The clamor of gunfire roared like thunder, and tracer rounds crisscrossed the street like a sweeping storm.
Just as in past turf wars, Morse stood at the very forefront, surrounded by his crew.
Unlike before, however, he held a "Ripper" light machine gun fed with an ammo belt!
The sinister muzzle unleashed brutal firepower, its thick muzzle flash blazing like a torch that seared the eyes of the Iron Hand thugs so fiercely they could barely keep them open.
First, he sprayed a burst toward the casino's top-floor room. Catching sight of Tony fleeing from the window, Morse swung his barrel toward the main entrance of the casino, cackling maniacally as he pulled the trigger.
"Die! Hahahaha! Scum of the Iron Hand Gang!"
A howling torrent of lead instantly tore the heavy wooden doors to shreds. The thugs taking cover on both sides never even had a chance to lean out and return fire; they could only scramble backward in panic, searching for sturdier shelter.
One thug holding a PU-9 submachine gun was too slow to duck. A machine-gun round ripped into his shoulder, tearing his entire arm clean off and leaving behind only a bloody stump of humerus.
"Aaaaargh!"
A shriek like a slaughtered pig echoed at the casino entrance, only to be promptly swallowed by the roaring gunfire.
Morse was not firing alone. Over a hundred members of the Hyena Gang, all wielding assault rifles, were chattering away in sustained bursts at Tony’s casino.
Nearby civilians and gamblers had never witnessed such sheer carnage. Paralyzed with terror by the sudden bloodbath, they fled the streets around "The Last Hand" as if running for their lives.
In less than five minutes, the entire street had emptied out, leaving only the clashing gangsters.
Under the Hyenas' relentless automatic fire, the Iron Hand thugs were pinned down, unable to raise their heads.
Though their PU-9 submachine guns were well suited for close-quarters street fighting, the nine-millimeter rounds were vastly outmatched by seven-millimeter rifle and machine-gun ammunition in both stopping power and penetration.
Furthermore, the Garrison had invested a fortune in Project Wasp—at least they had up until recently.
With the level of firepower the Hyena Gang wielded right now, they could hold their own on the front lines in Brahma Province without embarrassment, let alone against a bunch of street brawlers.
A concentrated hail of gunfire brought down half a wall, and the shooting outside eased slightly.
The Iron Hand Gang’s outer perimeter had completely collapsed, and the surviving thugs had all retreated inside the casino building.
Looking at the dozen corpses sprawled behind the piles of shattered concrete, Morse flashed a sinister grin and waved his hand forward.
York gripped a lit cigarette butt between his teeth, holding a "Blade" assault rifle. Relying on raw brute courage, he led more than a dozen thugs as they charged through the casino's front entrance.
Gunfire erupted once again with sharp cracks. The men quickly dove behind nearby cover, then thrust their rifle barrels outward, spraying bursts toward the general direction of the incoming muzzle flashes.
Seeing his boys secure the entrance, Morse unhurriedly loaded a fresh belt into the smoking light machine gun and racked the bolt with a sharp clack.
"To-nyyy! Your Grandpa Morse is here! Hahahaha!"
Bracing the stock of the machine gun against the pauldron of his body armor, Morse stuck a cigarette in his mouth as well. He strode toward the entrance, pulling the trigger to spray fire toward the flickering flashes across the main hall.
His face, illuminated by the muzzle flare, twisted into a savage sneer, looking like a demon clawing its way out of the abyss.
Every place his machine gun swept through looked as though it had been scourged by a typhoon, leaving only severed limbs, broken bodies, and ruined debris in its wake.
Pinned behind a marble pillar, the head of security for The Last Hand wore an expression of sheer terror. The submachine gun tucked under his elbow shook uncontrollably, and he did not dare poke his head out to fire back.
Seeing more and more of his men cut down, he gritted his teeth and barked into the radio on his shoulder.
"Boss! That lunatic's firepower is insane! The boys can't hold out much longer—"
Before he could finish, Tony's enraged roar came through the radio.
"Then hold it with your lives! Reinforcements are almost here! Even if you die, you keep them outside!"
Bellowing into the radio, Tony—who had already rushed to the second floor—felt his heart tremble violently as gunfire echoed from below.
He had no idea where these idiots had obtained so much heavy weaponry, nor what this Enlightenment Society was, let alone why they had set their sights on him.
