ga smirked darkly. "If the FBI can make a raccoon admit it's a rabbit, I can damn well get these frontline pawns to spill.
There are still five squads converging on us, and if this doesn't make them call it off, I'm gonna go nuclear.
Make sure your phone's on speaker. I want the entire world to hear this motherfucker scream…"