Operation Wraith Echo The Center of the Storm

The fog was thick as old wool, hanging low over the rusty port on the Estonian Russian border. Every step on the wet concrete bounced dully off the walls of deserted warehouses and containers, cut by time and rust. The wind whistled through the steel structures like a blade slowly moved across the teeth of a saw.

The temperature didn’t rise above freezing, although the air was thick, swollen before the storm, as if the sky was about to burst. You followed Ghost, quietly, with concentration. Your weapon close to your body, your hands no longer feeling the cold they had long since come to terms with it. Kevlar and thermal underwear didn’t protect against everything, but adrenaline did the rest. Soap kept his back, casting quick glances over his shoulder.

Gaz shielded you from the upper storey of the warehouse scaffolding, the lens of your scope flashing in the semidarkness. The task was seemingly simple: to retrieve the hostage and destroy the database. In practice, the approach through the area occupied by one of the most brutal factions of the former GRU. People who did not take prisoners and had practiced for years to eliminate every mistake. The hostage was deep inside the facility, underground, in one of the former nuclear shelters.

As soon as you crossed the main entrance, everything started like an avalanche. The sound of shots cut through the silence like a knife through the throat. The echo bounced off the concrete walls. The groan of iron, breaking glass, the dry crack of a stun grenade. Ghost gave an order short, as always. In a few seconds you separated, like trained blades, one going deep into the enemy's body, the other for the throat. You went down to the lower level dark, illuminated only by an emergency strobe light. The concrete was slippery with moisture and old oil. Your shoes left marks, but at the moment it did not matter. Your body worked like a programmed mechanism. Hands on the rifle.

Fingers on the triggers. Eyes in the corners. The hostage was tied to the chair, head hanging. His face was mangled and his forearms were bleeding, but he was alive. The pulse in his neck was uneven but present. You ripped off the bandages, listening as you listened footsteps echoed down the hallway. Two sets. Uncoordinated. Rush. Panic. You yanked the hostage onto your shoulder. He weighed half your weight, but adrenaline did its job. You carried him out of the concrete pit, piece by piece, inch by inch. Upstairs, Ghost was taking the fire. You could hear his rifle a clear rhythm, no panic. Soap, somewhere farther away, was cursing over the radio. The gas had gone down a level, joined you. Everything was working grating, brutal, but working.

As you emerged from the last hallway leading to the surface, a flash came from a dark bend. Before you could throw yourself, something pierced the air. A dull, metallic bang tore through the space. You felt a jolt by your head, as if time had collapsed for a split second. Not pain not yet. Just silence and a sharp tug.

You leaned against the wall, shoulder down, feeling your knees lose rhythm. The hostage, half conscious, was sinking into your arms, and around you the world was moving again fast, violent, restless. the bullet pierced your temple, grazing it sharply without penetrating. Radio signals, shouts, more shots. Your breathing quickened, and your vision… your vision began to fail you.