He knew only one thing: if he couldn't put this trouble down, he was finished!
Completely and utterly finished!
If the guest sitting in that private room lost so much as a single hair, every gang in Blackwater Lane would go down with him!
When that time came, no one could save him!
Listening to the gunfire draw closer, Tony gritted his teeth. He wanted to reason with the man downstairs, but he couldn't reveal the name of his VIP guest above. He had no choice but to shout down the stairs.
"Morse! What the fuck do you actually want?! First you blow up my factory, and now you storm my casino! I never fucking crossed you!"
Seeing no response from below, he swallowed hard and lowered his posture slightly.
"You want money? I'll give it to you! Name a number! I'll pay you right now!"
Perhaps picking up on the cowardice in his voice, unrestrained laughter echoed up from below.
"Money? You think I'm a fucking beggar? You underestimate me, Tony. I want everything you have!"
Tony froze, then flared with rage.
"Don't push your fucking luck! I was giving you face!"
Morse curled his lip with a sneer.
"Pushing my luck? Don't make me laugh. We both work for big shots. You really think I'd let you off for a few dinars? Tonight, either you die or I live!"
He would be like a maggot sprouting wings, soaring straight to the heavens to become a true big shot.
When that happened, his legend would be written not just in Blackwater Lane, but across all of Evernight Port!
Tony's expression froze on his face, gradually contorting into disbelief.
"...That lunatic."
His mind was in utter chaos. At first he thought Morse was merely ranting, but the sheer confidence in the man's tone made him hesitate in spite of himself.
Why hadn't the Garrison arrived yet?
Ordinarily, with a commotion this huge, the guards would have rolled up in armored trucks by now.
Could this Enlightenment Society really have connections reaching the sky?!
Unfortunately, Peter had never bothered to explain what was happening in the northwest district, and as a non-Wilante, Tony had no interest in listening to whatever bullshit played all day over the Wilante radio.
The entire northwest district had devolved into total chaos. The guards and the garrison troops across the city had all converged there, with only the deployment units stationed at the harbor awaiting transport to the front lines remaining unmoved.
At a critical juncture like this, no one had any time to care about disturbances in Blackwater Lane.
Forget gang warfare—even if someone dropped a nuclear bomb here, it was unlikely anyone would bother.
While Tony was gripped by doubt and dread, Morse became even more certain of his suspicion. The power backing him had clearly suppressed Tony's patron, and a triumphant grin spread across his face.
That refined coward with dirt smeared on his face hadn't dared show himself once, thoroughly pinned under Morse's one-sided assault. Meanwhile, the Garrison seemed completely blind, utterly ignoring the commotion in Blackwater Lane even though Morse had basically shoved machine guns under their noses.
What better proof of the Enlightenment Society's power could there be?
His confidence swelling, Morse acted even more unhinged than usual. Tracking the voices upstairs, he aimed his barrel at the ceiling and fired a wild, sweeping burst while cackling like a madman.
The bullets could not penetrate the concrete flooring between levels, of course, but the noise still terrified Tony above.
Seeing more and more "Hyenas" flood the casino as the gunfire downstairs grew louder and more ferocious, Tony could only desperately urge his men to throw themselves into the meat grinder.
However, his thugs were flesh and blood too.
People joined gangs to make money, or at the very least to survive. None of them had ever intended to throw away their lives.
Seeing no sign of the Garrison and no reinforcements arriving, the morale of the thugs guarding the first floor finally shattered. They abandoned their positions and scattered like panicked rats.
The Iron Hand Gang was done for.
Even Tony's most loyal henchmen had no doubt that their end had arrived.
The suburban factory had been blown to bits, the "Skull Crusher" had been decapitated, and their boss hadn't dared utter a peep, even warning them not to seek revenge.
And now, the other side wasn't even giving them a chance to keep their heads down; they had brought machine guns right to their front door.
Their boss had been abandoned by his backers.
That was the only possible explanation...
The smart ones had already fled, leaving behind only the dim-witted, the dazed, or those who saw the writing on the wall too clearly.
Watching the first-floor defenders either drop dead or flee, Morse curled his lips into a smirk. He didn't bother to chase them down, merely spraying a parting burst in their direction before stepping out from cover. Leading his men, he strode over the carpet of corpses toward the stairs.
