The suicide squad scrambled into cover.
Still reeling, one shouted, "Rocket launchers!"
The others snapped to, unzipping packs and pulling out sand-colored short-barreled rocket launchers.
You've got armored vehicles? We've got rockets!
All Stark Industries' top-shelf gear—let's see whose tech wins.
The rockets were simple to use. In pairs, they loaded in seconds.
Kneeling, six launchers locked onto the vehicles.
"Fire! Fuck them up!" One roared, pulling the trigger.
Six rockets shot out, trailing flames, slamming into the vehicles' fronts.
Boom!
Explosions rocked the night, flames swallowing the vehicles. The blast flipped them, tires and parts flying.
The three guards manning the grenade launchers were killed instantly. Those inside fared no better.
The vehicles flipped, trapping them. Deformed doors locked shut, they burned alive in the fiery coffins.
"Motherfucker!" The security chief cursed in the control room, face pale, then red with rage, staring at the fiery feed.
These lunatics had short-barreled rocket launchers—Stark's own product.
Who the hell sold military-grade weapons to terrorists?
Before he could vent, the screen showed a dozen figures sprinting toward the admin building.
He grabbed the radio. "Where are you? They're closing in!"
"Chief! We're here!" A guard reported.
"Good! Suppress them! Don't let them near the admin building!" The chief barked.
"Roger!"
The admin building itself wasn't valuable—less than the factory's equipment—but it held critical files and a massive server in the basement.
That server stored Stark's weapon designs and transaction data. If it went up, the loss would be astronomical.
*
The squad charged the admin building, running into another security team.
"Another team! What now?" One asked.
"Screw it, rush them!" Another said.
"Right. Get inside, and the mission's done."
Running, they planned, pulling out grenade launchers and firing on the move.
Boom!
Grenades exploded ahead, kicking up gray smoke.
The guards, in sync, turned and bolted for cover.
The chief's orders? Ignored. The squad was suicidal; the guards had families.
The squad's desperate push worked, forcing the guards back as they reached the building's entrance.
Bang!
A grenade hit the bulletproof glass door, leaving a small mark.
Boom!
The explosion shattered it, glass crashing to the ground.
"Charge!" The squad yelled, faces flushed, storming inside.
The guards in cover opened fire. Special rifles cut down trailing squad members, who fell, eyes wide with disbelief.
Five more down, leaving single digits inside.
No time for grief or fallen comrades—they had a job to do.
The building's layout was memorized. The nine survivors split up.
Some hit the basement to blow the server room.
Others targeted the file room to torch classified documents.
A few aimed for the top-floor CEO office to burn Tony Stark's space to ash.
Minutes later, C4 charges were set, timers at three minutes.
The nine exhaled, then moved to their floor's windows for one last act of chaos.
*
With terrorists inside, the chief couldn't sit still. He jumped into an armored vehicle, parked 500 meters from the admin building, and directed the fight from there.
He was pissed at the team's disobedience but understood.
Who'd die for a paycheck, no matter how fat?
He wouldn't. How could he demand it of them?
Blame Tony Stark. If he'd deployed choppers earlier, these terrorists would be dead.
In those minutes, all of Stark's security teams arrived.
Over 300 guards, under the chief's command, surrounded the admin building.
The night was still, tension thick, battle imminent.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Two rockets smashed through the building's windows, streaking toward a nearby factory.
They exploded on the roof, blasting 10-meter holes, debris raining down.
The chief frowned, grabbing the radio. "Snipers!"
A second later, a voice replied, "Targets locked. Next move, they're dead."
"Good!"
A kilometer away, atop a factory, snipers lay prone, night-vision systems giving 360-degree coverage of the admin building.
Seconds later, a bright humanoid shape appeared in a scope.
The sniper smirked, adjusted, and fired.
Bang!
The recoil jolted his shoulder.
A 12.7mm special round tore through a squad member's head before he could fire his rocket.
Crack!
His skull burst, blood and brains splattering the clean tiles.
The round punched through, cratering the wall behind.
The sniper watched the figure fall, reporting, "Target down!"
Another sniper took out a second member.
The remaining seven caught on, warning each other via comms to stay away from windows.
"Damn it! Two minutes left, and I wanted more kills!" One cursed, trapped inside.
"Yeah, snipers out there. We're stuck unless we lure them in."
"I've got it! They're Stark's guards, right? Let's blast the building. To save it, they'll have to rush us."
"Solid plan!"
The seven grabbed grenade launchers and rockets, hammering anything that looked expensive.
Boom!
Explosions lit up the building, glaring in the dark.
Seeing the destruction, the chief panicked.
Letting terrorists breach was his failure. If the building was destroyed, he'd be out of a job.
He gritted his teeth. "Teams one to ten, storm the front! Eleven to fifteen, hit the roof! Others, fire tear gas. Gear up, snipers cover!"
At his order, the guards moved.
Bang! Bang!
Tear gas canisters shattered windows, flooding the building with white smoke.
Choppers landed on the roof. Fifty guards hooked rappel lines to railings, ready to breach.
Front-assault teams paired up—one with an alloy shield, the other firing through its slot—rushing the building.
Snipers watched the windows.
"Clear!"
"Clear!"
At the first floor, after confirming no gas lingered, one team hit the basement, others the second floor.
In the tight stairwell, guards climbed cautiously.
"Surprise, motherfucker!" A voice shouted.
A figure appeared on the second-floor landing, rocket launcher on shoulder.
Whoosh!
The rocket fired. Trapped in the stairwell, the guards couldn't dodge, but their reflexes kicked in, firing back.
The squad member was shredded by dozens of special rounds as the stairwell exploded.
Boom!
The blast and flames consumed everything.
The front guards were pulped; those farther back were hurled through the air.
The chief heard screams over the radio. "What happened?!"
A first-floor guard replied, "Shit! They fired a rocket! Second team's torn up!"
No time for grief, the chief barked, "Third team, take the second floor now!"
"Yes, sir!"
Leaving men to tend the wounded, the third team sprinted up, setting shields to lock down the stairwell exit.
Another squad member tried the same trick, rushing out with a rocket.
Before he could speak, a hail of bullets tore him to pieces.
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
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