Chapter Sixty-Eight: Utter Exhaustion

The first light of dawn is always the most beautiful thing; it brings a glimmer of hope to those lost in darkness. In the desert, the yellow sands stretch endlessly, the air still and silent, only a few drought-resistant plants clinging stubbornly to life.

Ian, binoculars in hand, lay prone behind a half-buried, heavily weathered stone jutting from the sand. He scanned his surroundings, while the marines behind him waited in tense silence.

After a night of relentless pursuit, his squad had finally put distance between themselves and the artillery fire of the battlefield. According to the coordinates transmitted by intelligence, their target was somewhere within a radius of several dozen kilometers in this region.

But this was a blind spot—helicopters equipped with sensitive instruments could not venture here. After more than an hour of searching, they’d found nothing. Retreat now and the mission would be a failure—a possibility Ian, burning for vengeance, could not accept.

“Major, what do we do now? Are we just going to wait here until the desert heat turns us into roasted pigs?” a marine complained through his headset, cradling his Benka rifle. They were all highly trained, but after a sleepless night and another hour of methodical searching, they’d practically overturned this sea of sand.

“We don’t go back until the mission is done!” Ian snapped, quashing the soldier’s grievances in an instant.

“The intel is solid,” Ian told himself grimly. He would dig three feet under if he had to—he would find that mongrel Alfred. If not for the vengeance owed to the forty-five fallen brothers of his battalion, then to prevent the war from dragging on—Alfred alive would mean more Mainz soldiers dying.

Could they be underground? But if that were the case, their sensors—despite being cut off from the network—should have picked up something. Yet the detectors showed not a trace of heat.

Ian was still scanning with his binoculars when suddenly a marine called out, “Major, look! Nine o’clock—movement!”

The sun was rising, the rays growing fiercer, and a wind was picking up, driving the yellow sand skyward. The world turned gray and indistinct.

Ian swung his binoculars to nine o’clock. Through the swirling sand, he glimpsed several dark figures moving in the distance. Despite using state-of-the-art electronic optics, the blowing sand made their features impossible to discern.

Emerging suddenly in such conditions could only mean trouble. Ian’s instincts screamed at him—he barked to his men, “Snipers, ready! Fire support, stand by! Prepare for combat!”

His men, all well-trained, sprang into action. Ian hefted his Barrett sniper rifle, aligning the crosshairs on the shadows. Major General Harris had authorized him to use deadly force at his discretion—any threat was to be eliminated.

He faced an unknown danger now, and it was his duty to neutralize it. Holding his breath, Ian’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“Come on, mongrel, show yourself,” he muttered. Into his headset, he ordered, “All units, if targets come within a hundred meters, open fire!”

“Sniper team in position!”

“Fire support ready!”

“Reserve team ready—ha, after a whole night, I’m itching for action!”

Reassured by these reports, Ian steadied his breathing and reminded them, “Stay alert. Leave one alive for questioning.”

The single-channel radios were now their only means of contact—every other signal was lost.

After Ian’s last command, silence fell. Time crawled by. The figures seemed to move slowly, but the sniper’s rangefinder showed the distance unchanged.

The world seemed to shrink to just Ian. Even his nerves, honed by countless operations, were fraying. Sweat beaded on his hand, still poised on the trigger, and the sand lashed his face.

Still, all was silent. The crosshairs’ data remained frozen. The shadows in the distance continued their slow dance. By sight, they ought to have drawn closer by now—were they crawling? But the rangefinder’s numbers didn’t budge.

Unable to suppress his unease, Ian spoke into his headset, “Status report!”

Silence.

Alarmed, he repeated, “All units, report in!”

Nothing but dead silence.

Ian sprang to his feet. Thank God for his sand goggles—otherwise, the blowing grit would have blinded him. Even so, his vision was blurred.

He turned his head, just in time to see, not far away, his comrades surrounded by two figures in black robes. Thin tubes were inserted into the marines’ necks, and the robed figures, wearing skull masks, sucked greedily through the tubes, oblivious to Ian’s sudden movement.

The tubes ran straight from the masks’ mouths into the jugulars of the helpless marines. They were feeding on blood. Through the howling wind, Ian saw one of his men twitching, legs jerking reflexively as the sandstorm wailed, masking the gurgling sounds of their feeding.

Ian had commanded a hundred battles, survived countless brutal campaigns, and led special operations without number—but nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. He was utterly stunned.

With a guttural exhale, one of the black-robed figures finished feeding, withdrew the tube from the fallen marine’s neck, and rose. A drop of fresh blood spattered his robe. As he stood, he spotted Ian, some thirty meters away. He raised a crescent-bladed scythe and charged, striding through the sand with unnatural speed.

Ian’s shock didn’t rob him of his reflexes. At this range, a sniper shot was impossible—he’d be cut down before he could aim. He dropped the rifle, drew his Desert Eagle, and fired repeatedly at the attacker. He was a champion marksman, yet this time, he miscalculated.

The black-robed figure dodged with inhuman agility, closing the distance in a heartbeat, scythe arcing toward Ian’s throat.

Ian reeled in horror. Such speed, especially in the treacherous sand, was beyond human.

The blade flashed for his neck—he flung himself backward, crashing to the ground just in time. Still, the razor edge sheared away his sand goggles.

Sand whipped into his nose, choking him, but Ian knew another attack was imminent. Estimating the distance, he lunged forward, seized the attacker’s legs, and yanked hard. In a blur of instinct, he drew his paratrooper’s knife and stabbed upward, eyes squinting against the swirling grit. Whether he struck a vital spot, he couldn’t tell—only that the figure ceased to struggle.

No time to rest. Another robed figure remained, still feeding, seemingly unfazed by his comrade’s death. Ian fumbled for his M7 pistol, crept up behind, and, eyes half-closed against the sand, fired point-blank at the creature’s head.

But this one was even faster, twisting away as the shot rang out. The bullet struck the fallen marine’s body, jolting it.

With a savage shriek, the attacker sprang up, seized Ian’s legs—the grip was like iron vines, immobilizing him. Ian tried to draw his knife, but the creature, exploiting his imbalance, slammed him to the ground. A withered hand clamped around his throat; the other drew a gleaming scythe, poised for his neck.

Ian was suffocating. In a desperate gamble, he released his knife, seized the arm wielding the scythe with one hand, and with the other, grasped his attacker’s throat—cold and hard as bone. Choking, his vision fading, he summoned his last reserves of strength, twisted, and squeezed. There was a crack—the grip on his throat loosened, the scythe arm fell limp.

Coughing violently, Ian shoved the corpse away. He was utterly spent after two savage struggles for his life. But he dared not linger. He retrieved his pistol, rolled to his feet, and pumped three more rounds into the bodies, then kicked them for good measure. Only when there was no response did he exhale, finally relaxing.

But as he turned, peering through the swirling sand, his eyes widened in disbelief. He couldn’t help but mutter, “My God…”