MTLNOVEL Chapter 430: Execute Order (Part 3)
The gravel crunched under the boots of the two leaders.
With a simple gesture from the two men at the head, the rest converged—silent, no radio chatter, no unnecessary movement.
The SUV's black hood caught the dull sheen of the overcast sky overhead, but it barely reflected off their armor. Twelve figures crouched low in a half-circle, rifles in ready position, but eyes scanning.
Shadow 4-1 didn't waste time.
"We're splitting the same way we came," he said, voice low, clipped. "One team on ground, one takes first. We switch floors after sweep. Shoot on sight. Maintain silence unless you're under fire. Clear?"
"Clear," came the quiet chorus—every voice but one.
Only after the rest answered did the other team's lead speak. "Good," he said with a short nod, "we're on the first."
One of the operatives behind him muttered just under his breath as he clicked off his safety and rolled his shoulders, "Had to be a creepy-ass hospital."
A few of the others chuckled, but it was dry—more exhale than amusement. Still, their line moved smooth, practiced. No stagger, no fumbling. The six-man first-floor team swept forward, rifles raised, while the ground floor team hung back, watching the perimeter.
Then, a signal—two fingers curved forward—and the ground floor team moved in.
PTPT — PTCHHH~
Suppressors sounded. The sedan's front tire slumped first, then the pickup's rear axle thudded against the ground with a muted thump. Chrome rims weren't going anywhere now.
Inside, the air was worse.
They dropped their NVGs. Goggles slid into place, clicking softly. A dull green hue swallowed the hallway.
The long-abandoned hospital didn't just smell of rot—it broadcasted it. Piss, mold, something more metallic. Old death clung to the air like insulation.
Rats darted along baseboards, too bold for comfort. One zipped under a defunct gurney, the wheels of which twitched as if remembering motion. Ceiling panels sagged overhead like skin waiting to peel. Paint blistered along the walls, cracked open like they were bleeding shadow.
Boots sank into wet patches with squelching noises. Unclear whether it was water or something else. No one asked.
Each team moved with intent—barrels sweeping in arcs, eyes sharp through green-lit lenses. The staircase came into view after the next corridor. One of the first floor team's point men checked corners, gave the all-clear, and began his ascent.
The first one went up clean.
The second?
KRSSHH—
His boot punched clean through a step. Ceramic tile and wood snapped loud as he went knee-deep, arms pinwheeling before he caught himself against the wall. "Argh—!"
THMP~
His suppressed weapon discharged into the ground floor's airspace. The shot itself made no noise—barely a whisper—but the bullet slammed into a decorative glass frame below with perfect misfortune.
SHH-RAAAAKK~
Glass rained down.
The sound cracked through the silence like it owed nothing to stealth.
Every operative turned. Barrels angled, breath held. Eyes locked on that single echo.
Shadow 4-1, just behind the operative who fell, pulled down his mouthpiece slightly and whispered, "Hold discipline. 5-6 fell through a stair. Watch your step."
No one replied. A few twitched grins behind their masks. But none of them made a sound. The climb resumed—slower now. Precise.
Room by room, floor by floor.
Each operative carried a wrist-mounted display. It showed two red dots, static but clear, each marked with an approximate distance. The dots weren't near. In fact, from the rough triangulation, they were likely on the uppermost floor.
First team hit the top floor first. Naturally.
Their lead reached the landing—stopped.
He held up a closed fist.
In his line of sight: a door, opened just enough to leak light.
Orange.
Faint.
It didn't flicker. No flame. Just... glow.
He raised two fingers, gestured back. The two behind him moved up, one on either side, rifles raised, scanning past his shoulders.
Three others took rear-facing positions near the stairwell, ensuring no backtrail.
The leader crept up.
He didn't need words. Just hand signals.
Point. Curve. Sweep.
They shifted formation, every step purposeful. The light didn't grow stronger, but it stayed—an invitation none of them trusted.
At the door, the leader reached to his vest. A flashbang, already prepped, slid into his palm.
CLINK—TINK—
He tossed it in and turned his face.
PFOOOM~
White light punched the room.
They burst in.
Three directions. Each had a zone—left, right, center. Barrels moved in sync, sweeping clean.
No fire met them.
No movement either.
Just two bodies. Slumped.
Each leaned against the wall near the door—one on the left, one on the right. Neither of them had flinched from the blast. Limbs splayed at odd angles. Neck torque too sharp for unconsciousness.
The leader stepped forward. One boot slid against something soft. Wet.
He looked down.