Yet perhaps he was riding too high on adrenaline, or perhaps the blood rushing to his head made him drop his guard. By the time he caught the sound of panting from behind a cabinet, a young thug was already charging out with a PU-9 submachine gun raised.
"Aaaargh!"
Screaming to banish his terror, the youth held down the trigger and sprayed blindly.
That wild, undisciplined burst actually proved somewhat effective. Caught off guard, Morse took several rounds straight to the chest.
However, nine-millimeter rounds could not pierce the military-grade body armor he wore.
The lunatic, clipped by the burst, merely swayed, staggering a few steps before leaning back against cover.
At the same time, the henchmen beside Morse reacted instantly, riddling the reckless kid with bullets and turning him into a sieve.
York was the first to rush to Morse's side, asking anxiously, "Boss! You all right?!"
Morse grinned, gripping York's arm to pull himself back to his feet.
"I'm fine."
Saying so, he brushed the back of his hand across his chest, and several flattened slugs dropped to the floor with dull clinks.
Seeing their boss completely unharmed, the surrounding men cheered and whistled.
Morse smiled broadly, raising his voice toward the empty stairwell.
"Tony! All your men are dead! How long do you plan to hide up there? Hahaha! Don't you dare off yourself—I still want to have a chat with you!"
There was no reply from above.
Morse wasted no more words. Waving his hand, he led his men upward.
The young thug who had fired at him lay in a pool of blood, his mouth twitching like a beached goldfish.
York drew his pistol and put him out of his misery. Staring down at those slowly glazing eyes, Morse frowned slightly.
Too similar.
The boy's gaze looked just like his own used to.
Back then, he had been a reckless rookie too, possessing nothing but ambition and a vicious streak. Every single day, he thought of only one thing: how to prove himself to the boss, risking his neck to make a name for himself.
The only difference was that this kid had closed his eyes when pulling the trigger. That was the one thing you never did at a gambling table.
And so, Morse, who had won the gamble, stood here, while that boy was destined to lie in the dirt.
Along with Tony upstairs.
A twitch pulsed between Morse's eyebrows. Without pausing, he strode straight to the second floor.
To his surprise, Tony hadn't hidden. Instead, he stood in the second-floor hall, his face filled with despair.
"You're insane... Morse, do you have any idea what you're doing? We're all finished."
Morse arched an eyebrow and gave a cold laugh.
"The only one finished is you... After tonight, I will be the new ruler of Blackwater Lane."
"Heh, to think I lost to a madman... Hehehe... Aaaagh!"
Tony broke into sudden laughter, but it cut off abruptly as he collapsed to the floor, clutching a profusely bleeding thigh.
Pistol smoking, York spat on the floor, his meaty face glaring down at Tony writhing on the ground.
"Stop playing smart, you piece of shit. I've hated your guts for ages."
Curled up like a dead dog, Tony said nothing. His pale lips could no longer form words, only twitching feebly.
That bullet had severed an artery, and within a few breaths, blood had soaked through his trousers.
"Bandage him up. My friends and I still have questions for him. Remember, keep him alive."
Throwing that command to the thugs beside him, Morse continued upstairs.
The entire fight had been textbook easy. He had crushed the Iron Hand Gang effortlessly, barely losing any men.
After tonight, he would become a legend throughout Blackwater Lane. Everyone would remember his name and know exactly who he worked for.
As for who Tony's backer was, that no longer mattered to him. Since the unseen hand behind the curtain had brought him this far, they would naturally handle whatever fallout followed.
Still, one puzzle lingered in Morse's mind: why hadn't Tony run? Why had he chosen to stand there and wait for death?
He didn't believe for a second that a cunning operator like Tony hadn't left himself an escape route. This casino certainly hid more than one secret passage.
Unless—
Unless the arrogant bastard had never conceived of the possibility of losing, or possessed some reason he couldn't run under any circumstances.
Driven by curiosity, Morse carried his machine gun upstairs, checking room after room until he finally came to a locked door.
He knocked politely. There was no sound from inside, but the scent of nicotine drifting through the crack of the door gave away the occupant.
York and the other men behind him exchanged glances, their expressions turning bizarre.
The guy inside was still in the mood for a smoke.
He clearly didn't give a damn about them at all.
"VIP private suite."
Morse glanced back, flashed a grin at his men, and kicked the locked door open.
