Chris followed the red dot for one step—nothing happened. A second step—still safe. His heart gradually settled as he continued to follow the laser marker through the minefield.
Fred guided him with painstaking precision, while Swag continued monitoring the area. When Chris was halfway through, Swag's warning came through the comms.
"They're here~~~"
Everyone tensed. Sure enough, the low rumble of engines echoed through the forest. A dense column of figures emerged—Heartbeat spat out the grass stem in his mouth. It was a large group, and they'd brought tanks.
They came fast. From Swag's first report to visual contact, only ten seconds passed. In their scopes, Omega members could see Serb soldiers packed onto troop transport trucks.
"(\*&…("
Someone inside the first truck shouted something in Crimean, and the truck came to a halt. Through the scopes, soldiers could be seen pointing toward the forest—they'd spotted Chris.
Then, someone opened fire.
"Cowboy?"
Swag called over the comms. Owen knew what he meant.
"Free fire. Protect the pilot."
Swag's rifle cracked—the suppressor had been removed. The distinct sound of a sniper rifle echoed through the woods. A soldier on the truck, about to raise his weapon, had his head blown open.
At the same time, "dadadada"—automatic fire erupted across the battlefield. Omega and the sharpshooting guerrillas opened fire in unison. Bullets slammed into the trucks, taking down numerous Serb troops in the first volley.
"...%&\*("
Someone shouted again in Crimean. Chaos erupted among the Serbs. The trucks braked one by one, and soldiers leapt down like dumplings from a pot, fanning out into combat formation.
Seeing the enemy arrive, Chris bolted. No more cautious steps—whether he died from a bullet or a mine didn't matter anymore.
"Catch him!"
From the rear, Borbon spotted the figure darting through the forest. He recognized the pilot immediately.
The Serb soldiers, spurred by the order, charged recklessly forward, firing as they advanced. Even though some were hit by Omega's fire, their morale didn't waver.
"Pop pop!"
Owen shot down one advancing soldier, but bullets smashed into the tree beside him. The enemy had at least 200 men—it was overwhelming.
Chris managed to stumble through the rest of the minefield, only to catch a bullet in the backside at the final stretch. He collapsed, but a guerrilla fighter dragged him into cover.
"Thanks a lot."
Chris gasped his gratitude to the oil-smeared fighter in front of him. Herman gave a cool "OK" gesture and resumed firing.
He felt like a badass—painted face, looted tactical vest, mimicking Ghost's shooting stance. He was living the dream. Only later would he learn how miserable it was to clean off all that grease paint.
The firefight raged on. AK rounds buzzed through the trees. Suddenly, as if someone had issued a command, the Serbs surged forward with reckless bravery.
BOOM~~~
Finally, someone stepped on a mine. Owen saw the man launch into the air like a rag doll. More explosions followed as others met the same fate.
The Serbs hadn't expected a minefield. Those at the front were blown to pieces. Some managed to charge through untouched, only to step on a mine when retreating. Others froze, unsure whether to advance or withdraw—easy targets for the bullets that followed.
Omega and the guerrillas capitalized on the panic, emerging from cover to deliver a brutal counterattack. On the other side, Ghost whistled. Guerrilla fighters hidden in the snow suddenly popped up, RPGs in hand, and unleashed hell on the Serb line.
All RPG operators had been placed at the forest's edge—firing from within the woods would've been suicide. But the open field ahead? Perfect. White smoke trailed from rocket launchers as dozens of rounds screamed toward the Serb trucks. Accuracy wasn't the point—volume was.
Two troop trucks were hit directly. They leapt into the air and exploded into fireballs before slamming back down, killing and injuring soldiers nearby. Even the errant rockets caused carnage, landing among tightly packed troops.
The guerrilla side was winning decisively.
Elsewhere, Borbon, face smeared with mud and panic, scrambled to his feet. His top aide had been killed yesterday, leaving his personal guard in disarray.
Just as he was about to shout some orders, one of his bodyguards collapsed in front of him. Borbon instantly hit the ground, while the rest of his guard swarmed in, forming a tight human wall.
Swag cursed through clenched teeth—his shot had been blocked. That would've been the kill of the day.
"Boss, that's Borbon on the field. We've got a big fish~~~"
Swag's giddy voice came over the radio. The Omega team perked up—no one expected Borbon himself to show up. As the region's top warlord, capturing him could flip the entire local situation.
"Kill him."
Owen gave the order without hesitation. Taking Borbon alive would've been worth more, but killing him was safer. He didn't want Omega taking unnecessary risks. Borbon was a bonus—the primary objective remained rescuing the pilot.
"I tried. No dice. That guy's a coward—he's surrounded on all sides."
Borbon was now buried behind a 360-degree wall of bodyguards. Swag only regretted not bringing his M82A1. A Barrett anti-materiel rifle could've punched through the meat shields and taken Borbon out clean.
After the initial panic, the Serb troops regrouped. Though shocked by the minefield and RPG ambush, they were veterans of Bosmia's endless war. They regained discipline quickly.
The soldiers withdrew in an orderly fashion, gunfire thinning out. The battlefield fell into an eerie calm. Then came the ominous rumble—three tanks rolled forward as the infantry made way.
The diesel engines belched black smoke as the armored beasts advanced, pushing the burning trucks aside. Tank barrels emerged from behind the treeline, revealing their full metallic menace.
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