Fatal Mistake #17

Silvija stood with her back pressed against the cold, steel wall, her silver hair gleaming under the dim light. Her sharp eyes flicked to her three subordinates, each one poised and ready, their faces set in grim determination.

The fortified door before them was their final barrier—the last room in the Foreigner's hideout, which they've yet to clear. It was heavily reinforced, a testament to the value of whatever lay within.

"Ready the charge," Silvija commanded, her voice low but commanding.

One of her men, a burly operative named Mikhail, moved swiftly, attaching a shaped breaching charge to the door's hinges. He worked with precision, the soft beeping of the timer filling the tense silence.

Another operative, Lena, a wiry woman with a keen eye, took a position to the left of the door, her rifle raised and steady. The third, a younger man named Yuri, nodded at Silvija, his face betraying a mix of nerves and anticipation.

"Charges set," Mikhail reported, stepping back and shielding his face.

"On my mark," Silvija said, gripping her sidearm tightly. She gave a short nod. "Three... two... one... Mark."

The door blew inward with a controlled explosion, the noise reverberating through the concrete corridors. In a fluid motion, Silvija and her team moved into the room, weapons raised, scanning for hostiles.

"Clear!" Lena called, sweeping her rifle across the dimly lit space.

The team fanned out, securing the perimeter, their footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. Silvija's eyes narrowed as she took in the scene. The room was devoid of the Foreigner or his guards. Instead, it held ten chairs arranged in two neat rows. In each chair, a child sat strapped and blindfolded, their small forms unnervingly still.

"What the hell?" Mikhail muttered, lowering his weapon slightly.

"Check the children," Silvija ordered, her voice clipped. "See if they need medical attention."

Her team moved swiftly, their demeanor softening as they approached the bound children. Lena knelt next to a little girl, her fingers working deftly to remove the restraints and blindfold. Yuri followed suit, freeing a boy who slumped forward, his breathing shallow but steady.

"They're sedated," Lena confirmed, her tone laced with relief. "No visible injuries, but we need to wake them up carefully."

Silvija frowned, her mind racing. The Foreigner was meticulous, always a step ahead. Something about this setup felt off. She moved to the center of the room, scanning for any clue that might explain the situation.

"Boss," Yuri's voice broke her train of thought, tinged with urgency. "You need to see this."

She strode over, her eyes widening as she saw Yuri kneeling next to a boy with short black hair, his small frame eerily familiar.

"Isn't this..." Silvija began, crouching down for a closer look. Her breath caught in her throat. "Daniel?"

The realization hit her like a blow. This was the Foreigner's hostage, the very child they believed had been taken from the compound.

"Damn it," Silvija hissed, standing abruptly. Her hand went to her earpiece, her voice sharp. "We just found the hostage! He did not leave the hideout! I repeat, Daniel is still here!"

As the implications of her discovery sank in, her mind raced through the possibilities. If Daniel was still here, then who was the boy on the beach? And more importantly, where was the Foreigner?

Silvija's jaw clenched. They'd been outplayed.

...

Nathan sighed, his breath escaping in a slow, weary exhale as he watched Wolverine plunge his claws into the man disguised as the Foreigner. The imposter crumpled to the ground with a strangled gasp, his illusion unraveling rapidly.

What had once appeared to be the Foreigner's familiar visage dissolved, revealing the man's true form—a long-haired Asian man with a gaunt, haggard face. The scene was grim, but at least it seemed the worst was over.

The man wasn't as skilled or powerful as Bushmaster, but he was still clever enough to take advantage of Wolverine's reckless fighting style and land more than a few scratches on him. Ultimately, with Nathan's backup, Logan was still able to end the fight quickly with only a few injuries, none of them deeper than a flesh wound.

Lowering his sniper rifle, Nathan leaned back against the boat's railing, his eyes momentarily closing as he allowed the tension in his body to ease. He winced as a sharp ache flared in his shoulder, massaging the sore muscle with a grimace.

