American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

The sound of the explosion was swallowed by thunder. But Lynn saw the windows of the communications facility shatter simultaneously, orange-red flames shooting out from every window and door crack, shards of glass swirling and flying dozens of meters in the downpour. A section of the building's roof collapsed in the center, and thick black smoke billowed from the exposed gap, but the downpour dispersed it almost as soon as the smoke rose.

"Communication facilities destroyed. Two people inside are unconscious—from an electromagnetic pulse shock, not from a direct lightning strike. They are alive." Jane's voice echoed in everyone's minds simultaneously.

"Go!" Lynn crouched low and rushed out of the sandy cover.

Six hundred meters. The beach, after the first two hundred meters, turned into a low thicket of shrubs—a dense patch of evening primrose and amaranth—the plants almost touching the ground, weighed down by the torrential rain and strong winds, saving them the trouble of bending over. The ground beneath their feet transitioned from soft sand to a hard surface made up of coral fragments and compacted soil, each step accompanied by the crunching sound of boots crushing shell pieces.

Pedro ran to Lynn's left, shotgun held to his chest, raindrops on the barrel whipped into tiny droplets by the running air. Jason was on the right, Glock 17 gripped between his hands, arms forming a stable isosceles triangle. Mike brought up the rear, M4 buttstock against his shoulder, muzzle covering their backs and flanks. Diana was half a step behind Lynn—her running posture had the characteristics of someone with extensive training; her upper body was almost motionless, all momentum concentrated in her legs, muzzle always pointing to the two o'clock position in her direction of travel.

Four hundred meters. Three hundred meters.

The bushes ended. Ahead, a gravel path about three meters wide appeared—a logistics access road leading from the runway to the buildings. On the other side of the path was the outer layer of the barbed wire fence—two meters high galvanized wire mesh with three loops of barbed wire at the top, and a concrete post every twenty meters.

Lynn crouched down on this side of the gravel road and raised his left fist—a stop signal. The people behind him stopped one by one.

His gaze swept across the section of barbed wire that stretched through the torrential rain—he saw no cameras or motion sensors within a visible range of about fifty meters. Either the storm had destroyed the outer electronic monitoring system, or this section of the fence had never been deployed in the first place.

"Jane, where is that person patrolling the perimeter now?"

"Southwest corner, about 250 meters from you. He's looking for shelter from the rain. He's not moving in your direction."

“Mike,” Lynn whispered.

Mike pulled a pair of folding wire cutters—the kind specifically designed for cutting barbed wire—from the side pocket of his tactical vest, the handles covered with rubber insulation. He crouched down in front of the fence and quickly touched the wire with the back of his hand—to test if it was electrified.

No sparks. No electric shock.

"The power's out," Mike said. "The lightning strike probably burned out the entire perimeter power line."

He began to cut. The wire made short, sharp "snap" sounds as the shears cut through the barbed wire—each cut created a looser opening in the wire mesh. Thirty seconds later, he had cut a hole in the fence large enough for a person to squeeze through sideways.

Lynn was the first to crawl through. The barbed wire slicing past two inches above his helmet, a drop of rain falling from the tip of the wire and landing right on his nose.

Five people walked through the fence one by one.

Inside the fence was an open area about forty meters wide—a wide expanse of gravel without any cover. Beyond this open area was the west exterior wall of the main building—a gray concrete wall covered with rain stains, several aluminum alloy windows tightly closed, and blinds drawn.

“Split up.” Lynn whispered. The torrential rain overhead and underfoot made enough noise to drown out their conversation, but he instinctively kept his voice as low as possible. “Jason, Mike, go in from the west entrance on the first floor. Pedro, Diana, come with me from the north side. Remember—speed first, noise second. Take control of the corridors and weapons storage rooms before they can react.”

“Where is the weapons storage room?” Jason asked.

"The southeast corner of the first floor. According to the floor plan, it's a reinforced storage room containing small arms and ammunition. If the mercenaries' first reaction upon being awakened is to grab a gun—"

"Then we must get there first."