Blood. Dried at the edges, but still thick enough to smear.
"Clear," he whispered, then nodded to the others to start perimeter sweep.
He crouched near one body—Sergio. Mouth ajar. Eyes half-lidded. No burns. No gunshot wound. Just... strange injuries.
Whatever did this hadn't been messy. But it hadn't been gentle either.
The operative's gaze rose. His eyes narrowed slightly.
He didn't like this.
The bodies were too clean.
Too placed.
This wasn't a firefight.
This felt like a message.
And whoever sent it wasn't afraid of being found.
The silence dragged for a few seconds.
The operatives stood there, weapons up, eyes scanning. No talking. No sudden movement. Just a steady, instinctual unease. Something about the room itched beneath the skin. Old blood. Shuffled dust. Dried footprints that didn't match theirs.
Even for a ruin, this place was wrong.
One of them—rear right—finally turned, about to comment on the bodies. His helmet shifted. Then—
BOOM!~
The room suddenly buckled.
The bodies of Sergio and Roberto didn't just detonate—they erupted. Flesh liquefied. Chunks tore through the air, vaporized red mist coating everything in a fine, sticky rain. The closest operative barely had time to register the burst. His NVGs lit up with a sudden wash of static-orange, then everything burned.
THWACK—CRACK—WHUDD~
He slammed into the wall like a thrown doll. The next two weren't luckier. One bounced hard against the far end, legs twisting the wrong way. The last one didn't stop at the wall—he went straight through a rotted window, glass giving out like it was paper. His body pinwheeled downward.
CRASH~
Four stories. One scream. Then nothing.
Elsewhere on the floor, the remaining three had just been about to breach a rusted double-door. They froze at the blast. Heads turned.
"Was that—" one started to whisper.
He never finished.
A flicker. Movement too fast to read. Then—
THMP—THMP—WHAM!~
Two of them staggered as boots hit their helmets. Not kicks. Collisions. Like they'd been blindsided by dump trucks.
The third took a hit to the chest. Not a punch—an impact. Fist met armor, and armor lost. His body went airborne. Slammed the wall, then dropped over the stair rail.
KRACK!~
One floor down.
That's where Shadow 4-1's team was still recovering from the explosion. They were on their feet now, guns drawn, already moving to ascend.
The body hit first.
It didn't bounce.
It just dropped—headfirst. Neck snapped, one arm bent beneath the back like it didn't belong. Blood splashed across the stairwell, dripping through the cracked gaps in the tiles.
Shadow 4-1 turned.
He saw it.
"…Shit," he muttered, already reaching for his comm. "Weapons up. Threat contact."
The team snapped to alert. Fingers tightened on grips. A breath passed.
"On me," he added, stepping forward.
That's when he hit it.
Not a wall. Not another operative.
Something else.
His chest stopped. A full-body jolt, like he'd collided with someone—but the NVGs showed nothing.
His head tilted upward instinctively. Just enough.
And there they were.
Two glowing eyes. Bright, white. Like headlights cutting through the green.
They blinked once.
Then—
CHCK!!~
Spikes. Not from above. From below. Jagged, black, and thick like rebar driven by fury. They tore through his abdomen, his chest, and one split through his jaw—exiting the top of his skull.
His body convulsed once. Arms dropped. Rifle clattered.
His head slumped forward as if nodding off. Blood dripped off the end of the spike in long, lazy streaks. Steam rose faintly.
To the others, he looked like he'd just been impaled by the air.
His NVG silhouette—a shape they'd followed for years—now just hung there, twitching slightly, empty.
"...What the fuck," one of them muttered.
No one moved.
Then—click~
Shadow 4-1's comm activated.
"Shadow 4-1, do you copy? Picked up radio chatter about an explosion in your area on police channels. Confirm your situation. Shadow 4-1, do you copy?"
They stared. Still silent.
One of them finally raised his weapon—
CHCK!!~
More spikes.
Three sets.
They came from nowhere, again from below. One through the ribs, another through the shoulder, a third punched clean through a throat. Armor cracked. Bones snapped. No time to scream. Their bodies jerked upward, then dropped with wet thuds.
Blood smeared the walls like brushstrokes.
The comm still buzzed, voice on the other end unaware.
"Shadow 4-1... all units currently unresponsive. Shadow 4-1, come in."
The voice kept going.
Predator stood over the first corpse. No rush. No drama.
He reached down. The comm unit came free from the shredded helmet. He held it to the side of his head. Listened.
Then crushed it in his palm.
CRNK~
It sparked once. Then died.