We left the truck under an overpass covered by a tarp and bush and continued through the forest on foot. I led the way, boots silent over damp leaves. Rick followed a few paces behind, rifle raised, scanning our flank. Daryl brought up the rear, crossbow in hand, eyes sharp. The forest was silent except for the occasional crow or the wind through trees.
I raised a hand to signal a halt. Up ahead there were footstep tracks, fresh. Daryl crouched, tracing a line in the mud with his hand. "Recent," he murmured. "Last night, maybe early dawn."
Rick knelt beside him. "They've been circling the property".
"Probably" I said, pointing forward, faint smoke drifting east. "Campfire, half a mile, maybe less."
Rick peered through his binoculars. "I see movement. Four bikes, maybe more behind that building."
My jaw tightened. "That's them."
By noon, we made it past the last stretch of the forest into the outskirt of town. What used to be a quiet rural hub now lay abandoned and overgrown. The deeper we moved into town, the clearer the signs became: trash piles, food cans scattered in alleys. "Group's been camping here. They're close."
We continued on till we reached our destination. A fortified building sat across the lot stood out like a sour thumb. We watched longer than any of us liked to admit. The building moved with the slow confidence of men who knew how to survive: discipline, patrols, prepped exits, bikes parked to give quick access. I counted positions again through my scope: near a dozen men, some with military jackets, others with torn biker leathers, and three women kept near the back, tied to chairs, and two lookouts near the motorcycles. These were not amateurs.
Daryl's jaw tightened as he watched one of raiders laugh crudely, dragging one of the women to her feet. She didn't even resist, pale, hollow-eyed. She was too broken, from the looks of it, the mockery made Rick's knuckles whiten. I didn't move, didn't speak, just watched, then said, "We can't let them alive. Clearly they've at this for a long time," I said flatly. "These types don't stop. They just move on to the next target."
Rick nodded once, fury could be seen in his eyes. Daryl gave a grunt of approval.
"Okay, here's the plan," I said. "We'll take out the sentries out from first—fast and efficient. Then we'll move inside. Only after we've made sure everyone outside was dead first. Do not fire until you have a clean shot away from the women. If they use a hostage, do not hesitate to get the shot that saves lives, not one that gives them time to react."
"Alright" Rick said. "You got it." Daryl followed. We moved like shadows. Daryl ghosted to a side alley, his first arrow meant for a raider leaning on a lamp post. He went down like a puppet without strings. Rick and I took care of the other two swiftly. We did a quick recon around the building in case we missed someone else before we made our way inside.
A bullet was shot that exploded the stillness. Then the real firefight began. A raider shoved a woman forward and fired a panicked burst over her shoulder. The shot clipped a steel beam. The hostage flinched before returning to her hollow, dead expression. The men inside were calm in a way that chilled me: practiced, terrible calm. They had a plan: make anyone who tried to clear them risk a human life.
I moved through the room, Rick at my shoulder. The interior was a maze of stolen goods. Two raiders stepped from behind shelves with pistols already up. My suppressed shot took one while the other's head burst open, courtesy of Rick's shot. We kept going. Rick forced his way across a back room and found a woman pushed in front of a man who leveled a rifle against him. Rick had a split second: aim at the shooter's wrist and stop the gun, or take the risky head shot with the suppressor. He choose the first with a quick, precise shot to the wrist. The raider dropped his rifle with a shout of pain that was cut short with a round in the head.
Daryl, on the other hand, was working cold and hard. He took a man with a quick arrow, then another with a throw of his knife. Another was trying to bolt, but Daryl quickly put him down with his sidearm. Bullets chewed at the walls, splinters flew. Some raiders tried to flee through the back door, seeing the situation turn dire. I fired measured bullets at them, each dropping down like sacks of potatoes.
The fight lasted longer than we'd planned. The raiders were trained, used structure for cover, tried to funnel attackers through kill zones. When silence finally fell, it was brittle and full of aftershocks. Six raiders lay inside. Three were down outside. Two more had tried to stagger into the forest but were quickly shot down before they could make it far.
Two hostages of the three were alive. One had a deep graze across her shoulder; the other rocked in shock and needed to be cradled. I knelt near the nearest women and pressed a field dressing into her shoulder. "Breath," I told her. "You're safe now." She didn't answer, only stared like someone who've been peeled raw.
We didn't walk away unmarked. My forearm burned from where a shelf had nicked me. Rick carried a bruise across his shoulder. Daryl's fingers bled from stringing and resetting bolts. None of it mattered as much as the knowledge that these raiders wouldn't be a problem anymore.
I gave the order. "Daryl, go get the truck. We'll take what we can and torch the rest."
Daryl nodded and left to get the truck back. I spent the time dismantling the bikes while Rick tended to the hostages. It wasn't long before Daryl returned and joined me in dismantling. A couple hours later, we had all the bikes dismantled and shipped inside the box truck, with the boxes of loot and weapons from the raiders as well. Finishing, we sat the building on fire and rolled back in the truck in heavy silence.
(To be continued...)