Despite the rifle's custom modifications—its alien-enhanced recoil dampeners and ergonomic design—it still packed a punch. Each shot sent a jolt through his shoulder that even a seasoned marksman like him couldn't entirely shrug off. A lesser man might have dislocated something by now.

As Nathan shifted, letting the rhythmic rocking of the boat soothe him, the calm was shattered by a sudden buzz in his earpiece. Silvija's voice crackled through, tense and urgent.

"We just found the hostage! He did not leave the hideout! I repeat, Daniel is still here!"

Nathan's eyes snapped open, his pulse quickening. A cold dread coiled in his stomach, the weight of her words sinking in immediately. He snatched the sniper rifle back up, his fingers tightening around the grip as he pressed his eye to the scope.

Peering through the lens, he scanned the beach, his heart thudding in his chest. His breath hitched as his gaze landed on a chilling sight: Daniel—or what he thought was Daniel—was no longer lying motionless on the ground. Instead, the boy was upright, his small frame facing Wolverine.

In his hand was the Muramasa Blade, its cursed steel gleaming ominously as it plunged deep into Wolverine's chest.

"Son of a—" Nathan growled, his teeth grinding in frustration. His mind raced as he took in the horrifying scene. Wolverine, the formidable force that he was, stood frozen for a moment, his body betraying no immediate reaction to the mortal wound.

Blood oozed from the deep gash, soaking his shirt in crimson, but his eyes—those feral, unyielding eyes—were locked on the boy.

Nathan's jaw clenched as he watched the boy begin to shift and contort, his small frame stretching unnaturally. The child's limbs elongated, muscles expanded, and his youthful features hardened into sharp, familiar lines. Within moments, Daniel was gone, replaced by the imposing figure of the Foreigner, clad in a pristine suit that clung to his now fully adult frame.

Nathan's stomach twisted with a mix of anger and disgust.

"FUCK," Nathan hissed under his breath, gnashing his teeth in frustration. He felt a surge of fury—not just at the Foreigner's deception, but at himself for being fooled. He had been so focused, so careful, and yet, he had been outmaneuvered.

Snapping back into action, Nathan grabbed the sniper rifle and yanked the lever with a sharp, metallic click, chambering the next round. His finger moved to the trigger without hesitation. He couldn't afford to wait for the perfect shot—not this time. Wolverine could handle the collateral damage, and stopping the Foreigner took priority.

With practiced precision, Nathan pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded from the barrel, cutting through the air at supersonic speeds. In a fraction of a second, it tore into the Foreigner's back, punching clean through his torso and lodging into Wolverine's flesh. The impact caused the Foreigner to stagger forward, his eyes wide in shock as blood blossomed from the wound.

Wolverine grunted as the bullet finally settled into his flesh, the adamantium lacing his skeleton preventing any serious damage. Despite the pain, he didn't hesitate.

The mutant seized the moment, driving his forehead into the Foreigner's face with a brutal headbutt. The sound of bone against bone echoed, and the Foreigner crumpled to the ground, dazed and bleeding. Wolverine's legs gave out shortly after, and he collapsed, gasping for breath as he clutched his chest.

"Shit," Nathan muttered, cursing under his breath as he slung the rifle over his shoulder and made his way to the boat's controls.

The engine roared to life as he gripped the wheel, turning the vessel toward the beach. The waves slapped against the hull as he pushed the throttle, driving the boat forward with urgency.

As the boat neared the shore, Nathan gripped the wheel tightly, his expression hardening into a grim mask. The rhythmic crash of the waves against the hull did little to drown out the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in his mind.

This, he reminded himself bitterly, was exactly why he had been reluctant to get involved in this operation before learning about the Muramasa. His years in the task force had conditioned him to thrive in environments where every detail was meticulously accounted for, where the fog of war was dispelled by an intricate web of reconnaissance and intelligence.

In those days, Nathan had the luxury of knowing his enemies—every strength, every weakness meticulously cataloged thanks to an extensive network of surveillance, intelligence operatives, and satellite feeds beaming down real-time data from the heavens.

