The thick, reinforced concrete barrier I was desperately hiding behind was rapidly disintegrating under a relentless, punishing hail of 7.62mm rounds. Each impact sent violent tremors through the stone and into my aching bones. I kept my head tucked low, my chin practically buried in my chest, violently spitting out the bitter, chalky dust and sharp concrete fragments that coated my tongue and teeth. Volkov's men weren't highly trained, surgical PMCs, but they more than made up for their glaring lack of tactical discipline with an overwhelming, deafening wall of sheer firepower that threatened to tear the very air apart.
Count the shots, Darius's calm, authoritative voice echoed in the chaotic theater of my mind, a ghost of training past. Listen for the reload. Wait for the lull.
The deafening, rhythmic roar of the heavy AK-47s finally paused for a microscopic fraction of a second as two of the frontline shooters dropped their spent, smoking magazines to the frozen asphalt.