“Yes. You and Mike go straight to the southeast corner. Pedro, Diana, and I will come in from the north and advance down the corridor, driving the people on the first floor towards your direction. A pincer attack.”

Jason gestured to Mike, and the two of them crouched low and moved quickly toward the west corner of the main building. Their figures blurred in the downpour, like two dark shadows gliding across the gray wall, disappearing around the corner of the building within seconds.

Lynn led Pedro and Diana around to the north side.

There was a metal door on the north side—probably the entrance to the logistics passage, usually used for transporting supplies and garbage. A padlock on the door was mostly rusted, its dark orange oxide layer gleaming in the rain. Pedro slammed the padlock with the butt of his Remington—the lock's spring snapped on the first hit, fragments clattering into the puddle in front of the door.

The door was pushed open. A damp, humid air, mixed with the smell of disinfectant and sweat, rushed out.

corridor.

The long corridor, covered with gray vinyl flooring, was lined with tightly closed doors on both sides. Half of the fluorescent light tubes on the ceiling were not working, and the rest emitted a sickly, flickering bluish-white light. Several printed rules and regulations—written in English with a rigid, military-style wording—were pasted on the walls, their edges curled and wrinkled from the dampness of the corridor.

Lynn raised his Glock and moved forward, hugging the left wall of the corridor. Each step was heel-first, then to the ball of his foot—the standard footwork taught in FBI close-quarters combat training—minimizing the creaking of his boots against the floor. Pedro was to his right rear, his shotgun muzzle sweeping across every door on the right side of the corridor. Diana brought up the rear, her SIG P320 pointed upwards at a 45-degree angle to the ceiling, ready to fire at any moment.

The first door. It was ajar.

Lynn used the muzzle of his gun to pry open the door.

Inside was a small office—a metal desk, a swivel chair, a closed laptop, and several printed work schedules pinned to the wall. On the desk sat a half-eaten cup of noodles and an empty can of energy drink. No one was there.

The second door. Locked.

They skipped it and continued on.

The sound came from inside the third door—at the corner of the corridor.

The sound of metal clashing. Footsteps. And a hoarse male voice cursing in English—"What the hell is wrong with the antenna?", "The signal's completely down!", "Someone go check the generator."

Lynn stopped and leaned against the wall next to the door frame. He gestured to Pedro—three fingers, then a downward chopping motion.

Pedro nodded. Three—two—one.

Lynn kicked the door open.

Inside the door was a large room resembling a lounge or dining room—four folding tables, a dozen or so plastic chairs, a refrigerator, a microwave, and several boxes of compressed biscuits and bottled water piled in the corner. There were four people in the room.

A bald man in camouflage pants and a black vest stood by the window, repeatedly pressing the send button on a walkie-talkie—which only emitted a buzzing white noise. Another young man with a buzz cut sat at the table, his bare torso covered in tattoos, a deck of cards spread out in front of him, his finger hovering in mid-air, about to play a card. The third was a tall, muscular Black man in a work jacket, who had just turned from the microwave, holding a steaming plastic bowl. The fourth, curled up on the sofa in the corner—or rather, who had been curled up there twenty seconds earlier—was a burly, red-haired man in pajamas, clearly just awakened by the thunder, his feet still untucked in his boots, his mouth agape as he let out a cryptic gasp.

Four pairs of eyes turned to Lynn as he kicked the door open.

"Federal agents! Everyone, put your hands on your heads and get down on the ground!"

The bald man reacted the fastest—not with obedience, but with resistance. He threw away the walkie-talkie and reached behind his waist with his right hand.

Pedro's Remington fired before he even touched the butt of the gun.

The sound of the shotgun in the enclosed space was like a bomb exploding on eardrums. Pedro used rubber bullets—non-lethal ammunition—twelve hard rubber pellets that spewed from the muzzle at 120 meters per second, striking the bald man's right torso at a distance of two meters. The impact was enough to send a 90-kilogram adult male flying like he'd been hit with a baseball bat—the bald man's body slammed into the window behind him, the blinds shattered halfway against his back, and he slid to the floor, his right hand never reaching the gun behind his waist again.

