------------
The armed police soldiers who had been holding him instantly dove for cover, while several snipers raised their rifles, scanning the area for Frank Falk.
But Frank Falk had already spotted them through his night vision goggles. He quickly raised his SVD sniper rifle and fired three shots in rapid succession—Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three snipers from the armed police unit were struck and fell to the ground. Frank Falk turned to a nearby Black mercenary and asked coldly, "Maurice, is the enemy trap ready yet?"
"Yeah, just about done, boss," Maurice replied.
"Alright, once it's set, we get the hell out. This trap will only hold them off for a bit—we don't have time to play games, we've got to move! Go!" Frank Falk barked, leading his mercenaries deeper into the jungle.
Meanwhile, Hank Han led over fifty Dragonforce Battalion members sprinting through the jungle. They'd already circled around the slope from the other side, moving fast. Hank's plan was clear—he wanted to ambush the Nightshade Mercenary Corps ahead of time.
Boom! Boom! Frank Falk and his team hadn't gotten far when the trap behind them was triggered by the police searching the mountain. Maurice's setup—a string of four massive bombs—exploded, turning the forest into a firestorm. Dozens of police near the trap were instantly killed or wounded, bringing the search to a sudden halt.
The armed police commander felt his heart twist with rage. He roared at the communications officer, "Damn it! Tell the Dragonforce Battalion up ahead to block them—no matter what, those bastards can't escape! I want revenge!"
The blazing fireball from the explosion quickly faded behind them as Frank Falk kept leading his mercenaries through the pitch-black jungle for over half an hour. Suddenly, he sensed a deadly threat ahead, his battle instincts kicking in hard!
Frank Falk shouted, "Everyone down! There's an ambush up ahead!"
Before he finished, gunfire erupted from the bushes ahead, flames spitting everywhere. Frank Falk and his mercenaries dove and rolled to the ground, but a few who moved too fast got shredded by the crossfire—blood, flesh, and organs splattered everywhere.
Frank Falk crawled forward at lightning speed, sneaking toward the Dragonforce Battalion’s first line of fire. In under two minutes, he was right up at their firepower net.
Two Dragonforce Battalion gunners were firing their light machine guns nonstop, but Frank Falk moved like a ghostly viper, slipping up beside them. Before they could react, he flicked both hands—two cold flashes buried themselves in their throats. They dropped dead without a sound, black blood oozing from their mouths. Turns out, Frank Falk was a master of throwing knives—and he'd laced every blade with deadly potassium cyanide!
Dragonforce Battalion soldiers fought in pairs, and the battle was raging. With bullets flying and darkness all around, nobody even noticed when those two were assassinated.
Frank Falk hunched down, dragged a Dragonforce Battalion corpse into a corner, quickly stripped off the uniform and swapped clothes. He grabbed the soldier’s weapon and fired a few rounds at his own Nightshade Mercenary Corps, all while inching his way out of the battle zone.
Not far away, Hank Han sensed something was off and yelled, "Hey punk, what the hell are you doing? Is that how you fight a war?"
Frank Falk stiffened, ready to gun Hank Han down, but just then, a burst of gunfire swept across from the other side. Thinking fast, he faked getting hit, screamed, "Aaargh!" and collapsed, twitching on the ground.
"Damn it! You idiot, of course you got shot fighting like that!" Hank Han thought Frank Falk was really hit.
Cursing under his breath, Hank Han tried to check on him, but another barrage of gunfire forced him to duck. He ordered his squad to lay down more fire and finish the fight fast so they could count casualties.
"Grenade squad, prep a barrage! Blow those Nightshade mercs to hell!" Hank Han barked into his headset.
"Copy that! Grenade squad, get ready to launch!" the squad leader relayed.
Over fifty Dragonforce Battalion troops twisted the caps off all their grenades.
"Fire!" the squad leader shouted, and a dozen Dragonforce Battalion soldiers hurled hundreds of grenades in a sweeping arc toward the enemy.
Boom! Boom!
A series of fierce explosions rolled through the jungle, flames shooting skyward. The remaining Nightshade mercenaries were caught off guard, shrieking as casualties mounted. Their counterattack quickly fizzled out.
Hank Han was pumped. He stood up and yelled, "Move in! See if anyone's still alive!"
Dragonforce Battalion troops surged forward, storming the enemy position. More than twenty mercenaries were either dead or dying, and the few survivors were quickly captured alive.
Hank Han came over, inspecting each mercenary's face. He'd studied the Nightshade Mercenary Corps' profiles before the mission, so he recognized Frank Falk's mug. But after checking everyone, Frank Falk was nowhere to be found. Hank Han frowned and muttered, "Damn, was the intel wrong? Did Frank Falk skip this op?"
(This chapter isn’t finished yet~.~, click next page for more!)
Meanwhile, the sly Frank Falk had already slipped out of the battle zone, using the chaos and cover of night to his advantage. He raced through the jungle for hours until dawn broke, finally reaching the edge of the thirty-kilometer mountain forest.
Outside was a road leading to the coast. Frank Falk checked his bearings for the rendezvous with the Japanese, then hurried toward the beach—just a few more kilometers to go.
Vrrr—vrrr—
Suddenly, the roar of helicopter blades thundered overhead. Frank Falk’s heart sank. He knew the mainland had sent armed choppers to search the area. If they spotted him now, he was toast. As he racked his brain for an escape plan, a motorcycle rolled down the road—a young guy driving, hauling two crates of seafood. Clearly, an early-morning fish vendor.
Frank Falk dashed down the slope, blocking the motorcycle. The young guy almost crashed, slamming on the brakes, and stared at the ragged foreigner in camo. Dumbfounded, he cursed, "Damn foreigner, are you crazy? If I was going any faster, you’d be roadkill!"
Frank Falk didn’t waste words. He flicked his wrist, sending a cold flash flying. The poor guy didn’t even know what hit him—the blade pierced his throat, and he collapsed, clutching his neck, convulsing wildly before dying on the spot.
Frank Falk dragged the body into the roadside grass, grabbed the motorcycle, hopped on, gunned the engine, and sped off toward the beach.