Each mission was executed with a surgical precision that left little room for surprises. Every risk was calculated, every variable controlled to the extent humanly possible.

Mercenary work, however, was a different beast entirely. Chaotic, unpredictable, and often frustratingly devoid of the same meticulous groundwork. Even with Silvija and the Wild Pack, one of the best teams money could buy, there were still glaring gaps in intelligence.

The Foreigner's scheme was a prime example. Nathan had no idea that the man had been holding a mutant hostage, whose capable of perfect mimicry, capable of altering body build so drastically that an adult could convincingly pass as a child.

The revelation had been a gut punch, a reminder of just how vulnerable they were without the full picture.

The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a lead cloak. He couldn't pin this on Silvija or her team, or anyone else for that matter. He was the one who had stepped into command, orchestrating the plan with the knowledge that there were too many unknowns.

And now, an ally had taken a grievous hit because of those oversights. The question gnawed at him: would Wolverine survive this? His healing factor was legendary, but even it had limits, especially when faced with something as deadly as the Muramasa Blade.

Nathan clenched his jaw, the self-recrimination burning in his chest. He knew better than to let emotion cloud his judgment, but the sight of Wolverine bleeding out on the beach, coupled with the nagging sense of failure, made it impossible to ignore.

He exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts aside as the boat's hull scraped against the sand. There was no time for regrets. He needed to get to shore, regroup, and salvage what he could from this rapidly unraveling situation.

Nathan grabbed his gear, slinging the sniper rifle over his shoulder as he vaulted from the boat onto the shore. His boots sank into the wet sand, but he pressed forward, eyes locked on Wolverine's prone form. As he moved, he spotted the Foreigner, half-crawling, half-dragging himself across the sand in a feeble attempt to escape.

Nathan's first instinct was to secure him, but a quick assessment told him the man wasn't going anywhere fast.

Still, caution trumped confidence. Nathan knelt beside the Foreigner, his movements precise and methodical. He frisked the man thoroughly, patting down pockets and checking for concealed weapons or devices. Satisfied that there were no more surprises, he left the Foreigner where he lay, his gaze narrowing as he turned his attention back to Wolverine.

Kneeling next to the battered mutant, Nathan's expression darkened. The Muramasa blade jutted grotesquely from Wolverine's chest, its cursed steel glinting in the dim light. Wolverine's breaths were ragged, each one a struggle. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth red. His eyes, sharp and piercing even in this weakened state, locked onto Nathan's.

"I'm gonna need your help, bub…" Wolverine's voice was a hoarse rasp, trailing off as he spat a mouthful of blood into the sand. "Remember what I said about the blade and its effect on my healing?"

Nathan nodded grimly. "Yeah. You need me to cut away the parts it's infected so your healing factor can kick back in."

Wolverine managed a weak nod, then turned his gaze skyward, as if the stars held some distant comfort. "I'm countin' on you, kid…"

Nathan's jaw tightened as he looked down at the blade. It had pierced straight through Wolverine's heart. The removal had to be precise; any hesitation or misstep could be fatal. He took a deep breath, wrapping both hands around the sword's handle.

His fingers tightened, and with a firm resolve, he yanked the blade free in one swift motion.

Wolverine's roar of pain echoed across the beach, raw and guttural. The sound of it made Nathan's stomach churn, but he kept his focus. He plunged the Muramasa into the sand, then turned back to Wolverine, his voice steady but tinged with concern. "You still alive?"

Wolverine didn't even try to lift his head. His body trembled, but his voice, though weak, carried a familiar grit. "Fuck…"

Nathan let out a wry smile, though his eyes betrayed the weight of the moment. He pulled out his knife, the blade gleaming as he inspected the gaping wound in Wolverine's chest. His voice softened, almost apologetic. "This is gonna hurt."

He positioned the knife carefully, steeling himself for the grim task ahead. Wolverine's life hung in the balance, and Nathan knew that his next moves had to be flawless.

...

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