With a loud crash, the door smashed flat against the floor. Carrying the machine gun, Morse stepped over the fallen panel and walked inside. Sitting on the sofa directly ahead was a man with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
He was a Wilante.
The man showed a flicker of surprise, but not a shred of fear. He even removed the cigarette to lightly flick the ash.
That unflappable composure typical of those in power stirred a faint flicker of dread in Morse, but that sensation was quickly overtaken by a surge of restless fury.
What right did this bastard have not to be afraid?!
What right did he have to look at Morse like a dog?!
"Nice shooting."
Having tapped the ash off his cigarette, Peter looked at Morse with a touch of genuine appreciation.
"I suddenly find myself liking you."
Morse narrowed his eyes, the corners of his tight lips curving slightly upward. Lowering his smoking barrel, he bowed his head slightly, mimicking a respectable gentleman.
"...Might I ask how I should address you, sir?"
Peter chuckled softly, speaking in an indifferent tone.
"Tony never asks such foolish questions. He simply does what he's told, learns what we allow him to know, and takes his cut."
Morse clicked his tongue and shook his head.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. That poor bastard's in bad shape. Right now, he's squirming on the floor like a maggot."
Hearing about Tony's plight, Peter looked utterly detached, even offering a faint smile.
"Is that so? I didn't expect him to be so loyal, useless as he is."
Morse's eyes narrowed into slits, his gaze flickering like a viper's tongue.
"...Useless?"
"Isn't he?" Peter shrugged, his tone completely matter-of-fact. "He couldn't even handle a trivial task, getting his throat ripped out by a dog the Garrison kept. He's like mud that can't stick to a wall. My patience with him had pretty much run out."
Pausing there, he studied Morse standing in the doorway with interest.
"I find you're far more capable than Tony, even if you're not quite as sharp... Still, to us, that hardly matters. Care to consider working for us?"
"Working... for you?" Morse froze, then burst out laughing. "So I can end up like that dead dog downstairs? Give me a break, pal. I belong to the Enlightenment Society. Who the fuck are you?"
Peter narrowed his eyes slightly, a glint of murderous intent flashing within them.
Aside from Myriarch Dickens, no one had ever dared speak to him like that.
"The Enlightenment Society... What kind of rubbish is that? Never heard of it."
Morse scoffed, sneering mockingly.
"Your clearance is too low—of course you wouldn't have heard of it... Do you know why there's such an uproar outside and yet the Garrison hasn't made a peep?"
Seeing Peter's dumbfounded look, Morse didn't wait for an answer, continuing leisurely.
"An invisible hand is pulling the strings behind everything. With your narrow vision, you can't even perceive its existence... Of course, as a mere initiate, I've only glimpsed the tip of the iceberg myself. But even that exposed tip is more than enough to crush you lot to dust."
Peter stared at him blankly, caught between laughter and disbelief.
"What the hell are you talking about? Has your fucking brain rotted—"
Before his sentence finished, the muzzle suddenly swung toward him and spat tongues of fire.
Completely unprepared for Morse to shoot, Peter grunted as multiple rounds tore through him, flinging him backward. The sofa beneath him was shredded into a sieve alongside him.
The barrel climbed with the recoil, peppering the ceiling with rounds before Morse finally released the trigger.
With a savage sneer, he walked up to the corpse, scooped up the blood-stained cigarette butt, and popped it into his own mouth.
"Sorry about that. Misfire."
York followed him in and spat on the bloodied figure on the floor.
"Suicidal prick. Who gave you permission to talk to my boss like that!"
Lying flat on his back, Peter stared wide-eyed, his chest mangled into a pulp of flesh and bone.
Even in death, he couldn't believe these scumbags had dared lay a finger on him.
And on Wilante soil, no less.
Wasting no more time on the man, Morse searched his body, finding nothing to identify him. Curving his lip in disappointment, he tossed the corpse aside.
From this day forward, The Last Hand belonged to him, Morse.
The gamblers of Evernight Port wouldn't care what had transpired here, nor how much blood had spilled across these tiles.
Once they cleaned up the mess, the addicts would pour back in wave after wave, just like always.
And it wouldn't just be the casino.
He would take over all of Tony's enterprises, using the gold reaped from them to turn Blackwater Lane into the most prosperous sleepless city in the entire Great Desert!
And he, Morse—
He would rewrite the order here, becoming the uncrowned king of this sleepless city!