The tattooed youth jumped up from the chair—

Diana's SIG fired a shot.

The bullet struck the metal leg of the chair—not the man, but his cover. The chair bounced violently from the impact, slamming into the tattooed youth's knee. He stumbled forward, his chin hitting the edge of the table with a sharp crack, falling to the floor along with the playing cards. Diana rushed forward, stepping on his back, and pressed the muzzle of her gun against the back of his head.

"Don't move."

The Black man threw down the plastic bowl he was holding—steaming hot soup everywhere—and raised his hands above his head. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he cried out, his voice as fast as a machine gun.

"Get down!" Lynn pointed the gun at him.

He immediately lay down, face to the floor, arms outstretched in front of his head.

The burly, red-haired man in the corner remained seated on the sofa, motionless. But his hands were in his pajama pockets—

"Put your hands out, let me see your hands." Lynn turned the gun on him.

The red-haired, burly man slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket. His palm was empty. His lips trembled, and his pupils dilated to almost swallow his irises—a pure, animalistic fear—the fear of a mercenary who had enjoyed months of comfort on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific being cornered in a lounge by armed men without warning.

"Lie down. Put your hands behind your head."

He did as instructed.

Four people. Forty-five seconds. Total control.

Lynn pulled a cable tie from his tactical vest—Mike had taken a whole bag of them from the academy's armory before they left—and knelt down to tie the wrists of the Black man and the red-haired hunk behind their backs. Pedro used a cable tie to secure the bald man—who was still curled up on the ground, with several deep purple bruises around his ribs, probably from rubber bullets. Diana pulled the tattooed youth out from under the table, pinned his arms behind his back to the ground, and used her knee to restrain him.

“The west side of the first floor is cleared.” Jason’s voice rang in Lynn’s mind—Jane was acting as the real-time communications relay between everyone. “The weapons storage room is under control. There are three people inside—two who were sleeping and we woke them up, and one who is checking ammunition. All subdued, no casualties.”

"I spotted someone trying to escape through a window in the south corridor on the first floor," Mike's thoughts came through. "I hit him on the back of the head with the butt of my gun. He's fine, just has a headache for a while."

Lynn quickly counted in his mind. Four in the lounge, three in the weapons storage room, one in the corridor—plus the two who had been stunned by lightning in the communications facility earlier—he had ten people under control. Of the fourteen guards Jane had scanned earlier, four remained: three in the monitoring center and one on the outer patrol.

"Scott, what's the situation at the monitoring center?"

There was no answer for three seconds. Then—

The voice came from above.

It wasn't a thought transmission, but a tangible physical sound—the sound of a metal wall being struck by some immense force, like someone ramming a steel door with a truck. The entire building shuddered at the impact, and the fluorescent lights on the ceiling flickered on and off.

Then came a second sound—heavier than the first, accompanied by the muffled thud of concrete breaking and a suppressed growl that didn't sound like something a human throat should produce.

“Something happened on the second floor.” Diana tilted her head back towards the ceiling.

"Walk!"

Lynn rushed out of the lounge and ran down the corridor toward the stairs. The main staircase was in the middle of the building—a closed stairwell made of poured concrete, its walls painted military green, its steel handrails gleaming from countless hands. He dashed up to the second floor in two strides.

The second-floor corridor was almost identical to the first-floor one—gray floors, bluish-white light bulbs, and tightly closed doors—but there was a burnt smell in the air, not the smell of burnt electrical wires, but a more primal smell of organic matter scorched by extreme heat. There was a charred mark on the corridor wall, stretching from about chest height all the way to the ceiling—as if someone had scratched the wall with a red-hot iron rod.

At the end of the corridor, a double door was wrecked – the door frame had come off the wall, one of the hinges was broken, and the whole door was hanging crookedly, as if someone had kicked it open from the inside.

Lynn pressed himself against the wall, pointing his gun at the doorway.

He saw the monitoring center. (End of Chapter)