This hadn't been what he dreamed of, but it was an indirect path toward fulfilling his ambitions.
Walking over to the shattered window, Morse stood still and narrowed his eyes, enjoying the evening breeze and savoring the quiet afterglow of violence.
York stepped up beside him, his fleshy face brimming with excitement and adoration.
"Boss... what next?"
"Hmm... let me think." Morse walked back over to the corpse, kicking the lifeless leg. "Drag this guy downstairs. Maybe our friends will find him interesting."
His job was done.
Talan and Kant should be coming for him soon... or perhaps the Enlightenment Society would dispatch someone else.
Morse wasn't in any rush; he had already won this gamble.
Right then, however, an inexplicable sense of foreboding seized him, sending a cold sweat breaking out across his back.
What was happening?
Had something gone wrong?
His thoughts raced furiously, and in that very instant, a short, sharp buzz sliced through the air from outside the window. A moment later, the head of York—who stood near the sill—burst like a shattered watermelon. His body collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.
"York! No! Fuck, sniper!"
Morse's eyes turned instantly bloodshot. Bellowing at the top of his lungs, he frantically scrambled out of the room.
At the same time, following several sharp, suppressed pops, the entire second floor of the casino transformed into a slaughterhouse.
A squad of heavily armored soldiers poured through the doorway in single file.
Every single one of them was equipped with an exoskeleton, their head-to-toe gear advanced enough to make the front-line cannon fodder drool with envy.
A Purge Squad!
As one of the Legion's tactical trumps, the Southern Legion had taken a completely different approach to equipment than the Eastern Legion.
The latter still clung to massed brute-force formations, while the former leaned toward the doctrine of the East Coast's Enterprise.
Lying in the pool of blood, Tony had only half a breath left.
Gasping feebly, he lifted heavy, dimming eyelids toward the combat boot that halted before him.
Gathering every ounce of strength, he reached out, leaving a bloody handprint on the boot as he tried to grasp onto anything.
At the same time, broken, pleading whispers slipped from his lips.
"...I did my best."
"Everything you asked of me, I did... I only beg you... spare my family... They don't know anything..."
The soldier uttered not a single word. He pressed the silenced muzzle against Tony's skull. With a clean, muffled pop, Tony slumped back into the pool of blood.
Pressing an index finger to the side of his helmet, the soldier exhaled a breath of cold air and delivered a concise report.
"Second floor clear."
A moment later, a reply came over the comm channel.
"Hostiles moving from the fifth floor to the fourth, near the fire exit... No sign of the package."
"Copy."
With a brisk acknowledgment, the soldier waved toward the stairs, pointing toward the adjacent fire exit.
The soldiers who had cleared the second floor immediately split into two fireteams, pushing toward Morse's position.
Spotting these uninvited guests, the Hyenas who were busy looting their spoils hurriedly raised their weapons and opened fire on the heavily armored troops.
Yet against these elite, well-trained soldiers, they couldn't even buy time before having their skulls punched through one after another.
The battle was a one-sided massacre!
Having retreated to the fourth floor, Morse was paralyzed with dread.
The gunfire echoing from below warned him that the lower levels were compromised, yet trapped here, he had nowhere to run.
Backing out of the fire exit, he flattened himself against the corner of the stairwell wall, roaring down the stairs.
"Fuck! Who the hell are you people?!"
The squad gave no answer.
Like cold, mechanical killing machines, they harvested life after life with surgical precision.
Watching his men cut down one by one, a profound sense of helplessness washed over Morse's heart.
He couldn't die here like this!
Especially not without even knowing why!
His usual manic streak flared up again. Cursing at the top of his lungs, he cast aside the machine gun slung over his shoulder, slammed his shoulder into the window, and leaped straight down from the fourth floor.
A drop from this height would cripple anyone who wasn't killed outright.
Yet perhaps his luck hadn't run out entirely. His shoulder slammed into a rain awning first, after which he rolled straight into a restaurant's slop barrel by the street.
The storefront was locked tight, and the street was dead silent, as though he were the only person left in the world.
At some point, light rain had begun falling from the overcast sky, its dense patter threatening to drown him.
Morse had never been reduced to such a wretched state.
Not even in his darkest days.
Like a cornered, terrified beast, he stumbled forward into the distance, completely blind as to where to go.
Who were those people?
Why were they trying to kill him?
And...
Where was the Enlightenment Society?
Hallucinations seemed to flicker before his eyes, and the road beneath his feet dissolved into void, dragging him back into that absurd dream.
In that dream, he was a surgeon running an ordinary little clinic.
Blackwater Lane had been peaceful for decades, free of endless gang wars.
He had a sensible son and an adorable daughter. Though he wasn't a model father, he was far more dependable than his own had been—at least he never brought liquor bottles home.
"Aaaargh!"
A low roar ripped from his throat as he fought to banish the chaotic visions from his mind.
That wasn't what he wanted!
He had never intended to burden himself with such weaknesses.
Yet he didn't know why that damn dream had shown him those things, nor why he had secretly wished it could last just one second longer.
Right then, a figure appeared ahead.
The person wore a raincoat over a polished black exoskeleton, holding a compact assault rifle.
Despair washed across Morse's face, but seeing that the figure hadn't raised the weapon, a spark of hope reignited in his chest.
The stranger reached up to slightly lift the brim of the raincoat hood, seemingly to get a clearer look at his face.
Morse heard a soft sigh, and his steps involuntarily slowed.
"Sigh... I really shouldn't feel sorry for a guy like you. But how should I put it... I don't hold any grudges against you either."
Pausing, the figure placed a hand on Morse's shoulder.
"Keep running. Leave this place to me."
Morse stared blankly, a flicker of doubt surfacing in his clearing eyes, but he still asked in a trembling voice:
"...Are you from the Enlightenment Society?"
"Yes," Xiao Jiang replied, patting Morse on the shoulder concisely. "You know where to go."
He wasn't entirely certain himself, after all. That idiot Desert Eagle wasn't quite as reliable as he made himself out to be... though Xiao Jiang wasn't particularly reliable either.
Regardless, Desert Eagle had analyzed the intel gathered by the Desert Brigade, untangled the clues, and deduced that Morse might genuinely know something about the Enlightenment Society.
Otherwise, it was hard to explain why this guy had gambled so recklessly, staking his entire fortune and throwing away his life so thoroughly for an illusion of a carrot.
While interrogating him face-to-face would have been ideal, time was running out.
From the moment the bomb went off at the broadcast station until now, barely two and a half hours had passed.
Hearing the stranger's words, hope flared anew in Morse's eyes.
The Enlightenment Society hadn't abandoned him after all!
His muddy memories sharpened, and he recalled that dark, narrow alley.
"...I leave it to you."
Casting one last grateful look at the stranger in the raincoat, Morse turned and sprinted hurriedly into the drizzling rain.
At the same time, a group of exoskeleton-clad soldiers burst out from The Last Hand casino in pursuit.
Frantic chatter echoed across their comm channel.
"Damn it... Peter is dead!"
"Mission failed."
"One jumped out the fourth-floor window and ran."
"Tough bastard. Didn't even break his neck."
"Leave him to me. Recover the body."
Lying prone on the roof, the sniper took a deep breath, replying in a chilling tone.
The rain wasn't heavy yet, barely hindering his visibility. With the street almost deserted, his scope quickly locked onto the figure sprinting along the pavement.
Just as his finger tightened on the trigger, however, someone suddenly tapped him on the shoulder.
"Hey, what'cha looking at?"
The sniper froze and spun around, only to have a hand seize his collar, rip off his helmet mic, and heave him straight off the six-story tenement building.
Hearing the dull thud from below, Sha Diao craned his neck to peer over the edge. Seeing the figure splayed out motionless, he muttered a soft prayer.
Without a shred of remorse, he lay prone behind the abandoned sniper rifle.
Pressing his eye to the optic, Sha Diao tapped the side of his ear and cleared his throat.
"Sniper in position, but no fire support... The cleanup is on you. I have to keep an eye on the 'bait.'"
Meanwhile, down on the distant street, Xiao Jiang waited quietly. Gauging that the pursuers were almost upon him, he detached a timed charge from his exoskeleton.
This was for the cleanup.
After all, the Alliance and the Legion weren't officially at war, and he had entered as an undocumented infiltrator; getting identified would cause unnecessary trouble.
Setting the dead-man timer, he deftly slid the explosive into his rear tactical webbing.
Hearing the transmission over the comms, he gave an unsurprised reply before switching the channel off.
"Right, got it. Looks like I have to play a corpse all over again."
Chapter 895